I Capture the Castle (8 page)

Later. Up on the chaff in the barn again.

I had to leave Rose stranded at the top of the stairs because Topaz was ringing the lunch bell. She had been too busy to cook, so we had cold Brussels sprouts and cold boiled rice -hardly my favorite food but splendidly filling. We ate in the drawing-room, which has been cleaned within an inch of its life. In spite of a log fire, it was icy in there; I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold.

Rose and Topaz are now out searching the hedges for something to put in the big Devon pitchers. Topaz says that if they don’t find anything she will get bare branches and tie something amusing to them-if so, I bet it doesn’t amuse me;

one would think that a girl who appreciates nudity as Topaz does would let a bare branch stay bare.

None of us is admitting that we expect the Cottons to call very soon, but we are all hoping it like mad. For that is who the two men were, of course: the Cottons of Scoatney, on their way there for the first time. I can’t think why I didn’t guess it at once, for I did know that the estate had passed to an American.

Old Mr. Cotton’s youngest son went to the States back in the early nineteen hundreds-after some big family row, I believe-and later became an American citizen. Of course, there didn’t seem any likelihood of his inheriting Scoatney then, but two elder brothers were killed in the war and the other, with his only son, died about twelve years ago, in a car smash. After that, the American son tried to make it up with his Father, but the old man wouldn’t see him unless he undertook to become English again, which he wouldn’t. He died about a year ago; these two young men are his sons.

Simon—he is the one with the beard—said last night that he had just persuaded his grandfather to receive him when poor lonely old Mr. Cotton died, which seems very sad indeed.

The younger son’s name is Neil, and the reason he sounds so different from his brother is that he was brought up in California where his Father had a ranch, while Simon lived in Boston and New York with the Mother. (I gather the parents were divorced. Mrs. Cotton is in London now and is coming down to Scoatney soon.) Father says Simon’s accent is American and that there are as many different accents in America as there are in England-more, in fact. He says that Simon speaks particularly good English, but of an earlier kind than is now fashionable here.

Certainly he has a fascinating voice—though I think I like the younger brother best.

It is a pity that Simon is the heir, because Rose thinks the beard is disgusting; but perhaps we can get it off. Am I really admitting that my sister is determined to marry a man she has only seen once and doesn’t much like the look of? It is half real and half pretence -and I have an idea that it is a game most girls play when they meet any eligible young men. They just… wonder. And if any family ever had need of wondering, it is ours. But only as regards Rose. I have asked myself if I am doing any personal wondering and in my deepest heart I am not. I would rather die than marry either of those quite nice men.

Nonsense! I’d rather marry both of them than die.

But it has come to me, sitting here in the barn feeling very full of cold rice, that there is something revolting about the way girls’ minds so often jump to marriage long before they jump to love. And most of those minds are shut to what marriage really means. Now I come to think of it, I am judging from books mostly, for I don’t know any girls except Rose and Topaz. But some characters in books are very real —Jane Austen’s are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage. I wonder if Rose is?

I must certainly try to make her before she gets involved in anything. Fortunately, I am not ignorant in such matters-no stepchild of Topaz’s could be. I know all about the facts of life. And I don’t think much of them.

It was a wonderful moment when Rose stood there at the top of the stairs. It made me think of Beatrix in Esmond—but Beatrix didn’t trip over her dress three stairs from the bottom and have to clutch at the banisters with a green-dyed hand. But it all turned out for the best because Rose had gone selfconscious when she saw the Cottons—I could tell that by the way she was sailing down, graceful but affected. When she tripped, Neil Cotton dashed forward to help her and then everyone laughed and started talking at once, so she forgot her selfconsciousness.

While I was hurrying into my clothes, behind the sheets, the Cottons explained who they were. They have only been in England a few days. I wondered how it would feel to be Simon-to be arriving by night for the first time, at a great house like Scoatney, knowing it belonged to you. For a second, I seemed to see with his eyes and knew how strange our castle must have looked, suddenly rising from the water-logged English countryside. I imagined him peering in through the window over the sink—as I bet he did before he came back without his brother. I think I got this picture straight from his mind, because just as it came to me, he said:

“I couldn’t believe this kitchen was real—it was like looking at a woodcut in some old book of fairy tales.”

I hope he thought Rose looked like a fairy tale princess—she certainly did. And she was so charming, so easy; she kept laughing her pretty laugh. I thought of how different she had been in her black mood not half an hour before, and that made me remember her wishing on the devil-angel. Just then, a queer thing happened. Simon Cotton had seemed about equally fascinated by Rose and the kitchen—he kept turning from one to the other. He had taken out his torch-only he called it a flashlight-to examine the fireplace wall (i was dressed by then) and after he had shone it up at the stone head, he went to the narrow window that looks on to the moat, in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The torch went out and he turned it to see if the bulb had gone. And that second, it came on again. For an instant, the shadow of his head was thrown on the wall and, owing to the pointed heard, it was exactly like the Devil.

Rose saw it just as I did and gave a gasp.

He turned to her quickly, but just then Heloise walked through the green sheets and upset a clothes-horse, which created a diversion.

I helped it on by calling, “Hcl, Hcl,” and explaining Heloise was sometimes called that for short—which went well, though a worn-out joke to the Mortmain family. But I couldn’t forget the shadow. It is nonsense, of course—I never saw anyone with kinder eyes.

But Rose is very superstitious. I wonder if the younger brother has any money. He was as nice to Rose as Simon Cotton was. And quite a bit nice to There was one dramatic moment when Simon asked me if we owned the castle and I answered: “No—you do!”

I hastily added that we had nearly thirty years of our lease to run.

I wonder if leases count if you don’t pay the rent. I did not, of course, mention the rent. I felt it might be damping.

After we had all been talking for twenty minutes or so, Topaz came down wearing her old tweed coat and skirt.

She rarely wears tweeds even in the daytime and never, never in the evening-they make her look dreary, just washed-out instead of excitingly white so I was most astonished; particularly as the door of her room was slightly open and she must have known who had arrived.

I have refrained from asking her why she made the worst of herself. Perhaps she thought the tweeds would give our family a county air.

We introduced the Cottons and she talked a little but seemed very subdued—what was the matter with her last night? After a few minutes she began to make cocoa—there was no other drink to offer except water; I had even used the last of the tea for Thomas and very dusty it was.

We never rise to cocoa in the evening unless it is a special occasion -like someone being ill, or to make up a family row-and I hated to think that Thomas and Stephen seemed likely to miss it; they were still away getting horses from Four Stones to pull the car out.

I felt, too, that Father ought to be in on any form of nourishment that was loose in the house, but I knew it was useless to ask him to come and meet strangers—I was afraid that even if he came down for a biscuit, he would hear voices when he got as far as his bedroom and turn back. Suddenly, the back door burst open and in he came—it had started to rain heavily again and it is quicker to rush across the courtyard than go carefully along the top of the walls. He was freely damning the weather and the fact that his oil-stove had begun to smoke, and as he had his rug over his head, he didn’t see the Cottons until he was right in the midst of things.

Topaz stopped mixing cocoa and said very distinctly and proudly: “This is my husband, James Mortmain.”

And then a wonderful thing happened. Simon Cotton said:

“But—oh, this is a miracle! You must be the author of Jacob Wrestling.”

Father stared at him with a look in his eyes that I can only describe as desperate. At first I thought it was because he had been cornered by strangers. Then he said: “Why, yes . ” in a curious, tentative way and I suddenly realized that he was terribly pleased, but not quite believing. I can imagine a shipwrecked man, catching sight of a ship, looking like Father did then. Simon Cotton came up and shook hands and introduced his brother, saying:

“Neil, you remember Jacob Wrestling?”

Neil said: “Yes, of course, he was splendid” -by which I knew that he thought Jacob Wrestling was the name of a character in the book, instead of meaning Jacob wrestling with the angel, as it really does. Simon began to talk of the book as if he had only just put it down, though I gathered gradually that he’d studied it in college, years ago. At first Father was nervous and awkward, standing there with his rug clutched round him, but he got easier and easier until he was doing most of the talking, with Simon just getting in word occasionally. And at last Father flung the rug off as it it were hampering him and strode over to the table saying:

“Cocoa, cocoa!”—it might have been the most magnificent drink in the world; which, personally, I think it is.

While we drank it conversation became more general.

Father chaffed us about our green hands and Neil Cotton discovered the dinner dish in the bath and thought it very funny that I had been sitting on it. All the time, Rose got nicer and nicer, smiling and gentle. She sat by the fire, nursing About, who is nearly the same color as her hair, and the Cottons kept wandering over to stroke him. I could see they were fascinated by everything-when Heloise jumped up to sleep on the warm top of the copper, Neil said it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life. I didn’t say very much myself pounds Father and the Cottons did most of the talking—but the Cottons seemed to think everything I did say was amusing.

And then, just when everything was going so swimmingly, Simon Cotton asked the one question I had been praying he wouldn’t ask.

He turned to Father and said:

“And when may we expect the successor to Jacob Wrestling?”

I knew I ought to create a diversion by upsetting my cocoa, but I did so want it. And while I was struggling with my greed, Father answered:

“Never.”

He didn’t say it angrily or bitterly. He just breathed it. And I don’t suppose anyone but me saw that he somehow deflated; the carriage of his head changed and his shoulders sagged.

But almost before I had taken this in, Simon Cotton said:

“There couldn’t be, of course, when one comes to think of it.”

Father shot a look at him and he went on quickly: “Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly influence the work of other writers, for their creator they’re complete, not leading anywhere.”

Topaz was watching Father as anxiously as I was.

“Oh, but surely—” she began protestingly. Father interrupted her.

“Do you mean that the writers of such books are often one-book men??” he asked, very quietly.

“Heaven forbid,” said Simon Cotton.

“I only mean that I was wrong to use the word “successor.” The originators among writers are perhaps, in a sense, the only true creators who dip deep and bring up one perfect work; complete, not a link in a chain. Later, they dip again for something as unique. God may have created other worlds, but he obviously didn’t go on adding to this one.”

He said it in a rather stately, literary way but quite sincerely and yet I didn’t feel it was sincere. And I didn’t feel it meant very much. I think it was really a kind and clever way of sliding over a difficult moment; though, if so, he must have been very quick to realize how difficult the moment was. The odd thing was that Father seemed so impressed. He jerked his head as if some idea had just struck him, but he didn’t answer it was as if he wanted to think for a minute. Then Simon Cotton asked him a question about the third dream in Jacob Wrestling and he came to life again I haven’t seen him so alive since the year he married Topaz. And he didn’t talk only about himself; after he had answered the question he drew us all in, particularly Rose he kept saying things which made the Cottons turn to her, which they seemed very glad to do. Neil Cotton didn’t talk as much as his brother. Most of the time he sat on the copper with Heloise. He winked at me once in a friendly way.

At last Thomas came in to say the horses were waiting. (there was enough cocoa left for him but none for Stephen, who had stayed with the horses. Luckily I had saved half mine and put it by the fire to keep warm.) Father and I sloshed down the lane with the Cottons to see the car hauled out—Rose couldn’t come because of her tea-gown and Topaz didn’t seem to want to. There was much pleasant confusion, with the Cottons flashing torches and everyone laughing and making the noises horses expect, and then the car was safely on the road again. After that, the good-byes were rather hurried, but both the Cottons said that they would see us again soon and I am sure that they meant it.

Stephen and Thomas took the horses back and Father and I trudged home in the rain. The boys took the lantern so it was very dark—I need hardly say that our family hasn’t possessed a working torch for years. Father held my arm firmly and seemed wonderfully cheerful. I asked him what he thought of the Cottons and he said: “Well, I shouldn’t think they’d dun us for the rent.” Then he said he had forgotten how stimulating Americans could be, and told me interesting bits about his American lecture tours. And he said Simon Cotton was the Henry James type of American, who falls in love with England—” He’ll make an admirable owner for Scoatney.” The only Henry James novel I ever tried to read was What Maisie Knew, when I was about nine— I expected it to be a book for children. We had a beautiful plum-colored edition of James’s works then, but of course it got sold with the other valuable books.