Love in a Cold Climate (16 page)

“It seems rather funny,” said Aunt Sadie, “in a way. I’d no idea she was so particularly devoted to Patricia, had you, Fanny?”

“Nervous shock,” said Davey. “I don’t suppose she’s ever had a death so near to her before.”

“Oh, yes, she has,” said Jassy. “Ranger.”

“Dogs aren’t exactly the same as human beings, my dear Jassy.”

But to the Radletts they were exactly the same, except that to them dogs, on the whole, had more reality than people.

“So tell me about the grave,” said Victoria.

“Not very much to tell, really,” said Aunt Sadie. “Just a grave, you know, lots of flowers and mud.”

“They’d lined it with heather,” said Davey, “from Craigside. Poor dear, she did love Scotland.”

“And where was it?”

“In the graveyard, of course, at Silkin—between the Wellingtonia and the Blood Arms, if you see where I mean. In full view of Boy’s bedroom window, incidentally.”

Jassy began to talk fast and earnestly.

“You will promise to bury me here, whatever happens, won’t you, won’t you? There’s one exact place I want. I note it every time I go to church—it’s next door to that old lady who was nearly a hundred.”

“That’s not our part of the churchyard—miles away from grandfather.”

“No, but it’s the bit I want. I once saw a dear little dead baby vole there. Please, please, please, don’t forget.”

“You’ll have married some sewer and gone to live in the Antipodes,” said Uncle Matthew who had just come in. “They let that young hog off, said there was no evidence. Evidence be damned, you’d only got to look at his face to see who did it. Afternoon completely wasted. The Admiral and I are going to resign.”

“Then bring me back,” said Jassy, “pickled. I’ll pay, I swear I will. Please, Fa, you must.”

“Write it down,” said Uncle Matthew, producing a piece of paper and a fountain pen. “If these things don’t get written down, they are forgotten. And I’d like a deposit of ten bob, please.”

“You can take it out of my birthday present,” said Jassy, who was scribbling away with great concentration. “I’ve made a map like in Treasure Island,” she said. “See?”

“Yes, thank you, that’s quite clear,” said Uncle Matthew. He went to the wall, took his master key from his pocket, opened a safe and put in the piece of paper. Every room at Alconleigh had one of these wall safes, whose contents would have amazed and discomfitted the burglar who managed to open them. Aunt Sadie’s jewels, which had some very good stones, were never kept in them, but lay glittering about all over the house and garden, in any place where she might have taken them off and forgotten to put them on again—on the downstairs washbasin, by the flower bed she had been weeding, sent to the laundry pinning up a suspender. Her big party pieces were kept in the bank. Uncle Matthew himself possessed no jewels and despised all men who did. (Boy’s signet ring and platinum-and-pearl evening watch chain were great causes for tooth grinding.) His own watch was a large loudly ticking object in gun metal, tested twice a day by Greenwich mean time on a chronometer in the business room, and said to gain three seconds a week, this was attached to his key ring across his moleskin waistcoat by an ordinary leather bootlace, in which Aunt Sadie often tied knots to remind herself of things.

The safes, nevertheless, were full of treasures, if not of valuables, for Uncle Matthew’s treasures were objects of esoteric worth, such
as a stone quarried on the estate and said to have imprisoned for two thousand years a living toad; Linda’s first shoe; the skeleton of a mouse regurgitated by an owl; a tiny gun for shooting bluebottles; the hair of all his children made into a bracelet; a silhouette of Aunt Sadie done at a fair; a carved nut; a ship in a bottle; altogether a strange mixture of sentiment, natural history and little objects which from time to time had taken his fancy.

“Come on, do let’s see,” said Jassy and Victoria, making a dash at the door in the wall. There was always great excitement when the safes were opened, as they hardly ever were, and seeing inside was considered a treat.

“Oh! The dear little bit of shrapnel, may I have it?”

“No, you may not. It was once in my groin for a whole week.”

“Talk about death,” said Davey. “The greatest medical mystery of our times must be the fact that dear Matthew is still with us.”

“It only shows,” said Aunt Sadie, “that nothing really matters the least bit, so why make these fearful efforts to keep alive?”

“Oh, but it’s the efforts that one enjoys so much,” said Davey, and this time he was speaking the truth.

I
THINK IT WAS
about a fortnight after Lady Patricia’s funeral that Uncle Matthew stood, after luncheon, outside his front door, watch in hand, scowling fiercely, grinding his teeth and awaiting his greatest treat of all the year, an afternoon’s chubb fuddling. The Chubb Fuddler was supposed to be there at half-past two.

“Twenty-three and a quarter minutes past,” Uncle Matthew was saying furiously, “in precisely six and three-quarter minutes the damned fella will be late.”

If people did not keep their appointments with him well before the specified time he always counted them as being late. He would begin to fidget quite half an hour too soon, and wasted, in this way, as much time as people do who have no regard for it, besides getting himself into a thoroughly bad temper.

The famous trout stream that ran through the valley below Alconleigh was one of Uncle Matthew’s most cherished possessions. He was an excellent dry fly fisherman, and was never happier, in and out of the fishing season, than when messing about the river in waders and inventing glorious improvements for it. It was the small boy’s dream come true. He built dams, he dug lashers, he cut the weeds and trimmed the banks, he shot the herons, he
hunted the otters, and he restocked with young trout every year. But he had trouble with the coarse fish, and especially the chubb, which not only gobble up the baby trout, but also their food, and they were a great worry to him. Then, one day he came upon an advertisement in
Exchange and Mart
. “Send for the Chubb Fuddler.”

The Radletts always said that their father had never learnt to read, but in fact he could read quite well, if really fascinated by his subject, and the proof is that he found the Chubb Fuddler like this all by himself. He sat down then and there and sent. It took him some time, breathing heavily over the writing paper and making, as he always did, several copies of the letter before finally sealing and stamping it.

“The fella says here to enclose a stamped and addressed envelope, but I don’t think I shall pander to him. He can take it or leave it.”

He took it. He came, he walked along the river bank, and sowed upon its waters some magic seed, which soon bore magic fruit for, up to the surface, flapping, swooning, fainting, choking, thoroughly and undoubtedly fuddled, came hundreds upon hundreds of chubb. The entire male population of the village, warned beforehand and armed with rakes and landing nets fell upon the fish, several wheelbarrows were filled and the contents taken off to be used as manure for cottage gardens or chubb pie, according to taste.

Henceforward chubb fuddling became an annual event at Alconleigh, the Fuddler appearing regularly with the snowdrops, and to watch him at his work was a pleasure which never palled. So here we all were, waiting for him, Uncle Matthew pacing up and down outside the front door, the rest of us just inside, on account of the bitter cold, but peering out of the window, while all the men on the estate were gathered in groups down at the river’s edge. Nobody, not even Aunt Sadie, wanted to miss a moment of the fuddling except, it seemed, Davey, who had retired to his room saying, “It isn’t madly me, you know, and certainly not in this weather.”

A motor car was now heard approaching, the scrunch of wheels and a low, rich hoot, and Uncle Matthew, with a last look at his
watch, was just putting it back in his pocket, when down the drive came, not at all the Chubb Fuddler’s little Standard but the huge black Daimler from Hampton Park containing both Lord and Lady Montdore. This was indeed a sensation! Callers were unknown at Alconleigh. Anybody rash enough to try that experiment would see no sign of Aunt Sadie or the children, who would all be flat on the floor out of sight, though Uncle Matthew, glaring most embarrassingly, would stand at a window, in full view, while they were being told “not at home.” The neighbours had long ago given it up as a bad job. Furthermore, the Montdores, who considered themselves King and Queen of the neighbourhood, never called but expected people to go to them, so from every point of view, it seemed most peculiar. I am quite sure that if anybody else had broken in upon the happy anticipation of an afternoon’s chubb fuddling, Uncle Matthew would have bellowed at them to “get out of it,” possibly even have hurled a stone at them. When he saw who it was, however, he had one moment of stunned surprise and then leapt forward to open the door of the motor, like a squire of olden times leaping to the stirrup of his liege lord.

The hell-hag, we could all see at once, even through the window, was in a dreadful state. Her face was blotchy and swollen as from hours of weeping. She seemed perfectly unaware of Uncle Matthew and did not throw him either a word or a look as she struggled out of the car, angrily kicking at the rug round her feet. She then tottered with the gait of a very old woman, legs all weak and crooked, towards the house. Aunt Sadie, who had dashed forward, put an arm round her waist and took her into the drawing room, giving the door a great “keep out, children” bang. At the same time, Lord Montdore and Uncle Matthew disappeared together into my uncle’s business room; Jassy, Victoria and I were left to goggle at each other with eyes like saucers, struck dumb by this extraordinary incident. Before we had time to begin speculating on what it could all mean, the Fuddler drove up, punctual to the very minute.

“Damned fella,” Uncle Matthew said afterwards, “if he hadn’t been so late we should have started by the time they arrived.”

He parked his little tin pot of a motor in line with the Daimler and bustled, all happy smiles, up to the front door. At his first visit he had gone modestly up the back drive, but the success of his magic had so put Uncle Matthew on his side that he had told him, in future, to come to the front door, and always gave him a glass of port before starting work. He would no doubt have given him Imperial Tokay if he had had any.

Jassy opened the door before the Fuddler had time to ring, and then we all hung about while he drank his port, saying, “Bitter, isn’t it?” and not quite knowing what to be at.

“His Lordship’s not ill, I hope?” he said, surprised, no doubt, not to have found my uncle champing up and down as usual, his choleric look clearing suddenly into one of hearty welcome as he hurried to slap the Fuddler’s back and pour out his wine.

“No, no, we think he’ll be here in a moment. He’s busy.”

“Not so like His Lordship to be late, is it?”

Presently a message came from Uncle Matthew that we were to go down to the river and begin. It seemed too cruel to have the treat without him, but the fuddling had, of course, to be concluded by daylight. So we shivered out of the house, into the temporary shelter of the Fuddler’s Standard and out again into the full blast of a north wind which was cutting up the valley. While the Fuddler sprinkled his stuff on the water, we crept back into his car for warmth and began to speculate on the reason for the extraordinary visit now in progress. We were simply dying of curiosity.

“I guess the Government has fallen,” said Jassy.

“Why should that make Lady Montdore cry?”

“Well, who would do all her little things for her?”

“There’d soon be another lot for her to fag—Conservatives this time, perhaps. She really likes that better.”

“D’you think Polly is dead?”

“No, no, they’d be mourning o’er her lovely corpse, not driving about in motor cars and seeing people.”

“Perhaps they’ve lost all their money and are coming to live with us,” said Victoria. This idea cast a regular gloom, seeming as it did rather a likely explanation. In those days, when people were so rich and their fortunes so infinitely secure it was quite usual for them to think that they were on the verge of losing all their money, and the Radlett children had always lived under the shadow of the workhouse, because Uncle Matthew, though really very comfortably off with about £10,000 a year, gross, had a financial crisis every two or three years and was quite certain in his own mind that he would end up on parish relief.

The Fuddler’s work was done, his seed was sown and we got out of the motor with our landing nets. This was a moment that never failed to thrill. The river banks were dotted with people all gazing excitedly into the water, and very soon the poor fish began to squirm about the surface. I landed a couple of whales and then a smaller one, and just as I was shaking it out of the net, a well-known voice behind me, quivering with passion, said, “Put it back at once, you blasted idiot! Can’t you see it’s a greyling, Fanny? Oh, my God, women—incompetent—and isn’t that my landing net you’ve got there? I’ve been looking for it all over the place.”