The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (2 page)

‘I want a bottle or two of champagne.'

‘Certainly, sir. What brand?'

‘Well, ah,'—Mr. Darby had foreseen and forestalled this snag—‘ What… ah … do you recommend?'

‘Well, we have a very good 1917 Bollinger, sir. A very fine wine. The price is two hundred and seventy-four shillings.'

Mr. Darby was not ready for that. He flinched and the shopman must have seen him flinch, for with a slight smile he added: ‘Per dozen, sir.'

Mr. Darby made a rapid mental calculation. Twelves into twenty-seven, two and three over: twelves into thirty-four, nearly three. About twenty-three shillings a bottle!
One pound, three!
He felt suddenly chilly: his forehead prickled.

To his relief the shopman provided a loophole: ‘Of course,' he explained, ‘it's a dry wine.'

‘Ah,' said Mr. Darby at once, ‘I don't much care for a dry wine,
and
' he added with some hesitation,' I want something, ah, a good deal less, ah. …'

‘We have a very nice Clicquot,' said the shopman, ‘at a
hundred and thirty-six.' (Twelve elevens a hundred and thirty-two, said Mr. Darby rapidly to himself). ‘You'll find that a nice rich wine, sir.'

Just over eleven bob a bottle. In his gratitude at the enormous drop in price, Mr. Darby felt this to be really quite cheap. It would be safer to close with it. ‘Thank you,' he said, ‘that will suit me very well. I'll take a couple of bottles.'

‘Take them with you, sir?'

‘If you please.'

The shopman disappeared leaving Mr. Darby to regain his calm. By the time the man had returned with the two straw-jacketed bottles, made them into a parcel and handed them to him, Mr. Darby was almost himself again. ‘You'll find that a very nice sound wine, sir,' said the shopman and Mr. Darby accepted the assurance with dignity and paused, on his way to the door, to examine critically a pyramid of port-bottles, in order to correct any suggestion of flight which his exit might betray.

Out in the garish town once more, he crossed the street, and steered a straight course, undeflected by alluring shop-windows, up Newfoundland Street. At the top of it the shops came to an end and the less enthralling part of his journey began. He climbed the slope of Tarras Bridge and turned to the right into the long, residential, tram-haunted Savershill Road. There was nothing to charm him now till he reached the railway bridge above Savershill Station and turned up Osbert Road which followed the line of the railway that ran from Newchester to the mouth of the Dole twelve miles away. Here his journey became exciting once more. He always chose the pavement on the western edge of Osbert Road, because by doing so he could look down through iron railings into the railway cutting, and there was always a chance that a train, generally an electric but sometimes a steam train, would pass before he reached the Baptist Church and the houses which followed it and hid the line from the road. Mr. Darby—we may as well confess it—loved the trains, especially the steam trains. Electric trains were
unenterprising, short-distance concerns with something of the domestic slur of the tram about them; but steam trains were symbols of travel, adventure, escape. The days on which a steam train passed him on the Osbert Road were days of good omen for Mr. Darby. He could no longer, as in his boyhood, sprint for the Savershill Station bridge when he heard one coming, so as to see it pass under him. In those far-off days he used sometimes to try to drop a stone down the funnel of the engine: once he had succeeded and the stone had been alarmingly fired back as if from the crater of a volcano. But nowadays absurd laws held him in check, reminding him of what was expected and not expected of the Managing Clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston. He could no longer sprint for the trains: he could do no more than hope that the train would come for him. And to-day he was fifty—half a hundred—and no train thrilled his progress up Osbert Road, and soon he had turned out of Osbert Road, a little saddened despite the two champagne-bottles under his left arm, and a few minutes later was proceeding past the red-brick fronts of Moseley Terrace. Each house had a small square of ineffectual garden before it with clumsy iron railings and gate fencing it from the pavement. Under the third lamp-post Mr. Darby paused, and the gate of Number Seven wheezed harshly as he opened and closed it. He burrowed for his latchkey and clicked it unerringly into the keyhole. As he opened the door a delicious scent of roasting beef saluted his nose. Before a kind of wooden reredos Mr. Darby gravely executed a series of priest-like movements, a ceremony which always inaugurated his entry into the home. He was removing his bowler and coat and bestowing them upon the coat rack.

‘That you, Jim?' Sarah's voice came from the back room, the room they used for dining-room and sitting-room combined.

‘Coming!' replied Mr. Darby, rising on his toes to hang up his coat. The front room (the parlour) was never used unless there was company. Its chairs and sofa were upholstered in green plush: there were a great many knitted antimacassars, a great many knitted mats on which stood elaborate coloured glass vases, a great many framed photographs. The photographs included even the harmonium: on the rare occasions on which the harmonium was to be opened, half a dozen or so of them had to be removed and piled on a chair. There was a fan of red paper in the grate which looked as if it had never contained a fire. The flat lifeless air smelt of new carpet. It was cold, even at midsummer, in the parlour, and the cold air, the cold steely reflection of ceiling and walls in the mirror over the mantelpiece, sent a chill to the heart. The door was generally kept shut, but to-night it was open. Mr. Darby, when taking off his coat beside the coat rack, had stood with his back to it and when he turned he saw the warm flicker of firelight on the walls. The door of the back room also was open and Mr. Darby, stretching out his arms to shoot his shirtcuffs below the cuffs of his jacket, approached it and stood in the doorway. A glare of white tablecloth, cutlery and glass greeted him. A tall vase of brown chrysanthemums stood in the middle of the table. Beyond it, Sarah, greyhaired and massive, was bending over the table: there was a clink of spoons and forks. It was not until she had finished what she was doing that she straightened herself and looked at Mr. Darby. She was a large woman, much taller than her husband.
Her grey hair was arranged with a severe neatness that could not hide its plentifulness over a square, severe face. It was a firm, capable, uncompromising, domineering face, but a fine face too. It was not the face of a bad-tempered woman, but of a woman who would stand no nonsense. She did not often smile, but when she did, the smile was at the same time grim and indulgent, and the person she smiled at was unexpectedly and inexplicably enchanted. It was only then that any but the boldest discovered with astonishment her magnificent grey eyes. Those eyes it was and her smile that had captured Mr. Darby twenty years ago. Sarah Bouch had spent fifteen years of her life in the service of the Duke of Newchester at Blanchford Castle. Her father was the Duke's head keeper at Blanchford, and she herself had begun in the kitchen, worked her way up to housemaid (one of ten) and at the age of twenty-nine became head housemaid. She was not only a good worker but also a clever, observant woman and an excellent manager. In the course of her career she had managed to pick up a very comprehensive knowledge of the organization and administration of a vast household. When Mrs. Race, the housekeeper, was ill or absent, Sarah had frequently taken her place, and the only perceptible difference in the Castle at such times was that things ran even better than when Mrs. Race was there. Sarah would certainly have succeeded, sooner or later, to this responsible post, had she not been snapped up, at the age of thirty-two, by the enterprising and adventurous Mr. Darby. What in Mr. Darby had made her allow him to do so was not apparent: perhaps it was that she was fond of children and in marrying Mr. Darby she was providing herself with a child that would remain permanently a child. Thus it was that, though the Darbys had had no children, Mrs. Darby could hardly be called a childless woman.

She glanced now at the absurd little man in the doorway, secretly amused but none the less ready to be strict. She knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to poke and pry round the table, like a cock-robin round a handful of crumbs, to see that everything was all right. On ordinary
occasions she didn't allow this kind of thing. This was her business, not his: ‘and if you haven't had enough work for the day,' she would exclaim tartly, ‘you'd better go back to the office.' But to-day she was willing to be indulgent. Of course, as she knew well enough, the table was all right: he would find nothing wrong, and even if anything
had
been wrong, he wouldn't have noticed it. Still, let him amuse himself. There! He was going to begin.

‘Very nice, very elegant I'm sure! ' he said washing his hands in the doorway like a fly. Then with his hands clasped he advanced on tiptoe into the room and began poking and prying round the table, nodding his head with knowing approval. Then his eye glanced a little timidly at the chrysanthemums. A horrible doubt had crossed his mind. Were they too tall? Would the people at the top of the table, namely Sarah and the guests on her right and left, be able to see him when he stood up? ‘I was wondering. … Do you think?' he began.

‘Do I think?' prompted Sarah.

‘That the flowers … the … ah … chrysanthemums … will be too tall? ' Mr. Darby had early in life acquired from old Mr. Lamb, the senior partner of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, a careful and weighty method of speech, a happy blend of the doctor and the clergyman. Its effect was to invest with apparent importance even the most trivial phrase. Sarah was one of the few people who had never succumbed to its influence.

‘Too tall?' she said sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, I suppose there'll be some … ah … speeches … just a few words, you know … and will they be too tall for … for people to see the … ah … the speakers? '

‘Too
tall
?' said Sarah, scornfully. ‘What are you thinking of? Isn't George Stedman six foot two?'

Mr. Darby did not like to be more particular. He let the question drop. But it would be awkward, very awkward, if he really was hidden completely, speechifying away in a grove of chrysanthemums to people he couldn't see and couldn't be seen by. It would spoil everything.

‘Have you got the wine?' asked Sarah.

‘The … ah … champagne? Yes, the parcel's out in the hall.'

‘Parcel? If it's still a parcel, you'd better get to work and undo it. They'll be here in just over half an hour; and look at you, not changed yet.'

Mr. Darby went into the hall, to the table near the hat-rack, and began to undo the parcel. Sarah followed him and turned into the parlour where he heard her putting coal on. He stood the two bottles on the table and, like a conjuror performing a trick, neatly lifted off their straw jackets. Then with a bottle held by the neck in either hand he stepped into the sitting-room. Sarah reappeared.

‘There!' he said to her. ‘A couple of Clicquots,'

‘And what's that?' said Sarah. ‘I thought you were getting champagne.'

‘It
is
champagne,' said Mr. Darby. ‘One of the well known brands, you know. A very nice … ah … sound wine!' he added tolerantly.

He lifted an eye from one of the bottles to Sarah and noticed for the first time that she was dressed in a brand-new coffee-coloured silk dress. ‘My!' he said, ‘you've got a new dress.' He moved, still holding his champagne-bottles, to another point of view. ‘Well, I call that handsome, very handsome, I must say.'

Sarah smiled. ‘O well, I've got to have a new dress
sometimes?
she said.

Mr. Darby moved to yet another position. ‘Yes, very handsome!' he said again. ‘Turn round and let's see the back.

‘Oh get along with you,' said Sarah, indulgent but strict. ‘What do you know about dresses? Here, give me those bottles and off you go and get changed. The whole four of them'll be here before you're ready, and that'ud be a nice thing.' She took the bottles from him and packed him off. ‘You'll find all your things laid out on the bed,' she shouted after him as he went out obediently. ‘And mind put on your black tie and not that fancy grey and blue thing.'

‘She's a strange one,' said Mr. Darby to himself as he climbed the stairs. ‘Now if I'd asked her to get a new dress, would she have got one? Not she.' And in his mind's ear he heard her voice: ‘New dress? What do I want with a new dress? I'm good enough as I am, thank you.' And yet, you could always rely on Sarah to rise to the occasion. She had got that dress, without a doubt, on purpose for the party, though she would have died rather than admit it. And very handsome it was; all, absolutely all, he could have wished. Yes, she laughed at him and his ideas, but leave her to herself and she always rose to the occasion.

He closed the bedroom door and began to take off his coat and waistcoat.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

The Stedmans were, of course, the first to arrive. Mr. Darby answered their knock. George Stedman with his great height and width filled the passage as he entered, preceded by his thin, gaunt wife who might almost have got in through the slit of the letterbox.

‘Well, Jim,' shouted George Stedman, ‘I wish you a very happy return. Not many happy returns, mind you, but one happy return. That'll bring you to a hundred, and that'll be about as much as is good for you.'

‘And I wish you
many
happy returns, Mr. Darby,' said Mrs. Stedman in her precise, mild, shadowy voice, offering him a thin hand, ‘for I don't see why you shouldn't live to as many fifties as you like.'

Both removed their coats and Stedman his hat and Mr. Darby ushered them into the parlour, where Sarah awaited them.