Ways and Means

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IT was a prosperous little community which lived round Tapworth Magna. They had cars and horses and quite enough capital to keep them going for the moment. Their houses were comfortable and full of good things, pictures, furniture, silver, wine, and even some domestic servants. There was hunting and shooting, tennis and cricket, the Stock Exchange and farming to keep them occupied. The younger men were inclined to be athletic, the younger women were attractive and looked well on and off horses. Both men and women talked quite a lot about themselves and each other but there were additional indoor amusements, such as bridge and canasta. Nearly all the men played at some time or other for the village cricket team, all the women went to the village institute. The congregation at church was never normally less than ten. After church one of the ten took some of the others home for drinks, so that there was always something to look forward to, even if the sermon was a bit long. It usually was. The Reverend Maitland Temperley was a good man and a good Vicar but he liked the sound of his own voice. On one rare occasion, when most of the local inhabitants, who normally attended church, were away or ill and the weather was very bad, the congregation consisted of the verger, three choirboys, the gardener from Tapworth Lodge (who sang in the choir), Mrs Thwaites, who kept the village store and Post Office (and was slightly deaf), and Simon Copplestone, who was very old and a little queer in the head. None the less the Vicar delivered a full-length sermon and it took half an hour. Simon Copplestone and Mrs Thwaites had to be woken up at the end of the service. But the Vicar did not mind in the least. He knew that one person was listening all the time and enjoying the flow of words — himself. Apart from this failing, he was an admirable country parson and none the worse for being in possession of a substantial private income. He worked just as hard as though his living depended on it, and everyone liked and respected him.

One of the residents nearest to his church was a former High Sheriff of the county, Major-General Sir Bragge Purbrick. He was a good-natured man and friendly to most human beings and some animals. He had retired from the Army at the end of the war but had remained a leader of men. His nearest neighbour was a widow, Isabel Stroud. She was a selfish and determined woman of between forty and fifty, but she was intelligent, bright and gay and looked only about thirty-five. Her behaviour was always apparently beyond reproach and no breath of scandal had ever circulated about her. Nevertheless, an acute observer might have detected from time to time a look on her face which suggested that she kept, or would have liked to keep, something rather nice in the woodshed. Near her lived the local County Court judge, His Honour Judge George Strachan. He was a competent judge, though not really outstanding, and his chief claim to fame in the neighbourhood was his knowledge of Gilbert and Sullivan. In the days of Henry Lytton and Leo Sheffield he had been to performances on innumerable occasions and it was often his very great pleasure to sing songs from the operas in their manner. His memory for Gilbert’s works was prodigious and he seldom missed an opportunity to quote. Here he was aided by Dr Sainsbury, who, although not so well up in the operas as the judge, was a good second. One of their regular turns together was the duet from the
Yeomen of the Guard
, ‘Hereupon we’re both agreed’. They always obliged with this when they were asked and sometimes when they were not. About half a mile from Dr Sainsbury lived Mr and Mrs Gaspard, two of the most popular people in the neighbourhood, and probably the most wealthy. They had a large estate and a large family. The youngest boy was once asked what he wanted to be when he grew up — a soldier like his eldest brother, a barrister like the next, a politician like the third, or what? ‘I think I’d prefer just to muck about like Dad,’ he replied.

There were others, too, who fitted into the scheme of things and a happy scheme it was. Neither two wars nor the Welfare State, neither bulk buying nor planned economy, neither nationalization nor surtax had uprooted the people round Tapworth Magna. The village life, too, went on in much the same way as in the past. True, a few ugly houses were put up by the Poppleton Council (Poppleton was the nearest town some five miles away), but although this project caused some alarm and despondency and a good deal of plain speaking, the houses duly went up and life duly went on.

To Tapworth Magna there came one day two strangers. They took a small house which had been empty ever since its owner had died some few months before. It was said that they paid some £3,000 for it, rather more than it was worth. Basil Merridew was the elder and Nicholas Drewe the younger. If you had seen them at the time they came to Tapworth Magna you would have said that there were about fifteen years between them. You might also have summed up their respective characters by saying that Nicholas Drewe was a man whose instinctive reaction, on being bumped by some clumsy person in the street, was to say: ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ but that the reaction of Basil Merridew when, owing to his own carelessness, he collided with someone, was at least to glare and probably to add: ‘Why the devil don’t you look where you are going?’

Soon after they had taken possession of their house the Vicar called. The door was opened by Nicholas.

‘I thought I’d just look around to see how you were settling in. I’m the vicar, you know.’

‘How very kind of you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Do please come in. I’m afraid my uncle isn’t at home at the moment, but, if you can spare a few moments, perhaps he will be back before you go.’

They went into the sitting-room and soon were chatting in a most friendly manner. This was not surprising. Nicholas was a man who could get on with everyone, and he had a knack of keeping the conversation to matters which interested the other party instead of keeping to his own pet subjects, however boring they might be to the listener. Naturally enough, in the circumstances, the talk soon came round to the church. The Vicar was delighted to find that Nicholas was not only a regular churchgoer but took a great interest in church architecture.

‘The last incumbent — Wellsby Meeson-Smith,’ said the Vicar, ‘used to say that a fragment of a brass we have here is earlier than the one at Stoke D’Abernon.’

‘Indeed,’ said Nicholas. ‘I did notice a fragment, but I’m surprised to hear you say that. It seemed to me to be fourteenth century. Perhaps I didn’t see the one to which you’re referring.’

‘Oh yes, I think you did,’ replied the Vicar. ‘I entirely agree with you, but old Meeson-Smith had a bee in his bonnet about it. I’m sure he was quite wrong.’

‘Meeson-Smith,’ said Nicholas reflectively. ‘I seem to remember the name somehow. Now in what connexion, I wonder?’

‘Oh, dear,’ said the Vicar. ‘We shall never live it down, I’m afraid. Not that I’m criticizing him at all. He was a very good chap and entitled to his own amusements. You’re thinking of the horse-racing case.’

‘Oh — yes, of course. The parson who could pick winners and never backed them.’

‘That was ten years ago,’ said the Vicar, ‘but I still get inquiries for him sometimes.’

‘I’m not a betting man myself,’ said Nicholas.

They went on talking for half an hour or so, and at last the Vicar had to leave, before Basil returned.

‘I’m so sorry. I hope to see your uncle very soon.’

‘If you would forgive a rather scratch meal, perhaps you would dine with us one day next week?’ said Nicholas.

‘How very kind of you, I should love it.’

So they fixed a day and the Vicar departed, very pleased with his visit.

It was not long before Nicholas and Basil had other callers. The Vicar had quickly circulated the news that one at least of the new arrivals was charming. His verdict was agreed to unanimously. Nicholas was a real acquisition. He was a good cricketer, a reasonable shot, very modest about such of his achievements as were dragged out of him, and very pleased to deliver a lecture to the Women’s Institute on the Middle East, where he had served during the 1939—45 War. He easily retained this popularity. The opinion about Basil was different. People found him inclined to be taciturn and even boorish, but Nicholas was such an asset to the community that they accepted the older man with as good a grace as possible, and soon all the houses in the neighbourhood were open to them both. There was only one person who seemed to find more pleasure in Basil’s company than in that of Nicholas — Mrs Stroud. She had hesitated a little, rather like a hawk poised in mid-air, and then, surprisingly enough, she had struck and struck hard at Basil. The reason for this must partly have been that she was the one person in whose company Basil seemed to relax and be pleasant and cheerful. He even paid her attractive compliments. On the other hand, although Nicholas was nice to everyone, Mrs Stroud seemed to detect, to her annoyance and surprise, a polite lack of interest in her on his part. So she turned to the elder. After all, too, she was much nearer his age and she would have preferred to be younger than her husband. Basil responded quickly and soon they were always in and out of each other’s houses.

After about two months Basil’s behaviour, never good, began to deteriorate markedly, except towards Mrs Stroud. To her he was always the soul of courtesy, and in her presence he was talkative, cheerful, and even gay. Towards others, however, he began not simply to be boorish, but even to be rude. But for Nicholas, who remained as popular as ever and who always tried to bring his uncle into everything, he would not have been tolerated. One day the Vicar called to see Nicholas and was disappointed to find only Basil in. With hardly a word of greeting, Basil led him into the sitting-room.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what have you come for? Want me to write your sermon? Why bother? No one listens.’

‘Really, Mr Merridew, it is quite unnecessary to be so offensive.’

‘Well, what have you come for? I don’t remember inviting you.’

‘In point of fact, I’ve come to see your nephew.’

‘Well, can you see him?’

‘Is he in, please?’

‘He is not.’

‘Then I don’t think I’ll wait.’

‘I don’t remember suggesting that you should.’

‘Really, Mr Merridew, your behaviour is intolerable. Good afternoon.’

‘Shut the door quietly after you, please.’ The Vicar was a mild-mannered man and slow of temper, but, if Basil had not made reference to the door, he probably would have slammed it.

Basil did not behave in this way only to people like the Vicar. About three or four months after they had arrived he and Nicholas made a number of bulky purchases at Poppleton and brought them back in a hired car. The driver was extremely helpful and carried most of them into the house. It took him about five minutes and it was a very hot day.

‘How much is that?’ said Basil.

‘The fare is seven-and-six.’ Basil handed him seven-and-six. The driver looked at it and, thinking there must be some mistake, said:

‘I said the fare was seven-and-six, sir.’

‘Well, isn’t that what I’ve given you?’ said Basil and walked into the house. The driver was so taken by surprise that he could not at first think of any particular word to use (he had never driven a taxi in London), but, before he had made up his mind on the subject, Nicholas came out to him.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said and gave him five shillings. The driver was glad he had been so slow in the uptake.

After another couple of months of this sort of behaviour, people became unable to tolerate Basil even for Nicholas’s sake. One or two of them were frank about it.

‘I’m terribly sorry, old boy,’ said Dr Sainsbury to Nicholas one day, ‘but I simply can’t ask your uncle. If I do, no one else will come. That goes for Barbara Newton too.’

She was one of the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood, and Nicholas had suggested to the doctor that he might include her in the party.

‘I quite understand,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll try to explain to you one day. It’s a great shame, but I suppose it can’t be helped.’

On another occasion the Vicar said to him:

‘Nicholas, I don’t mind saying that I have never met a comparatively young man such as you who combines so many of the virtues. I like you tremendously. All of us do.’

‘You’re much too generous.’

‘But,’ went on the Vicar, ‘— and I feel I must speak plainly — I wish I could say the same for your uncle.’

‘So do I,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s very difficult. Perhaps I’ll tell you about it one day.’

He was to do so sooner than the Vicar expected.

On the Saturday following this conversation the village team was playing a neighbouring club at cricket on the village ground — or on what had been left of it after the Poppleton Council had had its way with the new houses. Basil was playing. It was pretty well the only social activity from which he had not yet been excluded. He was quite a good bat and a good slow bowler on a soft wicket. The other side batted first and Tapworth Magna went in after tea. Basil went in to bat at the fall of the third wicket. Nicholas was umpiring at the bowler’s end. The first ball struck one of Basil’s pads. There was a confident appeal. Nicholas signalled ‘out’. Basil remained at the wicket. Nicholas signalled ‘out’ again. Basil signalled something back at him. A feeling of embarrassment swept across the field, involving players and spectators alike. ‘Out,’ said Nicholas, keeping his hand up.

Basil’s reply was short but unprintable. ‘I said “out”,’ said Nicholas.

Basil’s reply was very slightly longer but still unprintable. He remained at the wicket. General Purbrick, captain of the home team, started to get out of his deck-chair. Something had to be done and he, as captain, had to do it.

This is what actually went on in the General’s mind, though it only took a few seconds:

Object
. Is my object to get Merridew back to the pavilion (or its equivalent) with as little fuss and bother as possible or to finish with that bounder once and for all whatever happens? [Regretfully, he decided it must be the former.]

Considerations affecting the attainment of the object
. Merridew has been given ‘out’. Therefore he is ‘out’. He is, however, staying in. Poor Nicholas is looking very unhappy. The longer Merridew stays there the worse it will be. What will the other side think of us? We could go out and drag him in, but that would be most undignified and might lead to a brawl.

Courses open to me
. I can shout, ‘come along, Merridew,’ or words to that effect. I can walk out to him and tell him to leave the wicket. I can send someone who can get to him faster than I can to give him the message. If necessary, everyone will have to leave the field.

Courses open to Merridew
. He can stay where he is. He can do what I tell him.

Plan
. I shall go out to him myself and tell him to come in. If he refuses, I shall invite the captain of the other side to take his men off the field.

Meanwhile Nicholas remained almost motionless with his hand in the air. Basil remained at the wicket. Everyone else on the field stood as though his photograph were being taken. It was like a ‘still’ from a motion picture or a tableau, broken only by the slow movement of the General across the grass. At last he reached the wicket where Basil was and the silence was broken.