At length Hiram said with feigned heartiness, “Well, ’tes time to wait on her ladyship and ask to borrow the three-gang mower. I’ll go after service. Who’ll come with me?”
There were four or five reluctant offers. In the days of Sir Roderick it would have been a pleasant prospect—he’d have consented at once, and more than likely seen them off with a mug of beer apiece. Dealing with her ladyship, on the other hand …
As though sensing their thoughts, Gaffer Tatton said in his creaky voice, “Bad times, bain’t they? Bad times!”
The group parted to let him through to its heart. He was leaning on an oaken stick he had cut before the rheumatism sapped his limbs and bowed his back, and panting from his climb up the slope. In his day he had been a carpenter and wheelwright, and an accomplished carver. But that day was long past, and not again would skills like his be called for. As he was fond of saying, if it could all be done in factories in wartime, they’d stick to the same now there was peace, leaving no space for the craftsman on his own. His dismal predictions had certainly been borne out so far, and though some of the younger sort made mock of him behind his back, others were coming to heed his old man’s wisdom.
Halting, he gazed about him with bleared eyes.
“These times be sent to try us, bain’t they? And small wonder. It’s the year. And last time we neglected un. So it’s for two.”
Understanding, the older men shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking as though they would rather change the subject. When one of the boys from the outer ring, puzzled, asked for enlightenment, and Mr. Ames looked relieved at someone putting the question in his own mind, there was shifting of eyes as well as feet. Gaffer, however, was not to be diverted from his theme.
“Shoulda been in ‘15,” he emphasised. “’Course, with the War and all … She’ll ’uv forgiven it. But not this time. Bain’t there warnings? Sir Roderick gone! ’Im as should be the rightful heir lying under a curse!”
Some of his listeners winced. Even to them, that was straining the description of Mr. Ernest’s condition which they had teased out of his man Mr. Tinkler. He had taken to dropping in at the Plough on evenings off, and despite being “one o’ they Lunnon folks” by birth had shown himself to be a square fellow with a fund of anecdotes and a remarkable capacity for the local cider.
Nonetheless, so long after the War, and still in such a pitiable state—!
“Fragile,” Mr. Tinkler had once said, and repeated the word with approval. “Yes, fragile! To do with what they call ‘the artistic temperament,’ you know. For those who have it, it’s often as much a curse as a blessing.”
He had at least uttered the word, if not in the sense that Gaffer Tatton meant it …
But the old man was still in full spate. Now, charging ahead on the assumption that the person they had been arranging to wait on when he arrived must be the vicar, he was saying, “And rightly too! Bain’t none too long until Ascensiontide! If we don’t make him bless the wells—”
With a cough Hiram interrupted. “We were talking about borrowing the gang-mower from the Hall for the cricket-field. After service we’re going to call on her ladyship and—”
Gaffer’s cheeks purpled. “And I thought you were talking about the dressing! Bain’t she one of our ills, and a warning?”
It was in the minds of not a few of his listeners to admit how completely they agreed with him, but they had no chance, for just at that moment up rolled her carriage. To a chorus of “Good morning, m’lady!” she descended, nodding acknowledgment of raised hats and touched caps, and paraded up the path between the gravestones.
Dutifully, they fell in behind.
And paid scant attention to the service.
Bit late mowing the cricket-field, aren’t they?
The thought emerged unexpectedly into Ernest’s mind as he wandered around the grounds of the Hall dogged by phantoms. Giving up all intention of painting, he had let his feet carry him where they would. Fragments of memory from a wartime summer leave fell into place as he gazed at what might have been taken for an ordinary meadow; indeed, a crop of hay had lately been reaped from it, and its grass was barely longer than wheat-stubble. But still too long for a good square-cut to drive the ball to its boundary.
All of a sudden the view was overlain with images from the past. Surely the pavilion must be on his left … Yes, there it was, its green planks in need of fresh paint, its tallywag board hanging awry after the winter winds.
A terrible ache arose within him. Short of a batsman because someone had just been called up, they had asked him to play for the village, and he’d agreed, and he’d made forty—off pretty poor bowling, admittedly, but enough to tip the balance so that Welstock won by two wickets.
And it was my last game.
He turned his back and hobbled towards the house, trying not to weep.
On his way he passed the summerhouse where croquet gear was stored in a weatherproof chest. He had a vague recollection of saying, “Croquet’s about the most strenuous game I’ll ever be fit for again!” Alert as ever to an unspoken command, Tinkler had set out the hoops and pegs.
For want of any better way to pass the time until lunch, he opened the chest, picked up a mallet and a ball at random, and set to listlessly driving around the lawn. All the time, though, he was preoccupied by recollected sights and sounds. For once, blessedly, they did not all concern the hell of the trenches. But awareness of the service at the church brought to mind Hindu processions following idols smeared with ghee and hung with garlands, and from there it was a short mental leap to his father’s bearer Gul Khan, who was such a demon bowler and such a patient coach. During the hot season, in Simla …
“What the hell, though, is the bloody point?” he whispered, and slammed his mallet down as though it were a golf club. Squarely hit, the ball struck one of the hoops and knocked it clear out of the turf. He threw the mallet after it and turned back towards the house.
And was, on the instant, very calm.
Here, walking up the gravel drive, were six men in black suits and hats. He recognized them, though he could not certify their names save one. At their head, brawny and stolid, that was surely Mr. Stoddard, captain and wicket-keeper of the last side he would ever play for …
Once again he must have spoken aloud without intention, for a quiet voice at his back said, “Yes, sir. Mr. Hiram Stoddard, that is. There’s also Mr. Jabez Stoddard, but he keeps the Plough Inn and had to go and open up.”
And, apologetically: “Catching sight of you as we left the church, I excused myself to her ladyship and took the short cut.”
“Thank you, Tinkler.” For the moment Ernest felt quite in control of himself. “Any idea what brings them here?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Is my aunt coming straight back?”
“No, sir. She intends to call on Mr. Gibson’s family.”
“You mean the poor devil who just died? Hmm! One point to my aunt, then. I didn’t think she was so charitably inclined, except insofar as she considers it an obligation … Tinkler, is something wrong?”
“It’s not my place, sir, to—”
“Out with it!” Ernest realized he was panting. Why?
“Since you insist, sir,” Tinkler said after a pause, “I’m not entirely convinced about the charitable motive for her visit. I”—a discreet cough—“I detected a certain what you might call gleam in her ladyship’s eye.”
Ernest came to a dead stop and rounded on his manservant. “You’ve noticed it too?” he burst out.