In some confusion, protesting that they mustn’t, that it was an imposition, that they had already trespassed too much on my kindness, they agreed.
We made a tour of the house, and they professed themselves delighted with everything they saw. At first their comments were strictly those of sightseers. ‘Oh, what a lovely view! And that church tower between the trees on the hill! Has anybody painted it?’ But soon their reactions grew more personal, and sharpened by the excitement of possible possession. ‘This room would be perfect for a nursery, wouldn’t it? Just put bars across the windows and a little gate outside to shut off the staircase . . . Are you married, Mr. Minchin?’
I was used to this question from women who were strangers to me.
‘No.’
‘Do you live in this big house all alone?’
‘I’m overhoused, but several people live here; they help me in various ways, and I give them house-room. On the whole they seem contented.’
What uphill work it was, in these days, trying to run a private house! They were anachronisms, really. But the depression I sometimes felt about my domestic situation, which was so much easier than most people’s, came of having no one at hand to grumble to, no confidant. Whereas this couple——
Mrs. Marchmont was saying: ‘Of course we shouldn’t want to alter anything. A bathroom here or there, perhaps
‘My dear, you mustn’t talk like that. It’s Mr. Minchin’s house, and he doesn’t want to sell it.’
‘Of course not, Mr. Minchin, I was just day-dreaming. But what would you do with all your beautiful things?’
‘Supposing I sold it?’
‘There I go again,’ she said, all penitence. ‘Of course you must keep it—it’s such a perfect setting for them. We should only wreck it, shouldn’t we, Harry?’
Embarrassed, he mumbled something.
My beautiful things! They had seemed so once, when one by one I had collected them: but how seldom had the glow of acquisition lasted from one side of the counter to the other! How soon one took them all for granted! Whereas the possessions of the mind!—It was the onset of old age, no doubt: once I hadn’t felt that way. Nor would a young couple coming fresh to a place, with eyes and hearts alive to pretty things, feel that way, either.
We were back in my study.
‘Well, it has been a great experience,’ said Sylvia, the spokesman of the two, ‘a great privilege, and one we didn’t deserve. We ought to have been turned out on our ears. Instead, we’ve had a glimpse of Paradise.’
‘It’s odd you should say that,’ I said, ‘for “Paradise Paddock” is the name of the house.’
‘What an unusual name, and how appropriate! Thank you so much, Mr. Minchin. Now Harry——’
She held her hand out, and I said:
‘Just one more for the river?’
They laughed and Mr. Marchmont said: ‘There’s no law against being drunk in charge of a boat.’
We drank, and his wife said: ‘Here’s good luck, Mr. Minchin. You must never, never, never sell your house.’
The words struck my heart like a knell, and involuntarily I said:
‘Supposing I wanted to sell it, would you buy it?’
‘But you don’t want to sell it.’
‘But if I did?’
The tension in my feelings must have spread to the room: it seemed to listen for their answer.
‘If you did, we should be buyers,’ said Mr. Marchmont, quietly. ‘Provided, of course . . .’
‘That we could afford it,’ put in his wife.
I felt they could; you didn’t buy a canoe to give away if you were not well off.
‘But where would you put all your lovely things?’
‘They could go with the house.’
‘Do you really mean that?’ they asked me, almost in one breath.
‘I think I do, I think I do, I must have time to think,’ I babbled.
‘Of course you must, of course you must.’ They looked at me with extreme concern, as if I had been taken ilclass="underline" but hope and joy sparkled in their eyes.
‘Imagine it,’ said Mrs. Marchmont, rapt, ecstatic, as if she saw a vision. ‘Imagine living here!’
More to gain time than for any other reason I said:
‘Another for the river!’
But this time they refused.
‘Two must be our limit.’
‘Telephone me from your hotel when you get back,’ I said, ‘and I’ll let you know, one way or the other.’
Their faces fell at the uncertainty, and my heart missed a beat. Could I draw back? Had I committed myself?
‘I’ll see you safely off the premises,’ I said.
At that they smiled, and I smiled with them. But whereas I smiled in relief, that I could put off, for the moment, my decision, they smiled because their minds were made up, and they thought mine was, too. Victory! Paradise Paddock was within their grasp. It was slipping out of mine; was that defeat?
Twilight was falling when I escorted them to the landing-stage.
‘Let me go first, the steps are a bit tricky here.’
When we were safely on the lawn I said:
‘You ring me up—or shall I ring you?’
‘Oh, we’ll ring you up,’ Mr. Marchmont said. ‘You see we don’t know when we shall be back.’
We had reached the second flight of steps, that led from the garden wall to the landing-stage.
‘Oh look, the boat is still here!’ cried Mrs. Marchmont.
‘Why,’ said her husband, ‘did you think it would have floated away?’
‘I have no faith in your knots,’ his wife replied.
We laughed at this, no doubt thinking of the marriage knot. I bent down to steady the canoe: its satin-smooth surface pleased my fingers: I had little or no experience of canoes. Mrs. Marchmont lowered herself into the back seat; he scrambled into the front one. The paddles dipped and gleamed.
‘But you are going the wrong way!’
They back-watered clumsily towards me.
‘We thought we’d see a little more of the river,’ he said.
‘You won’t find another house on it,’ I warned them.
‘We don’t want to! We don’t want to!’
‘When you come by again on your way back, give me a shout,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’ve decided—if I’ve decided anything.’
‘Please let it be yes!’
They tried to wave; the frail craft lurched and teetered, and they were off. It was only as I saw them disappearing, their white-clad figures shining on the shadowed water, their busy paddles digging puddles in it, that I was reminded of the swans.
Back at my writing-table on the terrace a black mood settled on me. I had had many such, sometimes without cause; but this one had a cause: the house itself was accusing me. Every window was an eye that looked reproach, a speaking eye that said, ‘Why are you deserting me? You have been happy here, as happy as your temperament would let you be! It was love at first sight, wasn’t it? Didn’t you make your mind up, then and there, to buy me? And think of your joy when you took possessions—vacant possession as they called it, but it wasn’t vacant, for I was here and I am still here, the genius loci, your tutelary god! You wrote round to all your friends, “Paradise Paddock is its name, and a veritable paradise it is!” How have I failed you? Why have you changed?’
I couldn’t answer, and the voice went on, ‘I’ll tell you why you have turned against me—it’s for the same reason that you took to me. You fell in love with me and now you’ve fallen in love with them—that couple that were here a moment ago. You’d never set eyes on them before but they took your fancy, just as I did, and you thought: “I can identify myself with them! Their youth shall be my youth, their happiness my happiness, their children my children, their future mine!” Yes, grey-haired Mr. Minchin, you thought you could renew yourself in them, and lead vicariously the life you never led! But I’m not so fickle! I don’t want them and their squalling children, who will deafen me with their clamour and never listen to my voice as you did, till they came. I don’t want them, I tell you, and what’s more, I won’t have them!’
The voice of jealousy, no doubt, piercing what seemed a lifetime of sad, conflicting thoughts; but I had to heed it, for I could feel the house’s enmity like a cold air at my back, feel too the threat of imminent and lasting rupture that a quarrel with an old friend brings. I tried to stop my ears but still the voice droned on, painting my future life away from Paradise Paddock in hues as dark as my own thoughts, as dark as the shadows gathering on the river, where a patch of light under the low branches might have been a swan. And not only my future, but the house’s too. For the Marchmonts wouldn’t keep it, the voice told me. Was it likely that a whim, born of being in love, fostered by a fine evening and stimulated by two dry martinis (dry, mind you) for the river, would last? With the servant difficulty, and all those flights of stairs? Oh, no, mark my words, within a year, Paradise Paddock will again be on the market, and what then? A road-house, will it be, with the river-bank a lido? Or an old people’s home, an eventide home—fast falls the eventide! Or gutted and converted into flats—homes for the homeless, but not a home for you, you will have no home. That precious word will have no meaning for you. You have given your home up to the Marchmonts.