‘I’m not always up at his place,’ the husband contradicted. ‘You know perfectly well I never go there before midnight. And HE knows perfectly well that I only go because he has the best whisky in the town. By the way, I wonder whether he knows that Simon Fuge is dead. He’s got one of his etchings. I’ll go up.’
‘Who’s Simon Fuge?’ asked Mrs Brindley.
‘Don’t you remember old Fuge that kept the Blue Bell at Cauldon?’
‘What? Simple Simon?’
‘Yes. Well, his son.’
‘Oh! I remember. He ran away from home once, didn’t he, and his mother had a port-wine stain on her left cheek? Oh, of course. I remember him perfectly. He came down to the Five Towns some years ago for his aunt’s funeral. So he’s dead. Who told you?’
‘Mr Loring.’
‘Did you know him?’ she glanced at me.
‘I scarcely knew him,’ said I. ‘I saw it in the paper.’
‘What, the Signal?’
‘The Signal’s the local rag,’ Mr Brindley interpolated. ‘No. It’s in the Gazette.’
‘The Birmingham Gazette?’
‘No, bright creature—the Gazette,’ said Mr Brindley.
‘Oh!’ She seemed puzzled.
‘Didn’t you know he was a painter?’ the husband condescendingly catechized.
‘I knew he used to teach at the Hanbridge School of Art,’ said Mrs Brindley stoutly. ‘Mother wouldn’t let me go there because of that. Then he got the sack.’
‘Poor defenceless thing! How old were you?’
‘Seventeen, I expect.’
‘I’m much obliged to your mother.’
‘Where did he die?’ Mrs Brindley demanded.
‘At San Remo,’ I answered. ‘Seems queer him dying at San Remo in September, doesn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘San Remo is a winter place. No one ever goes there before December.’
‘Oh, is it?’ the lady murmured negligently. ‘Then that would be just like Simon Fuge. I was never afraid of him,’ she added, in a defiant tone, and with a delicious inconsequence that choked her husband in the midst of a draught of beer.
‘You can laugh,’ she said sturdily.
At that moment there was heard a series of loud explosive sounds in the street. They continued for a few seconds apparently just outside the dining-room window. Then they stopped, and the noise of the bumping electric cars resumed its sway over the ear.
‘That’s Oliver!’ said Mr Brindley, looking at his watch. ‘He must have come from Manchester in an hour and a half. He’s a terror.’
‘Glass! Quick!’ Mrs Brindley exclaimed. She sprang to the sideboard, and seized a tumbler, which Mr Brindley filled from a second bottle of Bass. When the door of the room opened she was standing close to it, laughing, with the full, frothing glass in her hand.
A tall, thin man, rather younger than Mr Brindley and his wife, entered. He wore a long dust-coat and leggings, and he carried a motorist’s cap in a great hand. No one spoke; but little puffs of laughter escaped all Mrs Brindley’s efforts to imprison her mirth. Then the visitor took the glass with a magnificent broad smile, and said, in a rich and heavy Midland voice—
‘Here’s to moy wife’s husband!’
And drained the nectar.
‘Feel better now, don’t you?’ Mrs Brindley inquired.
‘Aye, Mrs Bob, I do!’ was the reply. ‘How do, Bob?’
‘How do?’ responded my host laconically. And then with gravity: ‘Mr Loring—Mr Oliver Colclough—thinks he knows something about music.’
‘Glad to meet you, sir,’ said Mr Colclough, shaking hands with me. He had a most attractively candid smile, but he was so long and lanky that he seemed to pervade the room like an omnipresence.
‘Sit down and have a bit of cheese, Oliver,’ said Mrs Brindley, as she herself sat down.
‘No, thanks, Mrs Bob. I must be getting towards home.’
He leaned on her chair.
‘Trifle, then?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Machine going all right?’
‘Like oil. Never stopped th’ engine once.’
‘Did you get the Sinfonia Domestica, Ol?’ Mr Brindley inquired.
‘Didn’t I say as I should get it, Bob?’
‘You SAID you would.’
‘Well, I’ve got it.’
‘In Manchester?’
‘Of course.’
Mr Brindley’s face shone with desire and Mr Oliver Colclough’s face shone with triumph.
‘Where is it?’
‘In the hall.’
‘My hall?’
‘Aye!’
‘We’ll play it, Ol.’
‘No, really, Bob! I can’t stop now. I promised the wife—’
‘We’ll PLAY it, Ol! You’d no business to make promises. Besides, suppose you’d had a puncture!’
‘I expect you’ve heard Strauss’s Sinfonia Domestica, Mr Loring, up in the village?’ Mr Colclough addressed me. He had surrendered to the stronger will.
‘In London?’ I said. ‘No. But I’ve heard of it.’
‘Bob and I heard it in Manchester last week, and we thought it ‘ud be a bit of a lark to buy the arrangement for pianoforte duet.’
‘Come and listen to it,’ said Mr Brindley. ‘That is, if nobody wants any more beer.’
IV
The drawing-room was about twice as large as the dining-room, and it contained about four times as much furniture. Once again there were books all round the walls. A grand piano, covered with music, stood in a corner, and behind was a cabinet full of bound music.
Mr Brindley, seated on one corner of the bench in front of the piano, cut the leaves of the Sinfonia Domestica.
‘It’s the devil!’ he observed.
‘Aye, lad!’ agreed Mr Colclough, standing over him. ‘It’s difficult.’
‘Come on,’ said Mr. Brindley, when he had finished cutting.
‘Better take your dust-coat off, hadn’t you?’ Mrs Brindley suggested to the friend. She and I were side by side on a sofa at the other end of the room.
‘I may as well,’ Mr Colclough admitted, and threw the long garment on to a chair. ‘Look here, Bob, my hands are stiff with steering.’
‘Don’t find fault with your tools,’ said Mr Brindley; ‘and sit down. No, my boy, I’m going to play the top part. Shove along.’
‘I want to play the top part because it’s easiest,’ Mr Colclough grumbled.
‘How often have I told you the top part is never easiest? Who do you suppose is going to keep this symphony together—you or me?’
‘Sorry I spoke.’
They arranged themselves on the bench, and Mr Brindley turned up the lower corners of every alternate leaf of the music.
‘Now,’ said he. ‘Ready?’
‘Let her zip,’ said Mr Colclough.
They began to play. And then the door opened, and a servant, whose white apron was starched as stiff as cardboard, came in carrying a tray of coffee and unholy liqueurs, which she deposited with a rattle on a small table near the hostess.
‘Curse!’ muttered Mr Brindley, and stopped.
‘Life’s very complex, ain’t it, Bob?’ Mr Colclough murmured.
‘Aye, lad.’ The host glanced round to make sure that the rattling servant had entirely gone. ‘Now start again.’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute!’ cried Mrs Brindley excitedly. ‘I’m just pouring out Mr Loring’s coffee. There!’ As she handed me the cup she whispered, ‘We daren’t talk. It’s more than our place is worth.’
The performance of the symphony proceeded. To me, who am not a performer, it sounded excessively brilliant and incomprehensible. Mr Colclough stretched his right hand to turn over the page, and fumbled it. Another stoppage.
‘Damn you, Ol!’ Mr Brindley exploded. ‘I wish you wouldn’t make yourself so confoundedly busy. Leave the turning to me. It takes a great artist to turn over, and you’re only a blooming chauffeur. We’ll begin again.’
‘Sackcloth!’ Mr Colclough whispered.
I could not estimate the length of the symphony; but my impression was one of extreme length. Halfway through it the players both took their coats off. There was no other surcease.