Berry Scene (12 page)

Berry unfolded it gently…

The faded, spidery writing was not very hard to read.

Paris.

June, 1793.

You are a faithful servant, Birchup, and the thought of the little cottage in Hampshire is like a golden dream. With my chair, my favourite picture and you to care for me, what more should I want? You see, I am not without hope. An old man and the last of my line, I am not dangerous: beside my estates and my fortune, what is my life to them? So, my friend, I am not without hope that one day – perhaps very soon – you will have a pensioner. Be careful to keep the Claude from the summer sun.

Your affectionate master,

Montaugiron.

And the little gate, too, which Miladi loved so well. I shall – feel quite at home. A bientot, my good Birchup.

And underneath was written in a less educated hand:–

Put to death that month.

J B

“Poor old fellow,” said Daphne. “Birchup must have been his valet. And Mulberry Corner was to have been his home. But those beasts wouldn’t let him go. His chair, too. But for that rotten sexton, we’d have had that.”

Berry nodded.

“At least, we’ll care for his picture. I’ll take it to Town myself.”

And so he did – the next day.

He took it straight to the ‘liners’ who cared for what pictures we had – an old and honourable firm, well-known to Trafalgar Square. And, with their help, he chose a frame that was worthy of Claude’s best work.

While he was gone, my sister and I drove to Gamecock – with Fitch at the wheel.

We did not leave the car, but the sexton came out of his cottage as soon as he saw my face.

I marked with pleasure that one of his eyes was black.

“Good morning, sir. I’m afraid we lost the chair. I did me best, but one of them dealers turned up an’ took it out o’ me mouth. As nasty a thievin’ blackguard as ever I saw.”

I put out my hand.

“Three pounds, wasn’t it?”

The sexton counted two sovereigns and then a pound in silver into my palm.

As I put the money away—

“We didn’ say nothin’ o’ my commission, sir.”

“I pay no commission,” I said, “in a case like this. If the chair was here, you would have had a sovereign for what you’d done.”

The man looked ready to burst.

“Well, it ain’t my fault,” he blustered.

Fitch uncovered and turned and looked at him.

The sexton clapped a hand to his mouth. Then he ran into his cottage and shut the door.

We drove on, to stop at the forge…

“Well, we lost the chair, Big James.”

The blacksmith nodded.

“Ay, sir,” he said. “You shouldn’t have been so outspoken. That sexton goes to Akers, and Akers gets a dealer from Dovetail, to wipe your eye. But it seems he missed an old master – an’ was he wild? A firs’-class row, they had, because o’ the money they’d dropped, each suspectin’ the other of schemin’ to do him down. That’s the way o’ the wicked, you know. An’ then the sexton turns rusty, an’ Akers blacks his eye.”

“Tell me,” said Daphne, “where did the picture go?”

“Nobody knows,” said the smith. “A stranger walks in an’ buys it for eighteenpence. An’ the dealer swears it’s worth fifteen hundred pounds. You should have had that, Miss Daphne. It would have looked well at White Ladies, if half what he says is true.”

“It will look well there,” I said, “when it’s been done up. It’s gone to London this morning, to be restored. You must come and see it, Big James, as soon as it’s back.”

The farrier stared upon me. Then he threw back his head and laughed till the tears hopped down his cheeks.

“By gad, you’ve done ’em,” he crowed. “You picked un out an’ you won un – for eighteenpence. An’ you give them the chair to play with, to keep them quiet. Oh, but this does my heart good! You’ve bit the biter, Miss Daphne. An’ there’s a fine picture gone to its proper place.”

I pointed to Fitch.

“There’s the stranger,” I said, “that did the deal.”

Big James smacked his thigh and stamped with delight.

“I might ’a’ known,” he cried, “that you’d be up to their weight.”

“Listen, Big James,” said Daphne. “We wanted the chair for you, but it’s too late now. We’ve one very like it at White Ladies. If you’d like a copy of that, we’ll have one made.”

“Nay, nay, Miss Daphne. Jus’ for me to sit in? ’Tis wanton waste.”

“It isn’t at all. A fine thing gives you pleasure, as it does us. And, but for you, we shouldn’t have had the picture. Any way, you’re coming on Sunday, and we’ll go into it then.”

“As you will, Miss Daphne. But to think of you foolin’ them rogues! What do they care for beauty? All they think of is lucre, gotten by hook or by crook. But now it’ll hang at White Ladies. Ah, but that warms my heart.”

So clean an outlook warmed ours. That we had enriched ourselves meant nothing to him: spared the dust of the market, a work of art had gone to a decent home.

Three weeks had gone by.

Jonah was holding the steps, I was bearing the picture, Berry was finding the places at which the two hooks must hang, and Daphne and Jill were waiting for the Claude to go up.

“What’s half sixty-three?” said Berry, measuring-rule on the panelling, pencil in hand.

“Thirty-one and a half,” said Daphne.

Her husband made a mark with a pencil upon the oak.

“And now what’s half thirty-nine?”

“Eighteen – nineteen and a half.”

Here Berry dropped his pencil, which Jill retrieved.

Once again he applied himself to the wall.

As he made to mark the distance, the rule collapsed.

“Oh, give me strength,” said Berry. “Can’t someone produce a wholesome measuring-rod? Can’t someone furnish a yard-stick instead of this brazen serpent?”

“Other way round,” said Jonah. “Then it can’t shut up, because of the wall.”

“Yes, and then the figures are wrong. Never mind. What’s eighteen and a half from thirty-six?”

“Nineteen and a half,” corrected Daphne.

Before we could stop him—

“Nineteen and a half,” said Berry, making a mark.

“No, that’s wrong,” we cried.

“What’s wrong?” said Berry, pushing himself from the wall.

“The mark you’ve made. It isn’t nineteen and a half.”

“Don’t talk to me,” said Berry. “I’ve got the blasted rule.” He dabbed at the graven numbers. “There’s nineteen, and there’s—”

“But the figure’s wrong,” cried his wife.

“The figure?” screamed Berry. “But I asked you. I put myself in your hands. I subjected my intellect to yours. How the devil d’you expect me to do mental arithmetic at an angle of forty-five?”

Jill began to shake with laughter.

“My sweet,” said Daphne, “you’ve got it wrong.”

“
I’ve
got it wrong? Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “I ask you – you misinform me – and then I’ve got it wrong. Goats and monkeys! I’ll do the swab-stuff myself. Eighteen and a half from forty-five. That’s—”

“No, no, no,” screamed everyone.

“What’s the matter?” said Berry.

“The figure you want,” said I, “is sixteen and a half. If you put the rule as you had it – the wrong way up…”

Berry looked round.

“Is everybody agreed that that figure is right?”

“Yes,” said everyone.

All things considered, it was not surprising that he was now unable to find his original mark.

As he peered to and fro, growling—

“It must be there somewhere,” said Daphne.

“But what a brain,” said Berry, straightening his back. “What insight! What powers of deduction! Or did a little bird tell you?” He laughed hideously. “Give me the rule. Oh, I’ve got it. What was the original distance?”

“I think,” said I, “I think you said sixty-three.”

Once more Berry applied himself to the wall.

Then he looked over his shoulder.

“You observe my posture,” he said. “The trunk contorted. The spine well out of truth. The strain upon the entrails is frightful.”

“Well, do be quick,” said his wife.

“What’s half sixty-three?”

“Thirty-one and a half, darling.”

“Thirty-one and a half,” said Berry, taking his pencil out: but, before he could mark the spot, the rule, now the right way up, once more collapsed.

Before this new misfortune we all broke down, while Berry thundered from his pulpit, denouncing all such as subscribed to the making, sale or use of collapsible rules and comparing our sense of decency unfavourably with that of the wart-hog.

As the flurry died down—

“Half a minute,” said Jonah. “I’ve got it now. Don’t worry about the centre. Hang one hook a foot from the window and the other a foot from the Cuyp. If sixty-three is the distance you’ll find that’s exactly right.”

“D’you really mean that?” said Berry.

“I do. I’ve just worked it out.”

“Give me the hooks, someone.”

“In your pocket,” said I.

“So they are.”

The hooks went up.

With a protruding tongue, Berry checked their position. As he withdrew the rule, he knocked one down,

Berry straightened his back and looked round.

We fought not to laugh, while Jill retrieved the hook and handed it back…

“And now the picture.” said Berry.

Holding the glass to my chest, I stood to the wall: then I raised my arms, and Berry leaned down for the chains which we had already attached.

One chain he hung upon its hook, and I let that side of the picture take the strain. As he made to hang the other, the hook fell down.

Berry placed his hands together in the attitude of prayer.

“Be gracious, St Swine,” he said. “If you will correct your offspring, I hereby vow to vomit next Slow Bellies’ Eve.”

Too weak with laughter to protest, my sister picked up the hook and handed it hack.

“And if anyone thinks,” snarled Berry, “that I’m going to measure that distance over again—”

“Be quick,” said I. “Plate-glass weighs quite a lot.”

“And what about me?” said Berry. “For twenty minutes my organs have been displaced. Give me that blasted chain.”

This time he attached the chain before hanging the hook on the wall; and a moment later the Claude was fairly up.

“Is the chain straight?” said Berry.

“A shade more to the right,” said Daphne.

The move was made.

Then Berry came down, and Jonah removed the steps.

The Claude was not straight. It was sloping gently but surely from left to right.

There was a painful silence. Then—

“I – I think it looks fine,” said Berry.

“Don’t be absurd,” said his wife. “We can’t leave it like that.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” said Berry.

“It isn’t straight,” said Jill.

“That’s probably the wall,” said Berry. “Besides, I like it like that.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Daphne. “That right-hand chain’s too long.”

“In fact, it isn’t,” said I. “I counted the links. And if we move it one link, it’ll be too much.”

“Leave well alone,” said Berry.

“It isn’t well,” shrieked his wife. “It isn’t straight with the panels. It’s crooked – all down on one side. Just because you don’t want to—”

“Nothing,” said Berry, piously, “could be further from my thoughts.”

“Oh, you liar,” said Jill.

“You wicked child,” said Berry. “You wicked, irreverent – Besides, I enjoyed the exercise. If you want to change it with the Cuyp, you’ve only to say the word. I – I’ll hold the steps next time.”

“It’s the hooks,” said Jonah. Berry stifled a scream. “The one on the right’s too long. Or the one on the left’s too short. Which ever you like.”

While my cousin replaced the steps, I sought for another hook. Then I mounted the steps and hung this upon the rail.

It was immediately clear that Jonah was right.

The right hook was longer than the left: but the new one was not.

While Berry supported the picture, I made the change.

In so doing, I dropped a hook.

“Clumsy fool,” said Berry. “Here am I, to my wounding upholding a fearful weight—”

“It’s the discard,” said I. “Come on.”

A moment later, Jonah was removing the steps…

The Claude was straight now, and I must say it looked superb. As we had hoped, the strong side light was plumbing the depths of the picture, not only presenting the landscape as we had not seen it before, but discovering the delicate detail and, best of all, the cunning with which the painter had caught and then used the sunlight he loved so well.

“
My favourite picture
,” breathed Daphne. “Poor old fellow. And I’m not a bit surprised. You’ve only to look at that scene, and you feel at peace.”

This was most true.

Berry turned to his wife found her fingers and put them up to his lips.

“To you the glory, my sweet. Even I can see it now. But you had the eyes to see it, when it was out of sight.”

In Which We Play For the Village,

and I Consider a Conversation Piece

Nearly seven years had gone by; Spring was ushering Summer; and I was making the most of the Whitsuntide recess.

Jill was home for good; I was at the Bar; Berry had grown a moustache; and we had become established motorists. Otherwise, little had changed.

We had just finished lunch and were taking our ease in the library, quick with the scent of sweet-peas.

“Must you go on Monday?” said Jill.

“Certainly not,” said Berry. “I’m very comfortable here, and it would be very bad for me.”

“I’m asking Boy.”

“Of course he must,” said Berry. “He’s got a case to lose in the Clerkenwell County Court.”

“Must you, Boy?”

I sighed.

“I’m afraid so, my sweet.”

“Weekends?”

“Yes,” said I, “till July. Then I shall be marshalling Granite for two or three weeks.”

“That means you’ll be at Brooch.”

“For a week, yes. If we finish early at Forage, I may get a day or two here – complete with Judge.”

“But you’ll be off duty?”

“Oh, yes. He’ll amuse himself. As long as I get him to Brooch on Sunday night…”

“I suspect that saying,” said Berry. “Guests like Sir William Granite don’t amuse themselves. They have to be catered for. If you retire, the burden will fall upon us. He’ll probably want to walk all over the blasted place – and I shall have to stagger about with him.”

Although I did not say so, I felt that Berry’s forecast was good. The Judge preferred walking to being driven about.

Daphne looked up from
The Sketch
.

“Who shall I ask to meet him?”

“Anyone, darling. Sir Anthony, Derry and Jane.”

“He’d probably like Lady Touchstone. She’s more his age.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” said I.

“I know,” said Jill. “Let’s have tea at Privilege Splash.”

“Fine,” said Berry. “The Judge and I can walk there – it’s only eleven miles. He can carry the spirit-lamp.”

“Oh, blow the Judge,” said Jill. “I mean, today.”

“I’ve much to do,” said Berry. “And if I stay here, I shall do it. So that’ll suit me. Besides, we shall pay for this weather, so why not call the tune?”

“Can we come back by Dovetail?” said Daphne. “That’s all I ask.”

“Of course,” said I. “Why Dovetail?”

“I know,” said Jill. “Cream cheese.”

“That’s right,” said my sister. “Janet’s cream cheese is still the best in the world.”

Harboured by Minever Enclosure, Privilege Splash was retired. Whenever we had been there, we had had the spot to ourselves, and the forest road that ran into and out of the water had never shown signs of traffic of any kind. (This may have been because the ford was unusually deep.) Of course the verderers knew it – the little foot-bridge was sound: but, so far as we saw, the world had passed it by. Perhaps because of this, the very spirit of the greenwood seemed to inhabit the place. The little sward remembered
As You Like It
: a truly magnificent oak might well have sheltered outlaws: a patient tapestry of foliage arrassed a council-room.

We had left the high road and were approaching Minever, when I saw a blind man coming, perhaps a hundred yards off. He was feeling his way with a stick, and, since the way was narrow, I slowed down, to pass him gently, in case of accidents. I was watching the fellow closely, and, when he was thirty yards off, I saw his face change. And when I say ‘change’, I mean it – he looked a different man. Now few people would have seen it, for thirty yards is some way: but my sight was then very keen, and I saw the change take place. The man had grimaced – thrust out his lip and drawn his mouth down on one side. More than that, perhaps: for, as I have said, he looked quite different. And so he continued to look, until the car had gone by.

This interested me, and, as we gathered speed, I watched the man in the mirror beside my seat. Sure enough, when we were some eighty yards off, he stopped and turned and stood watching… He was not blind.

This fact engaged me so much that I forgot where we were.

“Stop, Boy, stop,” cried Jill. “You’ve passed the gate.”

Minever Enclosure was shut by two or more gates.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. There’s a lane a little way on. I’ll turn the car there.”

So I did.

As we came back to the gate, I saw that the ‘blind’ man was gone.

When we had entered the Enclosure, I told the others what I had seen.

“D’you mean he’s a fraud?” said Daphne.

I nodded.

“He is neither blind, nor revolting. That face was put on.”

“I find that strange,” said Berry. “Blindness excites compassion. But such is human nature that people will give more freely to a man with a pleasant face.”

“But what a strain,” said Daphne, “to make a face all day long.”

“I know. I don’t understand it. He put on the face for us. And I’ll tell you another thing – he was decently shaved.”

The thing was too hard for us, and we put it away.

Two minutes later, I brought the car to rest by the side of the clearest water you ever saw, flowing steadily under the footbridge, rendering the grateful sunshine and offering for inspection every polished pebble that rested upon its bed.

My sister left the car and looked pleasedly round.

“Always the same,” she said. “Time stands still here, I think. I always feel, when I come here, I’m stealing a march.”

“I know what you mean,” said Berry. “I used to have the same feeling about Loch Spiel o’ the Whisht.”

“There’s no such place,” bubbled Jill.

“You ask the Golosh,” said Berry. “It marches with his estate. When I was Mary, Queen of Scots, I used to steal a march there all by myself. Rizzio used to bring his banjo, and—”

“That’s more than enough,” said Daphne.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “Break the beautiful thread. Think what some antiquary would give for these sidelights – these precious gobbets, filched from the maw of Time. There’s a lovely conceit. I don’t know how I do it.”

“Come and lie down,” said Daphne. “You’ll feel better then.”

“That sounds familiar,” said Berry. “I think you must have been one of my tiring-maids.”

As they made for the sward, Jill and I took our seats on the foot-bridge, from which it was always our habit to watch the life of the stream. If we sat very still…

Our patience had its reward. After a quarter of an hour, a water-rat coaxed its offspring into the flood.

When Berry denied our report, we desired him to come to the bridge and see for himself.

He did better than sit – he lay down. So, he was less conspicuous. It was as he leaned away from the planks that his gold cigarette-case slid out of his left breast pocket, to sink in three feet of water, immediately under the bridge.

“Of course that’s done it,” said Jill. “You’ve frightened them off.”

Berry let out a maniac laugh.

“I suppose gold scares them,” he said. “How very thoughtless of me.” With a shaking finger he indicated his case. “How beautiful it looks, doesn’t it? And yet, you know, I’ve a feeling we might as well get it out.”

“It’s up to you,” said I.

“Don’t be obscene,” said Berry. “I came here at your invitation. Against my better judgment, I—”

“Oh, you liar,” said Jill. “We told you to—”

“At considerable personal inconvenience, to do you pleasure, I lay down upon my belly—”

“I will not,” said Daphne, “allow you to use that filthy word.”

“I see,” said her husband. “Well, b-bellies are b-bagatelles to the b-blanks which I shall clothe, if that case is not restored within two minutes of time. Damn it, you gave it me. D’you want it to be done in?”

“You dropped it,” said Jill. “Why should poor Boy—”

“I,” said Berry, “am the head of an illustrious house. It is the privilege of the younger members to assist and comfort their lord. That’s matter of tradition.”

“I’ll help to dry you,” said I.

In a pregnant silence, my brother-in-law gained the bank, removed his coat and laid it upon the turf. Then he rolled up his sleeves.

“Have we got a walking-stick?”

I shook my head.

“What about the tire-pump?”

“If you ask me,” said I, “there’s—”

“I don’t ask you,” snapped Berry. “I wouldn’t demean myself by seeking counsel of you. Your duty is plain. Thanks to your treachery, a valuable trinket of mine has been cast into the draught. The least you can do is to restore it.”

“There’s nothing doing,” said I, and went for the pump…

The water was three feet deep and the distance from the bridge to the water was two feet six. By lying flat on the planks, Berry could reach the case with the end of the pump; but, when he endeavoured to push it towards the bank, it merely turned and settled, time and again.

“What you want is a rake,” said Daphne.

Her husband was breathing through his nose.

“The next person,” he said, “to name any of the innumerable requisites, such as diving-bells, which would avail me, but are not available, will do so at his peril.”

With that, he rose to his feet, strode to the bank, threw the pump into the bracken and tore off his shirt.

By the time I had found the pump, Daphne and Jill had retired and Berry was in his shorts.

As I opened my mouth—

“I’m much obliged,” said Berry. “I know that look, It ushers that gorgeous protasis, ‘If I were you.’ But I don’t want any ‘words to the wise’. I am well aware that, being neither acrobat nor contortionist, I can only recover my case by immersing the whole of my person, with the possible exception of a zone, five inches in depth about my trunk. With luck, that may remain dry. Possibly some portion of the buttocks may escape – a solemn thought. I shall enter and leave the flood by way of the foot-bridge. You will assist me in – and assist me out. And now –
en avant
.”

With that, he led the way, with the air of a cardinal.

All went very well. Berry had recovered his case and was shaking the water from his head, when I saw him peer at the under side of the planks.

“That’s funny,” he said, standing up. “There’s a letter-box under the bridge.” He gave me the case. “Right at the end. Lie down and see for yourself.”

I did as he said.

Screwed to the centre plank was an ordinary letter-box, such as is sometimes seen within a front-door. Its lid was shut and secured by a staple and hasp.

“Anything inside?” said Berry. “My hands are wet.”

I opened the lid and drew out a little package, heavy enough for its size. An oil-skin tobacco-pouch was wrapping a stout linen envelope, folded once.

“Wait till I’m out,” said Berry. “Now give me a hand.”

One minute later, seated upon the sward, we examined our spoil.

The envelope bore no writing. It was sealed in the usual way. There seemed to be a paper inside: there were certainly a number of coins.

Berry regarded me.

“What price the blind wallah?” he said. “The blind man who could see?”

I struck the turf with my palm.

“By God, you’re right,” said I. “That’s why he was watching the car. When I
didn’t
turn into Minever, he went on his way.”

“An uneasy mind,” said Berry. “I think we should show this to Lake.”

Colonel Lake was the Chief Constable. His pleasant house stood a mile and a half from Dovetail, close to the Bloodstock road.

“I expect you’re right,” said I.

I wrapped the packet again and stowed it away. While Berry put on his clothes, I dried his case.

As we rejoined the girls—

“I’m hungry,” said Berry. “Astonishing how immersion can whet the appetite.”

My sister looked round from the kettle. “Nearly ready,” she said. “Is the case all right?”

“I think it’s improved,” said Berry. “Where is the food?”

“There’s some bread and butter there, if you really can’t wait?”

“What, real bread and butter? What a treat! Aren’t there any anchovy sandwiches?”

“If you’re really hungry,” said his wife…

The kettle declined to boil, until I screened the lamp with a rug from the car. Jill and I held this up, while Daphne watched the pot. I could feel no breeze, but lamps are sensitive things. At last the tea was ready.

Offered bread and butter, Berry refused.

“I’ve had two slices,” he said.

“But you said you were hungry,” said Daphne.

“I know. It’s all this waiting. The – the urge has passed.”

“Well, have some cake,” said his wife.

“No, thank you. I’m thirsty now. I’ll just have some tea.”

“Well, I’ll have some cake,” said Daphne.

“Where is it?” said Jill.

“In the other jar, darling.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve looked. They can’t have put it in.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Daphne. “Besides, Falcon asked if he should slice it.”

“Just as well I’m not hungry,” said her husband.

I turned and looked at him.

“What were you doing,” I said, “while we were screening the lamp?”

“Doing?” said Berry, wide-eyed. “Bread and butter in hand, I strolled down to the water again. I thought, if I stood very still—”

Daphne and Jill were upon him, before he could move.

After a violent struggle, a sheet of grease-proof paper, folded again and again, was found in his jacket-pocket. That it had contained rich cake, there could be no doubt.

Flushed and panting, my sister sat back on her heels.

“You’re not fit to live with,” she said. “It’s like the animals. While we three are making tea in which you’re going to share, you bolt our cake – eight slices.”

“Only six,” said Berry. “Falcon must have miscounted. I thought there should have been eight.”

“And I meant,” said Jill, “I meant to give a piece to the rat.”

“He can have my bread and butter,” said Berry. “Where’s my tea?”

“I’ve poured it away,” said Jill.

“Oh, the vixen,” said Berry. “No, damn it, I’m parched with thirst.”

“I’ll bet you are,” said Daphne. “And so you’ll stay.”

With that, she emptied the teapot before his eyes.