Summer Half: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Read online

  ‘I have just been to the office,’ she said, handing a parcel to Colin, ‘and your father asked me to bring you this. Just some tea, please, Palmer, nothing to eat. He said it would tell you exactly what you wanted about something. He has to dine in Barchester at the County Club, but he won’t be late. Robert and Edith are dining here. Have you had a nice day, darling?’

  Colin recognised the book as one which his father had mentioned to him as giving some very valuable information on Railway Law, but now out of print. Mr Keith must have gone to some pains to get it for him, and this was an uncomfortable feeling, just as he was proposing to desert the law.

  ‘Quite nice,’ he said. ‘I went to Southbridge.’

  ‘Did you, darling? How nice. Yes, Palmer, just put my tea here, by me, on the little table. What did you do there?’

  ‘I rather want to talk to you about that, Mother, I went —’

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ said Palmer, ‘but Mrs Crawley rang up to say would you and Mr Keith and Miss Kate dine at the Deanery on Tuesday next at eight.’

  ‘Thanks, Palmer. Please write it down and put it on my writing-table so that I’ll remember to speak to Mr Keith about it. Last time we dined at the Deanery was the day the water main burst and the Bishop’s cellar was flooded.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ said Palmer, with an intonation implying that though custom compelled her to wait till her employer had finished speaking, she knew perfectly well that Mrs Keith’s last sentence was only addressed to Mr Colin, and therefore valueless.

  ‘Well, darling, what did you do at Southbridge?’ said Mrs Keith.

  ‘I went to see the headmaster, and —’

  ‘Now, don’t tell me his name,’ said Mrs Keith, holding the teapot in suspense over her cup. ‘I know what it is, because the Dean is one of the Governors, and I remember his mentioning last time we dined there, which must have been more than a year ago, because it was that very night I was telling you about when the main burst, and we haven’t dined there since, because once they asked us and once we asked them, and each time we were engaged, that he had just got a very good new man for the school, but what his name was I can’t think. I had it just now, but it has gone,’ said Mrs Keith reproachfully, as she finished pouring her tea.

  ‘Birkett, Mother. He seems a very good sort of fellow. I went to see him because I do really feel I ought to be working, Mother.’

  ‘So does your father,’ said Mrs Keith. ‘In fact he has some plan he wants to tell you about that he has been arranging. But you can read just as well here as you could at Southbridge. No one disturbs you in your own room.’

  ‘I know, Mother, but this is different. I shan’t earn any money at the law for ages, so I’m going to give it up. I’m going to be a schoolmaster. It’s practically settled that Mr Birkett will have me, and then I’ll be independent and needn’t take an allowance from Father. I hope you won’t mind.’

  ‘You know I’m not a minder, darling. My Uncle Oswald – you can’t remember him, because he died when you were little, he was the eldest son of that immense family my grandfather had, the eldest of the first family of course, and my father was the youngest of the third family – was headmaster of a very large mission school in Calcutta and became a bishop. Of course you aren’t in orders,’ said Mrs Keith, looking affectionately and abstractedly at her younger son, as if she expected to see his collar turning from back to front under her eyes.

  ‘Well, so long as you don’t mind, Mother,’ said Colin, relieved and yet disappointed by his mother’s serene want of understanding, ‘that’s all right. I think I ought to go and do some work before dinner.’

  He ran upstairs to his bedroom, tore open the parcel, lit his pipe and settled down to enjoy an enthralling account of two cases connected with the running powers of the now defunct London and Mid-Western Railway, which had been tried before Mr Justice Smith in 1847. He was so truly interested and absorbed that he did not look at his watch till ten minutes to eight, when he had to throw down his book and make a lightning change into his evening clothes. Downstairs he found his mother and his sister Kate.

  ‘Robert and Edith are late,’ said his mother. ‘Palmer, we will wait for Mr and Mrs Robert. Kate, has Colin told you?’

  ‘Told me what, Mother? Did you know that there are only eleven of those wine-glasses with the stars? I can’t think what has happened to the other.’

  ‘I knew it was broken,’ said Mrs Keith, assuming the air of a prophetess. ‘That was the kitchen-maid that had the false teeth. She had no business at all to be washing the wine-glasses. About Southbridge. It seems that the new headmaster is delightful.’

  ‘We might ask him to dinner, Mother,’ said Kate, whose true self was expressed in boundless hospitality and a care for the well-being of those about her. ‘Is he married, Colin? Because it is always awkward if you ask a man and then find he has a wife.’

  ‘I think so. I don’t really quite know. I went —’

  ‘I can easily find out at the Deanery,’ said Kate, who did odd jobs of secretarial and library work for the Dean when his chaplain was busy or on holiday. ‘The Dean is a Governor of the school. Mother, I hope you and Father will be able to dine at the Deanery on Tuesday. Mrs Crawley said she had telephoned and she is longing to see you again. Was it nice at Southbridge, Colin?’

  ‘Not exactly nice, but very interesting. You see, I went —’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Robert,’ said Palmer.

  If it had been a dinner-party, she would have announced Mr and Mrs Robert Keith, but as it was only family, she unbent to their level.

  A great deal of family kissing took place. Lydia joined them in an elderly black velvet dress which she had forced her mother to buy against her better judgement, and they went in to dinner. Colin sat between Lydia and his sister-in-law for whom he had a not very interested affection. But this evening he felt sure that he would find in her a sympathetic listener, for would not his renunciation of the allowance put bread, as it were (though he secretly had to admit that it wasn’t) into the mouths of her two children? But before he could begin on the subject, Lydia, magnanimously anxious for a reconciliation, had captured him.

  ‘I say,’ said she, ‘I didn’t mean to be a nuisance about that Horace.’

  ‘You weren’t. Shall I give you a hand with it after dinner?’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Colin, but I’ve done it. It wasn’t so bad after all. I liked that bit about “impavidum ferient ruinae”. It reminded me of the time the plaster all fell off the kitchen ceiling and Palmer screamed so awfully. I do think that’s what’s so marvellous about Horace and that lot – I mean they really did know what they were talking about. Geraldine Birkett said she thought Horace was a bit over-rated, but you’d think anyone over-rated if you had to do them twice a week with Miss Pettinger. Geraldine gets the wrong angle on things, being with Pettinger as much as she is. It’s all because she has to go in for a scholarship, but she has absolutely made up her mind not to get it, and it oughtn’t to be difficult, because she never does any prep, only just because of Mr Birkett being a headmaster they expect Geraldine to be brainy, so she gets tortured by the Pettinger. We both think it’s rotten, and when we leave school we’re going to breed golden cockers together. Her mother has a lovely golden cocker called Sylvia. Did you see her?’

  ‘No. I was really talking to Mr Birkett. He seemed to want me for the job.’

  ‘I must say I’d sooner die than be a schoolmaster,’ said Lydia. ‘I say, Colin, you won’t bring any Young Woodleys and things here in the holidays, will you? Geraldine says the boys are all ghastly, and the masters too.’

  With the best will in the world Lydia’s conversation was, Colin felt, almost more disheartening than he could bear. Profiting by a moment’s pause in his young sister’s flow of talk, he turned to Edith and inquired after the health of his nephew and niece. Edith said they were very well. Henry had fallen down and grazed his knee and had very much enjoyed the blood. Catherine, called after her Aunt Kate, h
ad said ‘Pussy’ to the Dean that morning when out in her perambulator, having taken his Alsatian for a cat.

  ‘But I’m always a bore about the children,’ said Edith. ‘I want to know about you. Are you getting on with the law? Robert is longing for the day when he can brief you. I suppose you are going up to read in London soon, and eat dinners.’

  ‘Well,’ said Colin, ‘I went over to Southbridge today and saw the headmaster. I think —’

  ‘I don’t know him well, but I know his wife,’ said Edith. ‘She is charming. My brothers were there when Mr Birkett was headmaster of the preparatory school, and they adored him.’

  ‘I liked him very much. We had quite a long talk and he said —’

  ‘Then you can give me really good advice about sending Henry there. We were thinking of putting his name down, but schools do change so and one is never sure. What did you think of it?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see much. I really went to see the headmaster about an assistant master’s job.’

  ‘I hope he was helpful. Who was it for?’

  ‘Well,’ Colin began again, hesitatingly, but his sister-in-law stopped him.

  ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘You know I hate prying and I didn’t really mean to ask. Let’s talk about yourself.’

  As Edith’s idea of talking about Colin was that she should talk about her husband and children, Colin did not get any further with his explanation. When Edith was not talking about her household, or Lydia giving her views on Latin literature, about which she confessed she was at present awfully keen, both ladies talked across him about hockey and dog-breeding, so he was glad when the meal ended and he was left alone in peace with Robert.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Robert, who was very fond of his younger brother and thought a good deal of him. ‘You’re looking very fit. How are you getting on?’

  ‘Pretty well, thanks. I —’

  ‘I wonder if you’ve looked at that book Father got for you yet? It’s a kind of business that isn’t much in my line. We haven’t had any railway business in the office since the Dean and Chapter opposed the railway coming here in our great-grandfather’s time, but it’s an interesting subject.’

  ‘Rather!’ said Colin. ‘There was just one point I couldn’t quite follow. I’ll run up and get it and see if you could explain.’

  He dashed upstairs and was down again in a moment with the book.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to a marked passage.

  Robert read it.

  ‘I don’t quite get it myself,’ he said, ‘but I’ll tell you who would, the man Father is taking as his guest to the County Club tonight, that London barrister, Noel Merton. He has been down here once or twice at the assizes, and Father thinks very highly of him. He could settle it in a jiffy. He’s going back to town tonight, unfortunately, but I’ll ask him next time I run across him. Wait a few years, Colin, and Father and I shall be coming to you for Counsel’s opinion.’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Colin. ‘I do like this law stuff immensely, but I feel so awful living on Father and taking an allowance from him and earning nothing. I really ought to be finding a job.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ said his brother kindly. ‘If you’ve got to be silly about money, don’t get it into your head that Father is throwing money away. He looks on you as an investment. If you have anything like decent luck and stick to work, you’ll be independent by the time you are thirty and doing jolly well by the time you are thirty-five. Then you can be the noble bachelor uncle and put your allowance into what the girls are going to get, or in trust for my kids, or into your wife’s settlement, or anything you like. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I was over at Southbridge today,’ said Colin, ‘talking to Birkett, and he seemed to think —’

  ‘A thoroughly sound man,’ said Robert, with a grown-up face. ‘I meet him on one or two boards, and Edith’s young brothers were under him before they went to Rugby. You couldn’t do better than take his advice.’

  ‘I did,’ said Colin. ‘I had quite a long interview and it seemed pretty satisfactory. He said he would take me on next term. That’s only a week from now.’

  ‘Take you on how?’ asked Robert. ‘If it’s coaching you want, you’d better speak to Father about going to some good man’s chambers. He has something of the sort to discuss with you, but I won’t forestall him. Birkett might polish up your Latin a bit, it always comes in useful, but – Hullo, Kate.’

  ‘Mother says do come along because she wants to have some bridge,’ said Kate. ‘Lydia’s got to do her history prep and I simply must finish some stuff for the Dean, so it’s only Mother and Edith, and they want you.’

  ‘We’ll come now,’ said Robert, jumping up and putting his arm through his sister’s. ‘Come on, Colin. We’ll have a talk later about this coaching business. It’s a good idea of yours, but you must be sure to get the right man.’

  Colin followed his brother and sister into the drawing-room, a prey to inward discomfort. While they cut for partners, while they dealt, even, regrettably, while they played, his mind was in a turmoil. It was sadly clear to him that in spite of all his efforts – efforts lasting from about 5 p.m. up to the present moment – not one of his family seemed to have, or want to have, the faintest idea of what he was talking about and what he wanted to do. Even if they had listened, heard, or understood, it was obvious that they didn’t care, and that his was one of those miserable personalities which cannot impress itself on the people with whom it comes in contact. How could a man with so little self-confidence ever exert authority over boys? Remembering the ingenious tortures which he had inflicted in his own schooldays – not so very far off – on unhappy junior masters, Colin felt sick with apprehension and self-distrust. And it was on account of a foolish scruple about money, a scruple that Robert had set aside as a thing of naught, that he was going to exchange the delights of Lemon Upon Running Powers (for such was the name of the delightful work he had been studying with so much enjoyment) for the galling servitude of a school and the brutal tyranny of schoolboys. He still clung desperately to his conviction that young men of twenty-two should not be living on their parents, but if no one else shared his conviction, he was going to be a martyr to himself without any of the fun of martyrdom. There was still his father to consult, and Colin, to his own secret shame, felt rising in him a hope that his father would say ‘Don’t be a fool, sir’ (not that his father had ever said anything the least like that in his life) and write to Mr Birkett by the next post, cancelling his indentures, or whatever the proper phrase was. But even as he hoped, he felt that the hope was dishonourable.

  In consequence of this moral strife he played so badly that he and the other players were thankful for an interruption. A car was heard outside and a few minutes later his father came in.

  ‘Well, Edith,’ said Mr Keith, kissing his daughter-in-law, ‘children well?’

  Without waiting for an answer he turned to his wife.

  ‘Helen,’ he said, ‘can you manage a guest tonight? Young Merton, the barrister I have mentioned to you, who was dining with me, has missed his train. It was really my fault for running things so fine. I ought to have got him away from the Club sooner, but that old windbag the archdeacon talked and talked. You know what the Barchester hotels are like, so I brought him out with me.’

  ‘Quite right, Henry,’ said Mrs Keith placidly. ‘Kate, dear, tell them to get Robert’s room ready as soon as possible. Where is Mr Merton?’

  ‘I left him in the library. I wanted to make quite sure it wouldn’t at all upset you.’

  ‘Of course not. Kate, dear, tell Palmer to tell cook that we shall be one extra at breakfast, and then find Mr Merton and bring him up. Sit down, dear, and Edith will tell you about the children, and, Colin, you must tell your father about Southbridge.’

  ‘Southbridge, eh?’ said Mr Keith. ‘Well, Edith, tell me all about my grandchildren.’

&nbs
p; Noel Merton was waiting rather uncomfortably in the library. He liked Mr Keith, with whom he had done business more than once, but to like a man in his office is one thing, to spend a night in his house without any luggage another. Luckily the dinner for which he had come down was of an informal nature, so he would be spared the indignity of going up to town on a Sunday in evening clothes, but even so there were delicate questions of toothbrushes and razors that perturbed him. One may be a very rising barrister, a dancer, a diner-out, a man of the world, ambitious, but to appear before a provincial solicitor’s family at breakfast unshaven, in yesterday’s collar, is a severe trial. As he waited by the fire he began heartily to wish that he had stayed in a Barchester hotel. Mr Keith was delaying unaccountably, and was probably having to placate Mrs Keith, who naturally wouldn’t want a complete stranger at half-past ten at night. Kate, having delivered her mother’s messages, came into the library and found a tall, elegant young man standing with a melancholy foot on the fender and a melancholy arm draped along the mantelpiece, staring at his own reflection in a mirror. Noel Merton, who was looking not at but through his reflection, became aware of a girl’s mirrored eyes meeting his, and turned round in confusion.