of Blakesmoor. The family estate went to the eldest son of course, and had passed in turn to
his
son, the twelfth Earl, a dreadful young man who asked us to call him Blakey. We didn’t enjoy his visits, I can tell you.
“Bohemian is the word for him,” says Bella on one occasion, finding him with a garlic crusher in her kitchen. (I thought I spotted an Oedipus complex there.)
To return to our couple: in his will, the old Earl had been able to separate the Manor from the family estate because it had been part of his wife’s dowry. Neither the Colonel nor Lady Sissy had ever married, so the old Earl left them the Manor property jointly: on condition they lived in it together. And looked after each other. He used those verywords in his will, Bella told me. If either of them left the house, the other one inherited the whole property.
So there they were, stuck with it. Although many might say that we did the looking after. But then, they were both well over 70 at the time we answered the advertisement. Did I mention that by the old Earl’s will, the Manor finally got left to the survivor? Provided the Colonel and Lady Sissy had remained together, that is. Because that was the situation. And that’s what lay underneath it all, in my opinion, that was the power struggle beneath the quarrelling about the drinks. Who was going to be the survivor? With the Colonel swearing that whisky made you live for ever because it was so healthy and Lady Sissy declaring in her high-pitched voice, “Live for ever, Lionel? How can you be so absurd? Whisky or no whisky, I shall outlive you, see if I don’t.” At which she would call for another “House Poison” and drink it with the kind of dainty relish you could see was intended to drive the Colonel mad.
All the same, for all the rows, they did manage to stick together. And they lived to a ripe old age, what’s more. Which says something for both the Colonel’s medicinal whisky
and
Lady Sissy’s House Poison. I made Lady Sissy 80 at least when the tragedy happened and the Colonel was only a couple of years younger. Drink had certainly not cut short
their
lives. Because the Colonel was as hale and hearty an old gentleman as you could hope to find and even Lady Sissy kept on gardening right to the end. Well, they both gardened as a matter of fact, that was another thing they kept arguing about. Lady Sissy only got a bit tottery at that time of day when the cocktails had got to her, or, to put it another way, she to the cocktails. The Colonel never tottered.
If only they hadn’t been quite so vigorous! So determined, both of them, to survive the other. A bit moretottering or doddering about the place and they might have been content to let nature take its course, lean on each other a bit, be glad not to be living alone like so many old people must. As it was, there was so much vigour about that the arguments if anything got worse. Especially at PP time. Which brings me to the evening of the bet.
“Lionel!” I heard her fluting away, as I stood at the drinks tray, shaking away at the silver cocktail mixer. “You’ve been wrong about everything for over seventy-five years! Why not admit you’re wrong now?”
“Prove it, Sissy,” the Colonel grunted. “Just prove it.” Up till then, to be honest, I hadn’t been listening very carefully; thought it was the mixture as before, as in my silver shaker.
“I
will
prove it,” exclaimed Lady Sissy in a voice which was suddenly a good deal stronger, a good deal less fluttery than the voice she generally used; something of the old Earl’s military bearing (there’s a big portrait of him over the fireplace) had evidently got into her. Then, “Henry! Take away the Colonel’s glass. No, no, you silly man. Don’t fill it up.”
I suppose I just stood there, staring at her. Nothing in my psychological studies had prepared me for this one, I can tell you.
And, “Give me the bottle, Henry,” she went on. “We’ll have it locked
his
son, the twelfth Earl, a dreadful young man who asked us to call him Blakey. We didn’t enjoy his visits, I can tell you.
“Bohemian is the word for him,” says Bella on one occasion, finding him with a garlic crusher in her kitchen. (I thought I spotted an Oedipus complex there.)
To return to our couple: in his will, the old Earl had been able to separate the Manor from the family estate because it had been part of his wife’s dowry. Neither the Colonel nor Lady Sissy had ever married, so the old Earl left them the Manor property jointly: on condition they lived in it together. And looked after each other. He used those verywords in his will, Bella told me. If either of them left the house, the other one inherited the whole property.
So there they were, stuck with it. Although many might say that we did the looking after. But then, they were both well over 70 at the time we answered the advertisement. Did I mention that by the old Earl’s will, the Manor finally got left to the survivor? Provided the Colonel and Lady Sissy had remained together, that is. Because that was the situation. And that’s what lay underneath it all, in my opinion, that was the power struggle beneath the quarrelling about the drinks. Who was going to be the survivor? With the Colonel swearing that whisky made you live for ever because it was so healthy and Lady Sissy declaring in her high-pitched voice, “Live for ever, Lionel? How can you be so absurd? Whisky or no whisky, I shall outlive you, see if I don’t.” At which she would call for another “House Poison” and drink it with the kind of dainty relish you could see was intended to drive the Colonel mad.
All the same, for all the rows, they did manage to stick together. And they lived to a ripe old age, what’s more. Which says something for both the Colonel’s medicinal whisky
and
Lady Sissy’s House Poison. I made Lady Sissy 80 at least when the tragedy happened and the Colonel was only a couple of years younger. Drink had certainly not cut short
their
lives. Because the Colonel was as hale and hearty an old gentleman as you could hope to find and even Lady Sissy kept on gardening right to the end. Well, they both gardened as a matter of fact, that was another thing they kept arguing about. Lady Sissy only got a bit tottery at that time of day when the cocktails had got to her, or, to put it another way, she to the cocktails. The Colonel never tottered.
If only they hadn’t been quite so vigorous! So determined, both of them, to survive the other. A bit moretottering or doddering about the place and they might have been content to let nature take its course, lean on each other a bit, be glad not to be living alone like so many old people must. As it was, there was so much vigour about that the arguments if anything got worse. Especially at PP time. Which brings me to the evening of the bet.
“Lionel!” I heard her fluting away, as I stood at the drinks tray, shaking away at the silver cocktail mixer. “You’ve been wrong about everything for over seventy-five years! Why not admit you’re wrong now?”
“Prove it, Sissy,” the Colonel grunted. “Just prove it.” Up till then, to be honest, I hadn’t been listening very carefully; thought it was the mixture as before, as in my silver shaker.
“I
will
prove it,” exclaimed Lady Sissy in a voice which was suddenly a good deal stronger, a good deal less fluttery than the voice she generally used; something of the old Earl’s military bearing (there’s a big portrait of him over the fireplace) had evidently got into her. Then, “Henry! Take away the Colonel’s glass. No, no, you silly man. Don’t fill it up.”
I suppose I just stood there, staring at her. Nothing in my psychological studies had prepared me for this one, I can tell you.
And, “Give me the bottle, Henry,” she went on. “We’ll have it locked
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