prosperity. A stout, blonde lady in pink trousers opened the front door. ‘Grandad’s in the lounge,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a cup of tea.’ P. E. Gilles was seated in a smart, tweed-covered armchair, hands on knees, hair carefully brushed. A flight of china ducks pursued one anothet across the bamboo-patterned wallpaper behind his head; by his side a small table, on which was placed a cardboard box.
He grinned jauntily at us and waved a yellowing sheet of paper. ‘This what you come to see, then?’ It was an extremely bad drawing of a large, black horse; underneath in writing unmistakably that of the twelve-year-old Char, was the caption, ‘Warrior, July 1914’ .
‘ Mr Gilles, this is such a surprise.’ Sophia sounded quite breathless with excitement. ‘I, that is Mr Horton and I, thought you were killed in the First World War, you see.’
‘ Damn near was, my dear, several times over.’ Mr Gilles’ small frame shook with laughter. ‘Lucky for me I copped a blighty one in ’17 and was invalided out of the Army. No more fighting for me — spent the next lot in the Home Guard.’
‘ Now, don’t get excited Grandad, or we’ll have you up all night.’ The blonde lady was back carrying a neatly laid tea tray. P. E. Gilles ignored her and patted a chair.
‘ Come and sit down here, Ma’am,’ he said to Sophia. ‘You’re Miss Char’s daughter or I’m much mistaken. You’ve got her look.’
Sophia obeyed. ‘My mother died last year,’ she said. ‘We found your letters, you see.’
‘ I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘She was a fine one, your Ma. Never met anyone quite like her, even though she were only a nipper at the time I knew her.’
We talked for over an hour, the blonde lady appearing at intervals to replenish the tea pot. The old man’s memory was remarkable. Reticent at first about the domestic dramas that appeared to have taken place during his time in service with the Osborns at Renton, he soon warmed to his subject.
‘ My Uncle George, he got me the job there as groom,’ he told us. ‘And I was that pleased to get it. Six hunters they had in the stables in those days, besides the pony for Miss Char. Then Mr Osborn, that would be your grandpa, Ma’am; he were still a young man then and what an eye for the girls — Oh my! Anyway, your grandpa came home early one day when Mrs O — your grandma — were in the stable with me looking at Warrior’s near fore. It were a bit swollen like and your grandma were better than any veterinary. “Con,” says Mr O putting his head round the door — he always called Mrs O Con. “I’ve bought a motor; had it made specially. Now what d’you think of that?” ’
Sophia choked over her biscuit. Mr Gilles was obviously a first-rate mimic as well as everything else.
‘ “I think it’s a damned stupid thing to have done,” says Mrs O. “And whoever made it can take it back. We can’t afford a motor, we don’t want a motor, and if we had one, you’d be incapable of driving it. You know what you’re like with anything mechanical.”
‘ “But Gilles here,” he says all crestfallen. “He can learn to drive it. You’d like that, Gilles, wouldn’t you?”
‘ “Yes Sir,” I said prompt and meant it.
‘ “Gilles has quite enough to do as it is and who, may one ask, is going to pay for it?”
‘ “ Pas devant les domestiques ,” he says in French. The gentry used to talk like that in those days; they thought we wouldn’t understand, but of course we did. I’d kept company at my last place with a Frog lady’s maid and she taught me quite a lot of the lingo — helped me later in France, I can tell you. After that they went for each other hammer and tongs. I just busied myself with the horse, but they were like that, those two. Mr O won though: we had the motor. I learned to drive it down at the garage in the village — it were the first garage they ever had in those parts. Two of the hunters had to go and when
He grinned jauntily at us and waved a yellowing sheet of paper. ‘This what you come to see, then?’ It was an extremely bad drawing of a large, black horse; underneath in writing unmistakably that of the twelve-year-old Char, was the caption, ‘Warrior, July 1914’ .
‘ Mr Gilles, this is such a surprise.’ Sophia sounded quite breathless with excitement. ‘I, that is Mr Horton and I, thought you were killed in the First World War, you see.’
‘ Damn near was, my dear, several times over.’ Mr Gilles’ small frame shook with laughter. ‘Lucky for me I copped a blighty one in ’17 and was invalided out of the Army. No more fighting for me — spent the next lot in the Home Guard.’
‘ Now, don’t get excited Grandad, or we’ll have you up all night.’ The blonde lady was back carrying a neatly laid tea tray. P. E. Gilles ignored her and patted a chair.
‘ Come and sit down here, Ma’am,’ he said to Sophia. ‘You’re Miss Char’s daughter or I’m much mistaken. You’ve got her look.’
Sophia obeyed. ‘My mother died last year,’ she said. ‘We found your letters, you see.’
‘ I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘She was a fine one, your Ma. Never met anyone quite like her, even though she were only a nipper at the time I knew her.’
We talked for over an hour, the blonde lady appearing at intervals to replenish the tea pot. The old man’s memory was remarkable. Reticent at first about the domestic dramas that appeared to have taken place during his time in service with the Osborns at Renton, he soon warmed to his subject.
‘ My Uncle George, he got me the job there as groom,’ he told us. ‘And I was that pleased to get it. Six hunters they had in the stables in those days, besides the pony for Miss Char. Then Mr Osborn, that would be your grandpa, Ma’am; he were still a young man then and what an eye for the girls — Oh my! Anyway, your grandpa came home early one day when Mrs O — your grandma — were in the stable with me looking at Warrior’s near fore. It were a bit swollen like and your grandma were better than any veterinary. “Con,” says Mr O putting his head round the door — he always called Mrs O Con. “I’ve bought a motor; had it made specially. Now what d’you think of that?” ’
Sophia choked over her biscuit. Mr Gilles was obviously a first-rate mimic as well as everything else.
‘ “I think it’s a damned stupid thing to have done,” says Mrs O. “And whoever made it can take it back. We can’t afford a motor, we don’t want a motor, and if we had one, you’d be incapable of driving it. You know what you’re like with anything mechanical.”
‘ “But Gilles here,” he says all crestfallen. “He can learn to drive it. You’d like that, Gilles, wouldn’t you?”
‘ “Yes Sir,” I said prompt and meant it.
‘ “Gilles has quite enough to do as it is and who, may one ask, is going to pay for it?”
‘ “ Pas devant les domestiques ,” he says in French. The gentry used to talk like that in those days; they thought we wouldn’t understand, but of course we did. I’d kept company at my last place with a Frog lady’s maid and she taught me quite a lot of the lingo — helped me later in France, I can tell you. After that they went for each other hammer and tongs. I just busied myself with the horse, but they were like that, those two. Mr O won though: we had the motor. I learned to drive it down at the garage in the village — it were the first garage they ever had in those parts. Two of the hunters had to go and when
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