addresses.”
“How much is the unexpired portion of subscriptions did you say?”
“I didn’t say. But it comes to nine pounds and eight shillings.”
“O my master, what an orgy we’ll have on that!”
Chapter 8
FAMILY REUNION
On the way to Bournemouth Phillip called at Field Place, the home of Piers Tofield. Would he be there? The lodge garden was untidy. Trees felled in park. Branches—loppings and toppings—left to rot among brambles, thistles, docks. Grassy drive, house unpainted, rows of moving whiteness in upper windows. When he stopped before the Palladian pillars at the entrance he saw hundreds of Wyandotte hens looking down from what appeared to be bedrooms. Was the house a ruin? He walked under a high stone wall, and entered the courtyard by the postern gate.
The remembered fountain was still playing in courtyard pond. Weeds between cobbles, fresh heaps of dung of heavy-draught horses. The open coach-house door revealed a black flywheel revolving in darkness. Thump — thump — thump, charging batteries in an adjoining room for electric light.
On doors of the buildings around the courtyard someone appeared to have experimented with paint: red streaks and green blobs—doodling art. On a large rainwater trough was the picture of a yellow steamship. Relics of soldier occupation; or Pier’s attempts to escape reality? There was a full garbage can outside the kitchen door, under a lean-to iron roof. He knocked.
Piers, clad in deciduous tweeds, semi-buttonless jacket, loosely corrugated trousers, opened the door. Glittering, evasive eyes, peaky unshaven face, Etonian politeness. “Glad to see you again, Phil. Come in. You’ll find it a bit of a mess, but an improvement on Berlin, I believe. Only part of the roof has fallen in. I live in the kitchen, a comfortable wolf’s lair.”
After a cup of tea which was half whisky they went outside.
“The first floor is let off to a farmer, who asked me if I’d mind him ‘havin’ a foo guests’ to stay with him. Apparently he murders his guests periodically, for I hear squawks and other cries of distress at all hours before market day. The smell is somewhat over-powering upstairs, I’m afraid, for I haven’t so far removed the‘manners’, as he calls the chicken dung—to the kitchen garden. I’ve plans to start it up again—always tomorrow, so far. The greenhouses haven’t much glass left, apparently the troops celebrated V.J. day by smashing all they could see. Can’t blame them, really, after all the boring years of home service. Good to see the old Silver Eagle again. My Aston isn’t mobile at the moment, needs a rebuilt engine among other things. Left it in London.”
The walled garden was a wilderness. “Two acres. Take some doing to get it all back into shape.”
They walked down to the water-meadows. “No trout in the Benbow ponds. Troops cleared them with hand grenades.”
Back to the house. Little trees growing among chimney stacks. Family portraits awry on faded dining and drawing room walls. Pallid empty patches where pictures had hung. Rows of empty whisky bottles along wainscotings.
“A London business man used to come down with fusil spirit, bartering ersatz whisky for china and plate. Told him to help himself. He did. He and his wife emptied the butler’s pantry. How my mother would have been upset. All her Jacobean, Caroline, and Georgian silver going into the back of an S.S. saloon to Whitechapel. Took all the china-ware too. Heard he sold some of it to an American dealer for ten thousand dollars. When I break a cup now I replace it from Woolworth’s. He must have made a small fortune—combines kerb-stone stock-broking with deals in the Black Market. He also bought most of the house for demolition, leaving the central rooms and walls of the original farmhouse barton. I can’t wait to see the house-breakers start.”
“Piers, I can only say that all of us now living have been ‘caught in the gale of the world’!
“How much is the unexpired portion of subscriptions did you say?”
“I didn’t say. But it comes to nine pounds and eight shillings.”
“O my master, what an orgy we’ll have on that!”
Chapter 8
FAMILY REUNION
On the way to Bournemouth Phillip called at Field Place, the home of Piers Tofield. Would he be there? The lodge garden was untidy. Trees felled in park. Branches—loppings and toppings—left to rot among brambles, thistles, docks. Grassy drive, house unpainted, rows of moving whiteness in upper windows. When he stopped before the Palladian pillars at the entrance he saw hundreds of Wyandotte hens looking down from what appeared to be bedrooms. Was the house a ruin? He walked under a high stone wall, and entered the courtyard by the postern gate.
The remembered fountain was still playing in courtyard pond. Weeds between cobbles, fresh heaps of dung of heavy-draught horses. The open coach-house door revealed a black flywheel revolving in darkness. Thump — thump — thump, charging batteries in an adjoining room for electric light.
On doors of the buildings around the courtyard someone appeared to have experimented with paint: red streaks and green blobs—doodling art. On a large rainwater trough was the picture of a yellow steamship. Relics of soldier occupation; or Pier’s attempts to escape reality? There was a full garbage can outside the kitchen door, under a lean-to iron roof. He knocked.
Piers, clad in deciduous tweeds, semi-buttonless jacket, loosely corrugated trousers, opened the door. Glittering, evasive eyes, peaky unshaven face, Etonian politeness. “Glad to see you again, Phil. Come in. You’ll find it a bit of a mess, but an improvement on Berlin, I believe. Only part of the roof has fallen in. I live in the kitchen, a comfortable wolf’s lair.”
After a cup of tea which was half whisky they went outside.
“The first floor is let off to a farmer, who asked me if I’d mind him ‘havin’ a foo guests’ to stay with him. Apparently he murders his guests periodically, for I hear squawks and other cries of distress at all hours before market day. The smell is somewhat over-powering upstairs, I’m afraid, for I haven’t so far removed the‘manners’, as he calls the chicken dung—to the kitchen garden. I’ve plans to start it up again—always tomorrow, so far. The greenhouses haven’t much glass left, apparently the troops celebrated V.J. day by smashing all they could see. Can’t blame them, really, after all the boring years of home service. Good to see the old Silver Eagle again. My Aston isn’t mobile at the moment, needs a rebuilt engine among other things. Left it in London.”
The walled garden was a wilderness. “Two acres. Take some doing to get it all back into shape.”
They walked down to the water-meadows. “No trout in the Benbow ponds. Troops cleared them with hand grenades.”
Back to the house. Little trees growing among chimney stacks. Family portraits awry on faded dining and drawing room walls. Pallid empty patches where pictures had hung. Rows of empty whisky bottles along wainscotings.
“A London business man used to come down with fusil spirit, bartering ersatz whisky for china and plate. Told him to help himself. He did. He and his wife emptied the butler’s pantry. How my mother would have been upset. All her Jacobean, Caroline, and Georgian silver going into the back of an S.S. saloon to Whitechapel. Took all the china-ware too. Heard he sold some of it to an American dealer for ten thousand dollars. When I break a cup now I replace it from Woolworth’s. He must have made a small fortune—combines kerb-stone stock-broking with deals in the Black Market. He also bought most of the house for demolition, leaving the central rooms and walls of the original farmhouse barton. I can’t wait to see the house-breakers start.”
“Piers, I can only say that all of us now living have been ‘caught in the gale of the world’!
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