Our Time Is Gone (70 page)

Miss Fetch returned.

‘Could I have a drink of water?' he said. ‘I'm very hot.'

Without a word, she went out, later came back carrying a glass of water on a small silver tray.

‘What style,' thought Desmond, and then as he took up the glass, he saw the engraved head of a ram upon the tray. ‘Hang it,' he said to himself, ‘why, it's the crest! That's it! These sort of people have crests. I had one myself once. A bloody hammer, crossed by another hammer!' ‘Thank you,' he said.

‘May I ask you, sir,' she said, ‘when last you saw Master Downey?' and she dropped her hand, the tray swinging against her side. She listened to the Captain drink. Napoleon and Rob, those two bays made the same noise. She saw the bays clear on her mind—a picture of long ago. Bay horses.

‘Yes! I left him only last night. Why?'

He didn't like this person. She seemed sly. He'd better watch himself. Had she guessed anything? Who he was?

‘I didn't know they were thinking of selling this estate. I thought it was just going to rot away. It's been rotting from the beginning, and now it seems only natural to let it rot away. But perhaps you would build it up, sir.'

Desmond smiled. Almost his own dream, his own idea. Bring Sheila back, run the place—in the end own it. Nothing like being ambitious, anyhow. ‘I shall be glad to look over the house as soon as you're ready,' he said, but he wasn't thinking about the house, but about something that John Downey had said to him at the United Services' Club in London. The words were spoken clearly into his ear.

‘This
bloody
war,' said Lieutenant Downey, ‘is getting awful! It's knocking the whole bottom out of society.' And then they had talked about Sheila and the Ram's Gate. And John had said: ‘That's bad enough. But God—I have a horror of what comes after. The mere idea of being ruled by the half-educated is to me appalling.…' Then they had had more drinks.

‘Was there a dirty hint in that?' reflected Desmond. Was he thinking of his old mouldy property? Had he said it because he, Desmond, was crossing to Ireland to have a look at it? He wondered—wondered whilst he looked Miss Fetch up and down, and then said to himself: ‘Well now! I'll have a look at the rotten estate.'

Miss Fetch had opened the door, was standing waiting. ‘This way, please.'

He followed her out. She might have offered him something more than water, and he was hungry. No matter! He'd go down the hill to the ‘Foxes,' have something to eat there. Everything had such a decaying, unhealthy look in this place that it wouldn't have surprised him to find the bread with leaf mould in it.

‘Upstairs first, sir,' she said, advancing ahead of him.

He clambered up the wide oak staircase, the carpet of which, like the one in the room he had just left, was showing the worst signs of wear. On the landing he halted. More portraits. Men, women, children. ‘I suppose those are all the bloody ancestors,' he told himself. He wanted to laugh. This silly woman actually thought he was going to buy the estate. Good Lord! Buy it! Get it for nothing one day. Take the whole damn place over. That would be the last star to be reached.

‘There are twenty-eight bedrooms, sir,' Miss Fetch said. ‘Perhaps you would care for a sandwich and a glass of beer after you have done the top floor.'

He said ‘Thank you,' without realizing he
had
, and they went into the first room. It was huge, heavily furnished. The beds were shrouded over like the couch below. The windows were dirty, the heavy curtains dust-laden. A mouse ran across the floor. Desmond sat down on the bed. ‘Bedroom!' he said to himself. ‘But it's as big as Hatfields!'

Enormous room. Were they all like this? Then Miss Fetch went and looked out of the window.

‘There was a beautiful view from here once.'

He went over and looked out. Seen from this height, the neglect, the havoc of nature seemed more appalling. Ram's Gate was sinking under neglect, under the enormous weight of indifference.

‘It's been neglected,' he remarked, and rubbed clean a patch of glass to look through. He smiled.

‘Yes,' she said, and if the Captain had turned round then and seen the expression on Miss Fetch's face, he might have realized how personal a thing it was, this rubbing away of dust, dust that settled over the bones of Ram's Gate as naturally as it settled upon death. ‘It has always been neglected,' she added quickly. ‘I've been here a lifetime, sir, and seen it happen. Nothing grows.'

‘You
are
the housekeeper then?' he said, and stepped back from the window.

The look she gave him seemed to say: ‘Are you insulting my intelligence?'

‘I am the housekeeper here,' she said presently. ‘I know everything. I run the place.'

‘Oh!' he said. ‘Fancy. A big place for one person to run. Don't you think so?'

‘It is, and it isn't,' she replied, and reflected: ‘Now and then I put out my hand, touch the place in order to keep in operation the petrifying process.'

‘It's all waste,' she went on. ‘Utter waste! And now the intelligent young people in this part of the world are considering blowing up such places as these. It's a pity, and it isn't a pity. Would you care to see some of the other rooms, sir? Perhaps you would like something to eat. I could make you a sandwich and give you a glass of beer, but you would have to eat in the kitchen. As you see, things are rather upset here.'

She stood directly in front of him, and he could not have avoided her searching glance, even had he turned right round. It would have penetrated the back of his head. Miss Fetch smiled to herself. ‘I know who you are,' she said to herself. ‘And don't think that I don't. We're on the same level, Captain.'

Desmond Fury could make neither head nor tail of the woman. She was an enigma. Who the devil is she? Seems to have very definite opinions of her own. And educated too. But housekeepers generally are, in such places. This was a random opinion shot from the gun of ignorance. He knew nothing about housekeepers. ‘H'm. She doesn't seem to think much of the Downeys anyhow. I wonder if she's guessed anything,' he thought. ‘Does she know who I am?'

But Miss Fetch showed no sign that she did. She had, however, thawed a bit, even to the extent of offering him something to eat. She stopped on the landing, pointed to a large cream-painted door. ‘That is Mrs. Downey's room,' she said quietly. ‘You could see that if you wished,' and made for the door, but the Captain put a hand on her arm.

‘It doesn't matter,' he said, ‘I suppose the rooms are all alike. I'm more keen on seeing the outside, the estate proper,' a remark that brought a smile from Miss Fetch, but he hardly noticed it.

‘It's quite all right,' she said. ‘She's in there, of course. But she wouldn't notice you. As a matter of fact she sits in a sort of trance half the day. You can't do anything with her. All my time is taken up with her. And everything else has to be left. She likes looking out of the window at her estate,' concluded Miss Fetch.

Captain Fury was aware at once of the viciousness behind the remark. ‘No wonder that son hates the woman,' he thought.

She approached the door, opened it without a sound. ‘Come in,' she said.

Captain Fury looked at Mrs. Downey. He couldn't see her face. She was seated in a wheeled chair at the window. She had a beautiful head of black hair, here and there streaked with grey. Desmond felt Miss Fetch's hand on his arm.

‘I take her out sometimes. She likes going round the estate,' Miss Fetch said.

Desmond was staggered. He saw a grand piano, on the top of which stood photographs in silver frames. The piano lid was shut and covered with dust, and a pile of old newspapers lay on it. This lid was thoroughly
shut
. It gave the impression of being banged shut by a powerful hand that was determined it would not open again. There was a large old-fashioned bed with a silk canopy, a dressing-table, two chairs.

‘Everything here,' remarked Miss Fetch under her breath, ‘—rots!'

Desmond went over to the piano. ‘Good Lord,' he exclaimed under his breath: ‘It's Sheila,' and he turned and saw that Miss Fetch watched him. She beckoned to him.

‘We had better go below,' she said quietly. ‘That picture you were looking at was of Mrs. Downey when she was a young woman.' She showed him out. As she was closing the door a bell rang.

‘A moment, sir,' she said, and went back into the room.

‘I thought I heard somebody in the room. Is that you, Miss Fetch?' Mrs. Downey did not turn round but went on looking out of the window.

‘Yes, mam. I'm here! Did you want something?' She tip-toed behind her.

‘Has the daily paper come?'

‘Yes, mam, I'll just get it for you,' Miss Fetch said.

From a heap on the table she drew one out at random.

This table stood by the door, and was piled high with newspapers. She handed the paper to Mrs. Downey, saying: ‘Here's your paper,' and then left the room.

The paper she handed to the woman was two years old.

Captain Fury accompanied Miss Fetch down to the large slate floored kitchen. It was very cool here, even to the point of chilliness, and Desmond, after taking the white scrubbed chair at the big table, began fastening his collar, adjusting his tunic. He even fixed his tie. Miss Fetch made sandwiches. Desmond stretched his legs under the table, spread himself, felt comfortable.

‘I'm rather interested in the Downeys,' he said, and glanced up at a large oleograph of the Royal Family. Under it was a photograph of some gentlemen with dogs at their feet. All the gentlemen carried guns, they wore beaver hats.

‘I'm sure you are,' Miss Fetch said, her back to him, filling a glass from a small barrel at the other side of the kitchen. She came over, placed beer and ham sandwiches on the table. Then she took a chair, stood it in front of the fire and sat down. She might have forgotten his existence altogether. She simply sat and looked at the burning coal, and occasionally up the chimney. He was rather interested in the Downeys! She reflected. Naturally. Quite naturally.

‘It's curious when you come to think of it,' said Miss Fetch, ‘that a can of petrol could destroy all this, and its history as well. Already I've read of these large houses being fired. It's astonishing the number of people who want to be free to-day. Funny! If they destroyed it, I'd be gone with it. I've been here
years
, and when I first came I said to myself. “This won't last. This kind of living is all wrong.” My father served his father. A curious life. All rot underneath. Dry rot.'

She was silent for a moment. Captain Fury nibbled at his ham, supped his beer. Smiled to himself. ‘If Sheila could see me now,' he thought. ‘Seated here! Eating the family bread. But the bloody fun of it is she
can't
see me!'

‘Well,' he said, looking directly at Miss Fetch, ‘I've heard about this estate off and on, and I've been wondering if it couldn't be built up. It wants a man, I'm sure.'

‘These places don't make men,' Miss Fetch said. ‘I ought to know. Look at the creature upstairs. Had a stroke or something because her husband suddenly discovered he wasn't a man at all, until he ran off with a chit of a girl. It's something in the blood, I suppose. Poison or something. They're all for it.'

‘Who?' asked the Captain. This was getting interesting. What a talker the woman was!' And what a subtle bitch, too!' he said to himself.

‘People like the Downeys. The daughter had some guts. She ran away out of it.'

‘Oh,' Desmond said.

‘They
pushed
the son into the Navy. I suppose it will kill him in the end. The father was a bit of a tyrant in a way, but you admired it after a while, especially when you got to know Mrs. Downey. A weeping willow.'

‘What made the daughter run away then?' asked Captain Fury. Here was the key.

Miss Fetch turned, fixed her eyes on him and said slowly:

‘What the father caused, what the mother was blind to. Rot! Rot that comes from having nothing to do, and something queer in your blood, I suppose. The daughter used to wash herself with cream. Mr. Downey had two specialists for his horses, but none for his own family. They required a specialist to find out what they were suffering from. Worse than wildness. They all drank in one way or another. And the people who came! They talked of nothing but animals. Dogs, horses, birds. I used to get sick of it. A tree was for a bird to sit on while you shot it. Gates were for horses to jump over. One day the daughter came to me. She was crying. Mind you, I'm a hard woman myself, but in a way I liked the daughter. But only in a
way
. She was growing thin—she had young men running after her from here, there and everywhere! But she was very independent. Very.'

Miss Fetch suddenly turned her chair round, drew it to the table, leaned on the table and looked at the visitor.

‘“I want to go somewhere,” she said. “Where?” I asked, and as she had been almost everywhere it was hard to know where she might want to go now. So I said: “Go where?”

‘“Away!” she said. She started to cry. She said her father was drinking secretly—her mother wasn't caring much what he did. But then she told me her mother wanted to go into a nunnery. It amused me. “I don't know where you could go,” I said. It wasn't my business. I was just the servant here. “I want to run away,” she announced. “I'm sick of this.”

‘“Of what?” I asked. She just waved her arms in the air, and I suppose she must have meant the whole world.

‘“You should run away. Don't be asking me for advice. You only require guts.” And so she did go. It almost killed the mother. But then if she had stayed she would have required a wheel-chair too. They're all cowards and I don't mind saying so, and'—she paused a moment—‘I don't mind if you ever told them. This place, sir, will never grow. It wasn't meant to. It'll end up like the others. In petrol flames. When people have forgotten what living means it's time for the petrol, I say. The country is full of people like the Downeys. They didn't like me at first, but they had to take me. Then they liked me, and now they dislike me. But they can't shift me. Nobody worries. Upstairs, that woman moans and cries because all the nice colours that life began with have gone. Faded away, I sit here and watch it rot. And so you thought of taking it over. H'm!'