Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

‘Joe Sellon?’ Kirk snorted. ‘If you was to go down to the village, you’d see Joe Sellon. Coo! talk of a traffic jam! I never see nothing like it in all my born days There’s ’alf Pagford here and pretty well the ’ole of Broxford, and all them newspaper men from London, and the Broxford and Pagford Gazette and the North-Herts Advertiser and a chap with one of them moving-picture cameras, and cars that thick in front of the Crown nobody can’t get in, and such a mob round the bar, they can’t get served when they are in. Joe’s got more’n he can do. I’ve left my sergeant down there to lend ’im a hand. And,’ said the Superintendent, indignantly, ‘jest as we’d got about twenty cars parked neat and tidy in the lane by Mr Giddy’s field, up comes a kid and squeaks, “Oh, please, mister-can’t you let me by? I’ve brought the cow to bull”-and we ’ad to move ’em all out again. Aggravating ain’t the word. But there! It can’t last for ever, that’s a comfort; and I’ll bring Joe up here when the funeral’s over and out of the way.’

Mr MacBride’s men worked expertly. Harriet, watching the swift disintegration of her honeymoon house into a dusty desert of straw and packing-cases, rolled-up curtains and spidery pictures spreading their loose wires like springes, wondered whether the whole of her married life would have the same kaleidoscopic quality. Character is destiny: probably there was something in her and Peter that doomed them never to carry any adventure to its close without preposterous interruptions and abrupt changes of fortune. She laughed, as she assisted matters by tying a bunch of fire- irons together, and remembered what a married friend had once confided to her about her own honeymoon.

‘Jim wanted a peaceful place, so we went to a tiny fishing village in Brittany. It was lovely, of course, but it rained a good deal, and I Hunt- it was rather a mistake we had so little to do. We were very much in love, I don’t mean we weren’t-but there were a great many hours to get through, and it didn’t seem somehow quite the right thing just to sit down quietly and read a book. There’s something to be said, after all, for the sight-seeing kind of honeymoon-it does give one a programme.’

Well; things did not always go according to programme. Harriet looked up from the fire-irons and with some surprise observed Frank Crutchley.

‘Were you wanting any help, my lady?’

‘Well, Crutchley, I don’t know. Are you free this morning?’

Crutchley explained that he had brought a party over from Great Pagford for the funeral; but they were going to lunch at the Crown and would not be wanting him again till later on.

‘But don’t you want to go to the funeral? You’re in the Paggleham choir, aren’t you? And the vicar said something about a choral service.’

Crutchley shook his head.

‘I’ve had words with Mrs Goodacre-leastways, she ’ad words with me. That Kirk… interfering. It ain’t no business of Vicar’s wife about me and Polly Mason. I went up about ‘aving the banns published, and Mrs Goodacre set on me.’

‘Oh!’ said Harriet. She was not very well pleased with Crutchley herself; but since he obviously had no idea that Miss Twitter-ton had made her troubles public, it seemed better not to refer to the subject. By this time. Miss Twitterton was probably regretting that she had spoken. And to take the matter up with Crutchley would only emphasise the poor little woman’s humiliation by giving it importance. Besides, one of the removal-men was kneeling in the window, laying the bronze horsemen and other objects of art tenderly away in a packing-case, while another, on the step-ladder, had relieved the walls of the painted nun-or and was contemplating an attack on the clock.

‘Very well, Crutchley. You can give the men a hand if they need it.’

‘Yes, my lady. Shall I get some of this stuff out?’

‘Well-no, not for the moment.’ She turned to the man in the window, who had just placed the last atrocity in the case and was putting the lid on.

‘Do you mind leaving the rest of this room to the last? My husband will be coming back here after the funeral and may have one or two people with him. We shall need some chairs to sit on.’

‘Right you are, lady. Could we do a bit upstairs?’

‘Yes; certainly. And we shan’t want this room very long.’

O.K., lady. Come along. Bill, this way.’

Bill, a thin man with an apologetic moustache, came obediently down from the steps.

‘Right-ho, George. It’ll take us a bit o’ time to take down them four-posters.’

‘Can this man give you any help? He’s the gardener here.’

George eyed Crutchley, who had taken the steps and brought them back to the centre of the room. ‘There’s them plants in the green’us,’ said George. ‘We ain’t got no special instructions about them, but we was told to take everything.’

‘Yes; the plants will have to go, and the ones in here as well. But these will do later. Go and see to the greenhouse, Crutchley.’

‘And there’s a sight o’ things in the outhouse,’ said George. ‘Jack’s out there; he’d be glad of a hand with them.’

Crutchley put the steps back against the wall and went out. George and Bill departed upstairs. Harriet remembered that Peter’s tobacco and cigars were in the whatnot and collected them. Then, smitten by a sudden pang, she hastened out into the pantry. It was already stripped. With the Furies at her heels, she bounded down the cellar steps, not even pausing to remember what had once lain at the foot of them. The place was dark as Egypt, but she struck a match, and breathed again. All was well. The two-and-a-half dozen of port lay carefully ranged upon the racks; and in front of them was tacked a notice in large letters: HIS LORDSHIP’S PROPERTY. DO NOT TOUCH. Coming up into the light, she encountered Crutchley entering by the back door. He started at seeing her.

‘I went to see if the wine was all right. I see Bunter has put up a notice. But please tell the men specially that they mustn’t on any account lay a finger on those bottles.’

Crutchley broke into a wide smile that showed Harriet how attractive his face could be and threw light on the indiscretions of Miss Twitterton and Polly Mason.

‘They ain’t likely to forget, my lady. Mr Bunter, he spoke to them himself-very solemn. He sets great store by that wine, seemin’ly. If you could a-heard him yesterday ticking off Martha Ruddle-’

Harriet wished she had heard it, and was greatly tempted to ask for an eye-witness account of the scene; but considered that Crutchley’s forwardness of manner scarcely called for encouragement; besides, whether he knew it or not, he was in her bad books. She said, repressively:

‘Well; take care they don’t forget it.’

‘Very good. They can take the barrel, I suppose.’

‘Oh, yes-that doesn’t belong to us. Only the bottled beer.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

Crutchley went out again, without taking whatever it was he had come for, and Harriet returned to the sittingroom. With a kind of tolerant pity, she lifted the aspidistras from their containing pots and gathered them into a melancholy little group on the floor, together with a repellent little cactus like an over-stuffed pincushion and a young rubber-plant. She had seldom seen plants she could care less for, but they were faintly hallowed by sentimental association: Peter had laughed at them. She reflected she must be completely besotted about Peter, if his laughter could hallow an aspidistra.

‘Very well,’ said Harriet aloud to herself, ‘I will be besotted.’ She selected the largest aspidistra and kissed one of its impassive shining surfaces. ‘But,’ she added cheerfully to the cactus, ‘I won’t kiss you till you’ve shaved.’ A head came suddenly through the window and startled her.