Alan Hunter: Landed Gently

‘Now, Les, how can you say these things to me!’

‘Why not, petit sex-fiend?’

‘Right here, in front of the people!’

‘They are rational, mon ami, not one of them comes from Boston.’

‘Heck, I give you up!’ Earle turned to Gently with a despairing wave of his hand. ‘This guy just hates the American Nation, lock, stock and spittoon — can you imagine it? I tell him if it wasn’t for America there wouldn’t be nothing interesting going on, like the numbers racket and Billy Graham. But no, he’s dug his toes in. That guy has got no gratitood. Guess it’ll have to wait till I get him down to Missouri and feed him southern-style fried chicken.’

‘Is that a recipe for America-haters?’ enquired Gently with interest.

‘Why yes, I’ll say it is. The way my momma cooks fried chicken would make an American citizen out of a top-brass Red. You never been to America, Gently?’

Gently shook his head. ‘It’s always been on my agenda.’

‘Sakes, you don’t know what you’re missing! You come down to Missouri — any time, any day. This old buzzard here is going to make the trip next fall, and Janice hasn’t said no to it, leastways not in my hearing.’

Mrs Page shrugged her shapely shoulders. ‘Bill, you talk too much,’ she said. ‘And if you go on inviting people down to Missouri, you’ll have to charter the Queen Mary to get them all there. Now be a dear and fetch me another sherry — and I’m sure Mr Gently would like to have his glass topped up.’

‘To hear is to obey, Princess!’

Earle jumped from the settee and knelt gallantly to take Mrs Page’s glass from her.

‘The Carpetville Heart-Throb!’ grinned Brass to Gently. ‘But the boy has talent, make no mistake. He’s done a cracking good cartoon since he was here last, real tapestry stuff. I’m going to let him use a spare low-warp loom we’ve got here to weave it on. He’s not much of a tapissier yet, but spoiling his nice cartoon will teach him plenty. On the quiet I’m going to have a go at it myself… it’s too good a cartoon to let him waste.’

‘I’m afraid this is rather over my head, Mr Brass,’ Gently admitted.

‘It won’t be,’ laughed Mrs Page, ‘not if Les gets his claws in you. We live and eat and sleep tapestry here, Mr Gently.’

‘So you do, madam, so you do,’ assented Brass sardonically. ‘It’s the only way to produce tapestry. Come up after Christmas, Gently, and I’ll show you over the workshop. You have to get the stink of wool in your nostrils before you can understand tapestry.’

Gently agreed readily enough. He felt he would like to have a private session with Brass. All the time they had been talking together Somerhayes’s glances had kept wandering in their direction, and Gently was reasonably certain that Brass could offer him enlightenment. What was the enigmatic nobleman’s interest in him? Surely he wasn’t being carried away by the glamour of Gently’s ‘Yard’ tag! Under the cover of filling Dutt’s pipe, Gently unobtrusively quizzed his host, adding detail to his rather confused impression of him. Assuredly there was the stamp of high breeding in his features. The high, straight forehead, the perfectly chiselled nose, the high cheekbones instinct with pride, the thin-lipped mouth, the small, graceful chin and jaw, the neat, close-set ears, all these combined to give an immediate effect of nobility. It was the eyes that spoiled the picture. They lacked the fire that should have brought the whole to life. Large, handsome, evenly set beneath strongly marked brows, their dominant characteristic was a pensive languor, as though the man behind them were tired and brought to a standstill by disillusions. They were the eyes of one who had already accepted his defeat from life.

‘Sir Daynes beef much about coming this evening?’

The cynical look told Gently that Brass had observed the direction of his attention.

‘He doesn’t like me, you know. I’m blasted peasantry. If you think the world has moved on much in these parts, you’re ruddy well mistaken. Up here it’s the last stronghold of medievalism.’

‘Les, I won’t have that!’ exclaimed Mrs Page with warmth. ‘When did you ever experience any snobbery, here at the Place?’

‘Oh, I don’t say at the Place, my dear’ — Brass’s cynical look renewed itself — ‘the Place is a beacon-light of social enlightenment in a wicked county world… or something like that! But dear old Sir Daynes gets restive when he has to hob-nob with the hoi polloi. We’re all right in Bethnal Green, but gad sir! Not in the drawing room at Merely.’

‘I think you’re wrong, Les,’ returned Mrs Page. ‘You often mistake people. I’ve known Sir Daynes longer than you, and I assure you I’ve never found him the least bit of a snob.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t, Janice my pet. Why should you, with the blood of the Feverells running in your veins? But if you watch Sir Daynes, you’ll see him wince every time Percy Peacock says “thanking you”.’

Mrs Page laughed outright. ‘Well, so do I, for that matter — and so do you, when you’re being honest. But I suppose you’re not going to call me a snob, Les, because I speak English? Bill doesn’t, and he’s a Great American Democrat.’

‘You taking my name in vain?’ sang the latter, coming up and presenting Mrs Page’s glass with a flourish, which nearly spilled the contents. ‘Don’t deny it — I heard you! My reputation is mud with the Britishers.’

At the sound of Earle’s voice, Gently noticed Somerhayes’s head turn sharply.

Supper was served in the adjoining dining room. It was a well-chosen but moderate meal, restrained as though it were intended to look forward to the excesses of the morrow. Gently found himself placed next to his host, but the circumstances led to nothing. Somerhayes attended to him with a sort of earnest graciousness. He seemed always on the point of saying something, without being able to bring it out. And whenever Gently raised his eyes, he was sure to meet those of the other, watchful, apologetic.

After supper some games were organized. Brass was particularly good at that sort of thing, and he was soon installed as master of ceremonies. For assistant he had Percy Peacock, the comical little bald-headed Lancastrian, while Earle could be relied upon to give zest to any festive undertaking. Even Sir Daynes and Lady Broke were drawn into the fun. Sir Daynes, set to mime a lachrymose crooner, displayed histrionic powers that surprised everyone, including himself. Brass was rather disappointed, Gently thought… the artist had deliberately given Sir Daynes a forfeit that was calculated to make a fool of him. But Brass was soon in the midst of fresh revelry, Sir Daynes with him, and the proceedings went forward like the wedding bell of proverb. Only one person held back. Somerhayes, a glass of port in his hand, stood silently watching by the hearth with its half-consumed log. He had relinquished his command. He had handed over to Brass. Until goodbyes were to be said, there was no more occasion for the master of Merely Place.

Soon after half past eleven Lady Broke reminded her husband that this was Christmas Eve, not Christmas Night, and the roistering baronet was prevailed upon to adjourn his revels.

‘Say, Pop, we’ve sure got to see some more of you!’ cried Earle enthusiastically. ‘What say we get together again for a session on Boxing Day?’

‘Young man, I’ve a better idea,’ returned Sir Daynes, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Henry, I shall be most offended if you fail to bring your people over to the Manor the day after tomorrow. That’s a chief constable’s order, man, and as much as your life is worth to dispute. What do you say — will you come?’

Somerhayes came forward, his thin lips twisting in a slow smile. ‘If it’s an order, Daynes, how can I do myself the disservice of refusing?’