Henry Green - Loving

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Green remains a dim figure for many Americans. He stopped writing in 1952, at age 47, with just nine novels and a memoir behind him. In the last years of his life-he died in 1973-he became a kind of British Thomas Pynchon, agreeing to be photographed only from behind. But those who knew him often revered him. W. H. Auden called him the finest living English novelist. His real name was Henry Vincent Yorke. The son of a wealthy Birmingham industrialist, he was educated at Eton and Oxford but never completed his degree. He became managing director of the family factory, which made beer-bottling machines. But first he spent a year on the factory floor with the ordinary workers, and his fiction is forever marked by an understanding of the English at all levels of society, something rare in class-bound British literature. Loving is a classic upstairs-downstairs story, with the emphasis on downstairs. You see the life of a great Irish country house during World War II through the eyes of its mostly British servants, who make a world of their own during a period when their masters are away. Green's generosity towards even the most scheming and rascally of them offers a lesson you never forget.
One of his most admired works, Loving describes life above and below stairs in an Irish country house during the Second World War. In the absence of their employers the Tennants, the servants enact their own battles and conflict amid rumours about the war in Europe; invading one another's provinces of authority to create an anarchic environment of self-seeking behaviour, pilfering, gossip and love.
"Loving stands, together with Living, as the masterpiece of this disciplined, poetic and grimly realistic, witty and melancholy, amorous and austere voluptuary-comic, richly entertaining-haunting and poetic-writer." – TLS
"Green's works live with ever-brightening intensity-it's like dancing with Nijinsky or Astaire, who lead you effortlessly on." – The Wall Street Journal
"Green's novels- have become, with time, photographs of a vanished England -Green's human qualities – his love of work and laughter; his absolute empathy; his sense of splendour amid loss – make him a precious witness to any age." – John Updike
"Green's books are solid and glittering as gems." – Anthony Burgess

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Edith looked sideways as though embarrassed but she told him.

'Next door in Mrs Tennant's bathroom,' she said.

He whipped out and along that passage. He looked in the next open door. Against deep blue tiles Kate with her doll's face and tow hair was rearranging a scarlet bathrobe on the chromium towel horse. Edith had followed. But where he went in she stayed by the door, through which she watched as though reluctant.

He slipped up behind Kate, put his palms over her eyes.

'Guess baby,' he said, still whispering.

She gave a great screech beneath her breath, so discreetly she hardly made a sound.

'Why Charley you did give me a start.'

'I don't know,' he said, 'but I can't seem to bring it off these days. See here,' he went on, hands still over her eyes, 'where's there a kind of box in the wall with clockwork inside to do with that weathervane?'

She stood quiet, seemed almost to press her face into his palms. But she let out a giggle at the question.

'Oh my,' she said, 'what next?'

'Come on,' he said murmuring yet, 'give us a kiss,' as he turned her. And while he heartily kissed Kate's mouth her right eye winked at Edith under one of his outstanding ears.

Charley straightened himself at last, passed a forefinger over his lips. At once Edith said as though she could hear somebody. 'It's this way Mr Raunce.'

He came smoothly out, automatic. She led him along. Neither looked back. Soon she stopped at a panel with a button. She opened it. He put his head forward to peer. He saw two shafts which met to be joined by three gear wheels interlocked. And caught between those teeth, held by the leg was a live mouse.

At this Edith let a shriek with the full force of her lungs. A silence of horror fell.

Then even over the rustle of Kate hurrying up a paper-thin scream came as if in answer from between the wheels. And as Raunce looked for the person Edith said she had heard and except for Kate not a soul appeared, not one, Edith fainted slap into his arms.

After a moment Miss Burch came bustling towards them. 'What's this?' she asked, 'and what trick have you played on that poor girl now? Let go of her this instant goodness gracious whoever beard,' she said to Raunce and taking Edith, stretched her rather rough on the floor.

That same afternoon after dinner Miss Burch paid a call on Mrs Welch, slipping from the servants' hall out through the vast scullery straight into her kitchen.

'Come right in,' Mrs Welch welcomed from where she was seated concentrating over the opened notebook. 'Jane,' she called, 'Miss Burch will have a cup of tea.'

'Why thanking you,' Miss Burch said, 'and is this Albert?'

'Yes this is Albert,' Mrs Welch replied. 'Get up when you're spoken of,' she added and the boy stood. He had been crying. 'Come to think of it,' she went on, 'run out now and don't get in the way of my girls at their work nor into any more trouble my word.'

'Trouble,' Miss Burch remarked once they were alone as she stirred with a teaspoon, 'trouble. This morning's just been one long worry an' what it's going to come to I don't know.' There was no reply. Miss Burch watched steam from off her tea.

'I don't know I'm sure,' she continued eventually, 'but it's him or me that's the long and short of the whole matter. We can't go on like it and that's a fact,' she said.

'A large big bird like that,' Mrs Welch insisted, 'and with a powerful wallop in each wing. Why 'e might've got killed the little terror.'

'Killed?' Miss Burch asked, giving way. 'I hope he's not gone and had an accident on his very first day at the Castle?'

'Children is all little 'Itlers these days,' Mrs Welch answered. 'D'you know what 'e done. Up and throttled one of them peacocks with 'is bare hands not 'alf an hour after he got in. Yes that's what,' she said.

'Oh dear,' Miss Burch said, 'one of the peacocks?'

'I got'm covered up in the larder,' Mrs Welch went on. 'I'll choose my time to bury'm away at dusk. He might've been killed easy. I 'adn't turned my back not above two minutes to get on with their luncheon when I heard a kind of squawking. I ran to that window and there 'e was with one in 'is two fists. Oh I screamed out but 'e 'ad it about finished the little storm trooper. There wasn't nothing left to do but 'ide the dead body away from that mad Irish Conor.'

'Yes he's taken up with the things that man,' Miss Burch agreed.

'As to that I've only to pluck it,' Mrs Welch said, 'and 'e won't never distinguish the bird from a chicken they're that ignorant the savages. Mrs Tennant can't miss just the one out of above two hundred. But I won't deny it give me a start.'

There you are,' Miss Burch said, 'but listen to this. I was upstairs in the Long Gallery this morning to get on with my work when I heard a screech, why I thought one of the girls had come by some terrible accident, or had their necks broke with one of the sashcords going which are a proper deathtrap along the Passage out of the Gallery. Well what d'you think? I'll give you three guesses.'

'You heard me 'oiler out very likely,' Mrs Welch replied, watching the door yet that Albert had shut behind him.

'It was Edith, and that Raunce had been after her,' Miss Burch said, 'that man who makes this place a deathly menace.'

'Excuse me a moment,' Mrs Welch remarked and got up. She moved painful across the kitchen dragging her feet. Opening the door between she looked into her scullery. Albert was seated over a cup of tea while Mary and Jane went on with their work.

'You stay there quiet,' she said to him. 'You've been trouble enough this morning my oath,' she said, 'without your plotting something fresh.' Her voice was thick with love. She shut the door.

'Oh these long spaces,' she exclaimed as she came back.

This place won't ever be the same, not since Mr Eldon left us,' Miss Burch began again. 'I said it over his open grave and I don't care who hears me this minute. With Raunce let loose without check about the house there's no saying what we'll come to. And there's the trouble of his morning tea. He will insist on one of my girls fetching it. They won't even tell me which one of them it is but I keep watch. She's Edith though I told Mrs Tennant different by being mistaken at the time. What I say is who's to answer for it when he gets up to his games with her in the bedroom. Tormenting a girl till she faints will be child's play Mrs Welch.'

'It's the food,' Mrs Welch answered, 'though I do speak as shouldn't seein' as I occupy meself with the kitchen. They're starving over there my sister says in her letter she sent. If it wasn't for that I'd go tomorrer, I would straight. He's that thin.'

'Nothing'11 be like it was,' Miss Burch repeated. 'I said so at the time.'

Mrs Welch had the last word. 'Not but what Albert makes a difference being a refugee like the Belgians we had in the last war,' she said. 'Yes 'e'll be a tie,' she ended, 'and he'll take feedin'.'

But not more than half an hour after Miss Burch had left there fell another blow. Mrs Welch went into the larder for a last look before going to her room. While fixing a cheese cloth in front to hide the plucked peacock she chanced to regard the great jar where she kept her waterglass. With arms upraised in the gesture of a woman hanging out smalls she watched that jar with pursed lips. She called Albert.

'Ever set eyes on that before?' she asked.

'No'm I ain't,' he replied in the manner of Raunce's lad.

'Ever been in this larder in your puff?'

'No'm.'

'You wouldn't tell me an untruth would yer?'

'Oh no'm.'

'Because what I 'ave to say to you is this: it's 'ighly dangerous that stuff is. A sup of that and it would be your lot d'you hear me?'

•Yes'm.'

'So you never seen it before?'

'No'm.'

'And you've not even been in this place? Is that right?'

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