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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His training probably induced Charley to close the door soft after him and it was not until he had reached his quarters, when he was out of earshot, that he began to yell for Bert. So nobody saw this car drive up but Edith. She noted in it not the lady above referred to but a stranger, a man, a grey homburg hat.

His boy came running in a green baize apron. At that moment the bell rang. The front door,' Raunce said as the indicator chocked, 'I'm wrongly dressed. Put 'er in the Red Library an' don't leave till I come or something might go missing. Not like that,' he almost shouted as Albert made off tied in green, 'let's 'ave that down,' he cried as he twitched at the bow it was knotted with, 'an' where's your jacket?' Raunce got the lad away at last discreetly clad, calling out to him, 'I won't be a minute while I dress.'

So it was Albert received Michael Mathewson at the entrance, who took this man's business card when he asked for Mrs Tennant. The lad held it upsidedown. In consequence he could not read the name or the line in Irish below, underneath which came a translation between brackets which went, 'Irish Regina Assurance.' There was finally a Dublin address in the right-hand corner.

'This way please,' Albert said the way he had been taught. He led the man over the chequered marble floor. Mike Mathewson followed fat and short and bald with blue spats.

'That's to say they're not here,' the boy piped over his shoulder.

'It'th O. K. thon,' Mike lisped.

So it was Albert showed him in where Edith was still on her knees after a proposal of marriage, as if tidying. As Mathewson passed Albert probably remembered twice for he sang out again. 'This way please.'

'Thankth thon,' the man replied. Edith turned away from them and began a fit of giggling.

'Nithe plathe you've got,' he remarked bright in her direction. Albert closed the door gently, stood so it seemed unobserved and ill at ease. He licked a palm of his hand then smarmed his yellow hair.

'The familieth away?' Mr Mathewson enquired picking up the paper-knife with the agate handle.

'Yes sir,' Edith made answer. She looked for a' second time full at him seriously with her raving beauty.

'That'th all right girlie,' he brought out and goggled a trifle. Then he put that paper-knife down. He came near.

'I'll do thomething for you,' he announced soft, 'I'll put you in the. way to make a fool out of Mike. That'th me. There'th my bithneth card he holdth. It'th thith way. We'll maybe have a little bet on thith. I'll wager thixpenth you can never gueth my bithneth.'

On this she rose to her feet, back to the fire. Her eyes were large as she smoothed her dress. He turned round as though to give her time.

'You're in on thith thon,' he called urgent, soft, but the lad made no move.

'It's Mr Raunce you want,' she interrupted.

'That'th all right,' he answered, 'I'm not thelling anything. I gave up thelling when trade got thlack. I'm an enquiry agent,' he brought out sharp, turning to her close.

'What?' she muttered and began to blush.

'Yeth that'th a thurprithe ain't it,' he went on seemingly delighted.

'Now you'd never have guethed ith'nt that right without you'd theen my bithneth card. Mike Mathewthonth the name. Jutht had a tooth out that'th why I thpeak like thith,' he excused then laid a hand genteel across his mouth. He took it away at once to finger the spotted tie. He was now very near indeed. He smelled of acid of violets.

'I come down when they claim a loss,' he brought out sharp, not lisping.

'Oh,' she said faint.

'I reprethent the Inthuranth Company,' he explained again.

At this precise moment out by the dovecote little Albert was with Mrs Jack's little girls. He knelt down while Miss Evelyn and Miss Moira stood dappled by leaf sunshine. The lad himself was shaded by that pierced tower of Pisa inside which a hundred ruby eyes were round.

'You're not ever goin' to bury it Bert?' Miss Evelyn enquired.

'Naw,' he replied picking up half an empty eggshell.

The sisters squatted. Opening his fist he displayed the ring, a small blaze of blue. He scooped it into that eggshell which he then placed with the unbroken end upwards, a pale bell over the jewel, under a tuft of sharp grass.

'You won't leave that out in the open?' Miss Moira asked.

'It's on account of them birds pinch rings,' he answered. 'If Mr Raunce come to find'm then we don't know a thing, the pigeons took'm see.'

'But doves don't steal rings Albert, you mean jackdaws.'

'Don't be so soft,' he said. 'Everyone knows doves will,' he ended.

'You'll lose it,' Miss Evelyn announced wondering.

'Rings don't walk,' he said, 'an' this shell's so them birds won't rout'm out,' he explained. They'd never think to turn an egg that's broken.'

'Well you are clever,' Miss Moira told him and meant it.

'I'm smart don't fear," he said, 'only I didn't ought to let you girls in on this. You'd never keep a secret. So you'll 'ave to take a oath see.'

'An oath?'

'That's right. You're to swear you won't never tell. It'll be special. This is 'ow it goes. While I break a cock's egg over your mouth you say, "My lips is sealed may I drop dead."'

'Cock's eggs?'

'Peacock's softy. I'll fetch me a couple.' As he ran off to that door he had seen Raunce come out of an another occasion he called back as he stumbled with urgency, 'Don't you stir from where you be.' He had picked up countrified expressions when he was evacuated.

'Well it's wicked I know,' Miss Moira said with satisfaction.

'How will you swear so the egg doesn't get in your mouth?' Miss Evelyn asked.

But they waited. In almost no time the lad was back. Then one of the girls objected. She said she wasn't going to stand for having that filthy sticky stuff on her face. The other wanted to know who she considered she was to think she couldn't, when Edith had hundreds of these eggs put away in waterglass against the time she might want them for her skin. And little Albert heard. And then made them both go through with it. They seemed delighted.

Meantime the assessor had been asking questions. Edith did not know so she said. Or she could not tell for certain she was sure. Mike Mathewson was getting nowhere. Albert kept silence. Then Raunce at last arrived, in his dark suit and without the bandage. He came quiet and Mike Mathewson did not hear him. He had to clear his throat to make this man turn round.

'Yes sir?' Charley asked.

'That'th all right my man,' Mike answered. 'Making a few en-quirieth that'th all.'

It might have been Raunce thought Edith looked upset. Not moving from the door he took a line.

'I'm sure Mrs Tennant would not wish for questions asked,' he said.

'Precithely why I wath thent,' Mr Mathewson replied, a green high light following out his nose.

'I'm afraid we can't have this,' Charley said firm. 'Mrs Tennant would never allow it.'

'Is it so?' Mike said grim, not lisping.

'I will have to ask you to leave that's all,' Charley went on and did not call him sir.

'But I have been thent.'

'Who by?'

Then Edith must have forgot herself. She interrupted.

'It's about the ring,' she said in a small voice.

'What ring?' Raunce wanted to know without a sign of any kind.

'Let'th thee,' Mike suggested. 'When Mr Tennant wath alive you uthed to be hith man I take it.'

'No I was not.'

'And you never heard of a ring being gone?' Mike asked in menacing fashion.

'Ow d'you mean?' Raunce enquired in a less educated voice.

'That'th thtrange,' Mathewson said almost genial, 'nobody theemth to know nothing.'

'What's strange about that?' Charley asked and began to squint. 'Come on you tell me. Who might you be for a start?'

'You're the butler?'

'What's that got to do with you? It's you we're talkin' about. Who're you?'

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