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Henry Green: Loving

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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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'Tea! I never knew you took it first thing.'

'Oh yes I must have me cup of tea, and I'm not alone in that I believe. I couldn't start the day without.'

'And was it all right?' she asked, so cheerfully she might have thought she had the advantage of him. 'Had it been made with boiling water?'

'Yes,' he said weak, 'it was a good cup of tea.'

'Then they'll have warmed the pot. I'm glad, I am really. Because I'll tell you something,' and her voice rose. 'D'you know I can't get one for meself at that hour?'

'You can't? Is that so? There's a lot wrong there if you'll pardon me with all the girls you've got to serve you. I should say that wants to be looked into.'

'They've got their work to do same as I have,' she said in a voice charged with meaning.

'Yes I had a bit of a shock first thing,' he went on, ignoring this. 'It was nasty to tell the truth. That lad of mine Albert brought my tea.'

'You don't say. Why I didn't know he was up so prompt.'

'I'll guarantee you this,' Raunce said, his voice beginning to grate a trifle, 'he's up before anyone in the Castle.'

'I won't argue,' she announced.

'No but if you know any different you'll oblige by contradicting.'

'I never argue, I'm not that way,' she said.

'Nor me,' he answered, 'I never was one to contradict this or that. No, all I had in mind was the lad. It's his first place and he's a good obliging boy.'

'I'm not saying he's not.'

'Then you don't deny it,' Raunce said on a rising tone.

'Deny what?' she replied. 'I'm denying nobody.'

'That's O. K. Miss Burch. It was only to make certain I understood like any man has a right. I may have misinterpreted. For if you must know it upset me to see that lad of mine Albert carry me my tea.'

'That was what he always used to do surely.'

'Yes, in Mr Eldon's day that's the way it used to be every morning,' Raunce admitted. Then he went on, 'But one of the girls always brought the old man's.'

'And now I suppose you won't be satisfied unless one of my girls brings you yours,' Miss Burch said with surprising bitterness. 'And I don't doubt she must be Kate,' she added.

'I can't seem to follow you,' he said.

'You can't? I'll ask you this then. How's the work to get done of a morning?'

'Well same as it always has I presume.'

'Now then,' she said taking up this last remark. She drew a great breath and was about to loose it probably in a storm of angry sentences when Mrs T. entered.

The passage carpet was so thick you never could hear anyone coming.

'Oh Raunce,' she said using his new title for the second time, 'I've just come from nanny. Such a nuisance. I don't really know what we can do. Of course the children must come first but I'm sure everyone is doing their best. We shall simply all have to put our heads together.' At this point Miss Burch left. Her back was stiff. She seemed indignant. Mrs T. watched her go with no change in expression. Then turned back to Charley. 'Raunce,' she said, 'surely you aren't proposing to put that pink blotting paper in the Gold Bedroom.'

'This is the only shade they could send us Madam.'

She walked away and tried the mantelpiece with her finger which she then examined as though it was going to smell. He cleared his throat. Having established there was no dust she rearranged the peacock's feathers that for years had stood in a famille rose vase which was as always on a woollen scarlet mat in the centre.

'You write to London for the blotting paper of course?'

'Yes Madam but this is all Mr Eldon could get. I believe he was going to speak about it.'

'No, he never did,' she said, 'and naturally it would be hopeless trying to buy anything in this wretched country. But tell me why if there are several pastel blues can they do only one shade of pink?'

'I believe it's the war Madam.'

She laughed and faced him. 'Oh yes the shops will be using that as an excuse for everything soon. Mind I'm not blaming anyone,' she said, 'but it's going to be hopeless. Now Raunce I'm so very worried about these nursery meals.'

'Yes Madam.'

She began to smile, as though pleading with him. 'I want your help. Everyone is being so very awkward. Nanny has complained that the food is quite cold by the time it gets to the nursery and Mrs Welch tells me it leaves the kitchen piping hot so what am I to believe?'

They looked long at each other. At last he smiled.

'I'm sure Albert carries the meals up soon as ever they are served,' he said. 'But if it would be of any assistance Madam I'll take them up myself for the next few days.'

'Oh thank you Raunce, yes that is good of you. Now I promised Michael I would go along, why was it he wanted me? Yes well that will be all.' She started off to the head gardener. She did not get far. Miss Burch stopped her in the Long Passage.

'Could I speak to you for a moment Madam?'

'Yes Agatha?'

Before going on Miss Burch waited until Raunce, who was leaving Mrs Jack's room, should be out of earshot.

'It's Kate Madam. I wouldn't bother you Madam only it does seem not right to me that a slip of a girl can take him his tea first thing while he lies in bed there.'

'Whose tea good heavens?'

'Arthur Madam.'

'We must call him Raunce now Agatha. It does sound absurd I know. What's more I don't like that name.' Her voice had taken a teasing note. 'I think we shall have to change it don't you?'

'And he would not go to the funeral. He even boasts about it Madam.'

'Well we wouldn't have wanted him there would we?' she said. Miss Burch seemed pleased. 'And now he's moved down to Eldon's room and wants his morning tea brought him?' Mrs Tennant went on. 'Yes well thanks very much for telling me. I suppose one of the girls used to carry Eldon his cup first thing?'

'Yes Madam but that was different.'

'I know Agatha but I fancy that's the difficulty you see.'

'Very good Madam,' Miss Burch said grim.

'Oh yes and I forgot, where is the man,' and she called for Raunce. There was no reply. 'He must have gone.' She rang the bell. 'I meant to tell you both,' she continued, 'it's about Mrs Welch. Her nephew is coming over to-morrow. Not for long mind, just a few weeks. He's old enough to look after himself. She'll do everything for the little chap.'

Miss Burch did not look delighted but she said, 'Yes Madam.'

'He's a dear boy I believe and it will be nice for the children to have someone to play with. His name is Albert. Why what a coincidence. Yes Albert what is it?'

'You rang, Madam.'

'Oh it's of no consequence it was Raunce I wanted. That's all thank you. There's nothing else I think. I will see Raunce some other time. I've simply got to rush out now to Michael.'

The morning was almost over and that afternoon, as Raunce was in his new armchair putting his feet up to study those two notebooks Edith, upstairs in the attic she shared with Kate and half undressed, was filling into a jam jar those eggs she had been carrying in Mrs Tennant's glove and which she intended to preserve with waterglass.

'You're surely not ever goin' to put that dirtiness on your face and neck sometime Edie?'

'I am that. It's good.'

'But not peacocks. Edie for land's sake.'

'Peacocks is no use. They only screech.'

'I can't make you out at all.'

Edith explained. 'Their eggs've got to be lifted when there's not a soul to witness, you understand, an' they must be peacocks. I wouldn't know for why. But you just ask anyone. They are the valuables! birds, the rarest.'

'And what if you come out in the spots like they have stuck on their tails?'

Edie turned at this to face Kate and put a hand along her cheek. She was naked to the waist. In that light from the window overgrown with ivy her detached skin shone like the flower of white lilac under leaves.

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