Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

staved her off for another week by suggesting Mrs.

Cotton's arrival must have kept her sons busy. Then the blow fell:

Miss Marcy told us that the Vicar had gone over to call and been asked to lunch, and that various Scoatney people had been invited there.

there is no one else in Godsend they would ever ask, except us.

"Your turn next, dears," said Miss Marcy.

Rose got up and walked straight out of the kitchen.

That night, after we were in bed, she suddenly said:

"Ask Miss Blossom what went wrong, Cassandra."

I was absolutely stuck- I felt I ought to edge in some advice for the future but I couldn't see how, without telling the brutal truth.

"She says she doesn't know," I said at last.

I didn't make Miss Blossom say it herself because I think of her as

very sincere.

"I expect it's because we're so poor," said Rose, bitterly. Then she sat up in the iron bedstead (it was my week for the four-poster) and

said: "I was nice to them- really I was."

I saw my chance and said in Miss Blossom's voice:

"Perhaps you were too nice, dearie."

"But I wasn't," said Rose.

"I was charming but I was--oh, capricious, contradictory. Isn't that what men like?"

"You just be natural, girlie," said Miss Blossom. Then I went on in my own voice: "How much did you really like them, Rose?"

"I don't know--but I know I don't like them now.

Oh, I don't want to talk about it."

And that was all she ever did talk about it- that was almost the worst part of the gloom, our not talking naturally.

Never have I felt so separate from her. And I regret to say that there were moments when my deep and loving pity for her merged into a desire to kick her fairly hard. For she is a girl who cannot walk her

troubles off, or work them off; she is a girl to sit around and

glare.

Topaz was wonderfully patient--but I sometimes wonder if it is not only patience, but also a faint resemblance to cows. It is rather like her imperviousness to cold; Father once said she had a plush-lined skin and there are times when I think she has plush-lined feelings. But they

certainly aren't plush-lined where Father himself is concerned. Three weeks ago I found her crying in Buffer State in front of her portrait of him--for which he never sits. (it is mostly orange triangles.) She said his disappointment was far more important than Rose's, that he had so much enjoyed meeting Simon Cotton and was longing to talk about the American essay on Jacob Wrestling.

"Particularly now he's changed his mind about it -he now thinks he did mean all the things the critic says he did. And I was sure it had

started him writing. But I've just sneaked into the gatehouse while

he's over at the vicarage, and what do you think he's working on his

Crossword puzzles!"

I suggested there might be money in crossword puzzles.

"Not that kind," said Topaz.

"They didn't make sense. Cassandra, what is the matter with him ?"

I had a most dreadful thought. I wondered if Father really had been

drinking for years, if he had found a secret wine-cellar under the

castle, or was making drink out of something--I know there is some

stuff called wood-alcohol.

"Oh, don't be idiotic," said Topaz.

"You can tell if men are drinking. We must be patient-it's just that he's a genius."

She went to bathe her eyes, and then put on her favorite dress, which is cream satin-damask--Italian--just about dropping to pieces; she

wears a little ruby-red cap with it.

Then she went down to make potato-cakes for tea.

I was in the garden, looking at a daffodil that was almost out, when

Father came back from the vicarage.

"Any news ?" I called, to be friendly.

"Only that it appears to be quite a distinction not to be asked to Scoatney. I gather invitations are being broadcast."

He said it in his loftiest manner; then gave me a quick little

embarrassed smile and added: "I'm sorry, my child. You know what the trouble is, don't you ?"

I stared at him and he went on: "It's the rent -they've looked into that little matter, I know, because the usual application didn't come in on the March quarter-day. Oh, they're kind enough --the best type

of American always is; but they don't want to get involved with us."

I knew Topaz hadn't told him the truth;

partly because she thought it would upset him and partly because she

has a sort of women-must-stick-together attitude. I wondered if I

ought to tell him myself. And then I decided that if he did feel

guilty about the rent it would be a good thing--anything, anything to prod him into working. But as he stood there in his thin old coat,

with the March wind blowing his fading gold hair, I felt very sorry for him;

so I told him there were potato-cakes for tea.

As it turned out, the potato-cakes were spoilt;

because while we were eating them, we had one of those family rows

which are so funny in books and on the pictures. They aren't funny in real life, particularly when they happen at meals, as they so often do.

They always make me shake and feel rather sick. The trouble arose

because Thomas asked Rose to pass the salt three times and she took no notice, and when he shouted at her, she leaned forward and boxed his

ears. Topaz said: "Blast you, Rose, you know Thomas gets ear-ache."

And Rose said: "You would bring that up-I suppose he'll die and I'll be responsible." Father said:

"Damnation!" and pushed his chair back on to Heloise, who yelped.

And I said: "I can't stand it, I can't stand it," which was ridiculous.

Stephen was the only person who kept calm; he got up quietly to see if Heloise was badly hurt. She wasn't, and she came off very well because we gave her most of the potato-cakes. Our appetites came back later

when there was nothing worth eating.

Food isn't much better, in spite of Stephen's wages coming in

regularly, because we have to go slow until the tradesmen's bills are paid off. Stephen keeps back a shilling a week; I this exercise book

came out of his savings. I have an uneasy feeling he will spend most

of them on me; he certainly spends nothing on himself.

He hasn't brought me any poems lately, which is a relief.

That evening of the row was our lowest depths; miserable people cannot afford to dislike each other. Cruel blows of fate call for extreme

kindness in the family circle.

Had we but known it, our fortunes were already slightly on the mend,

for that was the very day Father's Aunt Millicent died. How dreadfully callous I sound! But if I could bring her back to life, truly I would; and as I can't, there seems no harm in thanking God for His wondrous

ways. For she left Rose and me her personal wardrobe which means

clothes, not a piece of furniture as I thought at first. When the

Vicar saw the death announced in The Times we entertained a faint hope that she might have left Father some money;

but she had cut him out of her will and left everything to a hostel for artists' models--I suppose she thought they ought to stick in hostels and not go marrying her relations. ("Just think," said Rose, "if Father hadn't married Topaz we might be rolling in wealth by now." And I asked myself if I would rather roll than have Topaz in the family and decided I wouldn't, which was nice to know.) After the first exuberance had worn off, we remembered that Aunt Millicent was seventy-four and an eccentric dresser. But to be left anything at all gives one a lift.

The lawyers wrote asking us to come to London and pack the clothes

ourselves; they said they would pay all expenses.

The prospect of a day in London was heaven, but the problem of what to wear was sheer hell, particularly for Rose--my clothes don't bear