The Foolish Gentlewoman by Margery Sharp

Author:Margery Sharp [Sharp, Margery]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2021-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

1

There was only one major change in the domestic routine. Mr. Brocken, who never exposed himself to unnecessary discomfort, formed the habit of eating dinner at his Club and returning to Chipping Hill by the nine-o’clock instead of the five-twenty train. The evenings were light, the carriages at the later hour less crowded; he congratulated himself on an admirable notion. But over a summer week-end the Club was not altogether attractive: weekend sunshine in particular had a curious way of bringing out too strongly the smell of old books, old leather and old carpets which Mr. Brocken as a rule rather liked. On Saturdays, therefore, he returned as usual. This in turn produced a second habit, expensive but rewarding. Every week Mr. Brocken brought home two tickets for a Saturday matinée, and took his seat on the one-twenty down secure in the knowledge that Isabel and Tilly were even then emerging from the twelve-fifty up. It was the nicest thing, said Isabel gratefully, Simon had ever done; and Simon, attaching a preciser meaning to her adjective, was inclined to agree.

Thus he was sure of having the house to himself. Humphrey and Jacqueline, no less grateful than Isabel, never intruded on him; a tea-tray and an electric kettle were left in the dining-room, and he made himself tea when he wanted it. Mr. Brocken enjoyed these afternoons as much as he enjoyed anything; they rested and relaxed him. They also confirmed his opinion that the prime condition of rest and relaxation was the absence of any one else. Ten minutes of Greta, for example, once disturbed an entire afternoon.—Yet Mr. Brocken had been in a very good humour; it was in fact his unusual expression of benignity, as he strolled upon the terrace, that emboldened the child to come hovering up and ask him to do her a favour.

“Look,” said Greta, “there’s no one in but you, and Mum and me want to go out together.”

There was a touching eagerness about her; Mr. Brocken was touched, also, by the way in which the Pooles gently but stubbornly persisted in regarding him as their patron. Still perfectly good-humoured, he replied that he saw no objection whatever to their both leaving the house at the same time.

“It’s the beer,” explained Greta. “It’s because of the beer coming. It’s Captain G.’s beer, and we said we’d take it in, but it hasn’t come. I’ve got the money.” And she held out a pound note, cajolingly.

“Do you mean you wish me to take it in for you?” asked Simon.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Greta. “You can hear the van from here, it makes ever such a row, and you can leave the crate just inside the door, don’t bother with the empties, and there’ll be three-and-ninepence change.”

Her fingers, gently pushing the pound into Mr. Brocken’s hand, left a curious impression of lightness, and brittleness, such as might be left by the claw of some small perching bird. Mr. Brocken allowed the note to remain.

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