Highland Fling (9 page)

Lady Prague and Lord Alfred carried on a desultory conversation about their mutual relations whose name appeared to be legion.

‘I hear Buzzy has sold all his hunters.’

‘Yes, I heard. An absolute tragedy, you know. But I’m afraid it’s …’

‘Yes, that’s what my mother says. I don’t know, though, really why it should be.’

‘Well, my dear, every reason if you come to think of it. But what does Eileen say about all this – ?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘No – what?’

‘Eileen is staying down at Rose Dean.’

‘No! Well, I must say I never, never would have thought it of her; though, mind you, I have always disliked Eileen. But really! Rose Dean – no that
is
a little too much. Then where is Looey?… (etc. etc.)’ This was so interesting for everybody else.

When everything eatable had been consumed the general marshalled them all out of doors again. Admiral Wenceslaus was very indignant at this and said something to Jane about letting a cove finish his brandy in peace; but even he dared not mutiny and, muttering a few naval expressions, he followed the others out of the hut.

To Jane’s great relief – for she was very tired and stiff – each of the women was now provided with a pony to ride. Albert walked between Jane’s pony and Sally’s. He looked round at the large crowd of people spread out over the moor, the ponies, dogs, and men with guns.

‘We might be early settlers escaping from native tribes,’ he observed. ‘Led through unnatural hardships to civilization and safety by the iron will-power of one man, our beloved and sainted general. Alas, that within sight of help, his noble spirit
should have flown. Poor, good old man, he will yet be enshrined in the heart of each one of us for ever.’

‘Please don’t laugh quite so loudly!’ Lady Prague shouted to Jane and Sally, ‘or all the birds will settle.’

‘I wish,’ said Albert, ‘that I could spot an eagle or a stag with my telescope for the darling general to shoot at. He might take a fancy to me if I did. Our present lack of intimacy begins to weigh on my spirits.’

Albert searched the horizon with his telescope, but complained that, being unable to keep one eye shut, he saw nothing.

‘If you ask me, I expect that’s why the admiral rose from the ranks. Having only one eye, anyhow, he probably took prizes for viewing enemy craft quicker and more accurately than his shipmates. “A sail! – A sail! Ahoy!” ’ he cried, dancing a sort of hornpipe on the heather.

General Murgatroyd, who was beating his dog, stopped for a moment and asked Alfred Sprott if ‘that fella thought the birds would be able to stand the sight of his orange shirt?’ Lord Alfred grunted, he could hardly stand the sight of it himself.

‘I ducked him once,’ he said, ‘in Mercury.’

‘Good boy! Did you, then? Good for you, sir!’

‘This scenery,’ said Albert to Jane, ‘is really most amusing. It is curious how often natural scenery belongs to one particular era. The Apennines, for instance, are purely Renaissance: Savernake was made for the age of chivalry: Chantilly and Fontainebleau for the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: the Rhine for the Middle Ages, and so on. At other times these landscapes seem beautiful, but unreal. Scotland, as you will no doubt have noticed, was invented by the Almighty for the delectation of Victoria and Albert. Foreseeing their existence, He arranged really suitable surroundings for them, and these purple mountains and mauve streams will stand as a reminder
of the Victorian age long after the Albert Memorial has turned to dust.’

‘What,’ asked Jane, ‘would you call the landscape of today?’

Albert did not answer, but said faintly:

‘Aren’t we nearly there; I’m most dreadfully tired?’

Sally jumped off her pony.

‘Do ride instead of me for a bit, Albert; I wanted a walk.’

General Murgatroyd could hardly contain himself when he saw Albert, his graceful figure swaying slightly from the hips, seated upon Sally’s pony. He was tired himself, though nothing would have induced him to say so; if Prague could still walk so could he. Lord Prague, it may be noted, was to all intents and purposes dead, except on shooting days when he would come to life in the most astonishing manner, walking and shooting with the best. At other times he would sit in an armchair with his eyes shut and his hands folded, evidently keeping his strength for the next shoot. He hardly appeared able even to walk from his drawing-room to the dining-room and was always helped upstairs by his valet.

At about half a mile from their destination the horses were left behind and the party began to climb a fairly steep hill. When they reached the first butt Albert declared that he could go no farther and would stay where he was.

‘That,’ remarked Lord Alfred, who was passing it, ‘is General Murgatroyd’s butt.’

‘Splendid!’ And Albert, swinging himself on to the edge of it, sat there in a graceful position, his legs crossed, pretending to look through his telescope.

‘Well, you’d better put on this mackintosh, Gates, that shirt would scare all the birds for miles.’

Lord Alfred went on his way feeling like the Good Samaritan.

Presently General Murgatroyd appeared with his loader. When he saw Albert he glared and muttered, but took no
further notice of him and began to make his own arrangements for the drive.

‘May I let off your gun, sir?’ said Albert, pointing it straight into the general’s face.

‘Put that gun down this instant. My God! young man, I’m sure I don’t know where you were brought up. When I was a kid I was sent to bed for a week because I pointed my toy pistol at the nurse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Albert, rather taken aback by his manner. ‘I didn’t know it was full.’

The general wiped his brow and looked round helplessly.

‘You can sit on that stone,’ he said, indicating one at the bottom of the butt.

‘Oh, sir, please, must I sit there? I wanted to watch you. I shan’t see anything from down here. Oh, please, may I stand up?’

Receiving no answer beyond a frigid stare, Albert, with a deep sigh, disposed himself upon the stone, sitting cross-legged like an idol. He then produced a slim volume from his pocket. ‘I presume that you have read “The Testament of Beauty,” sir?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Oh, sir, you must have heard of it. A very great poem by our Poet Laureate.’

‘No, I haven’t; I expect it’s immoral stuff, anyway. Kipling ought to be the Poet Laureate, to my mind.’

‘Alas! Philistine that I am, I must disagree with you. I cannot appreciate Sir Rudyard’s writings as no doubt I should. “Lest we forget, lest
we
forget,” ’ he chanted. ‘Have you a favourite poem, sir?’

The general remained silent, his eye on the horizon. As a matter of fact he
had
a favourite poem, but could not quite remember how it went –

Something more or less like that.

‘You care for TS Eliot, sir? But no, of course, I heard you cut off the wireless last night when Mrs Nicolson was about to read us some of his poems. How I wish I could be the one to convert you!’ And he began to declaim in a loud and tragic voice:

‘Oh,
will
you be quiet? Can’t you see the birds are settling?’

‘I can see nothing from down here except the very
séant
pattern of your exquisite tweeds. But no matter.’

Albert read for a time in silence.

The general was breathing hard. Presently he stiffened:

‘Over you! – over you, sir!’ he shouted.

Albert dropped his book in a puddle and leapt to his feet, knocking the general’s arm by mistake. The gun went off with a roar and a large number of birds flew over their heads unscathed.

‘You blasted idiot! Why can’t you sit still where I told you? Of all the damned fools I ever met –’

‘I regret that I cannot stay here to be insulted,’ said Albert; and he strolled out of the butt.

‘Come back, will you? Blast you! Can’t you see the bloody drive is beginning?’

Albert paid no attention, but walked gracefully away over the heather, telescope in hand, towards the next butt. Its occupant luckily happened to be Mr Buggins, who was rather amused by
and inclined to tolerate Albert, so there were no further
contretemps
. Meanwhile, the general, infuriated beyond control, was seen to fall upon his loader and shake him violently.

When this eventful drive was over, Jane, Sally and Albert, finding themselves close to a road where the motor-cars were waiting, took the heaven-sent opportunity to go home. Jane on her arrival went straight to bed, where she remained the whole of the following day, entertaining riotous parties in her bedroom. Her ankles were so swollen that it was nearly a week before she could walk without the aid of a stick.

Jane was enjoying herself passionately. Curiously enough, she thought, she had not fallen in love with Albert at all, but simply regarded him as a most perfect companion. Always cheerful and amusing, he was at the same time seriously intellectual and had the capacity of throwing himself heart and soul into whatever he happened to be doing. He and Jane had spent much of their time collecting together all the Victorian odds-and-ends that they could find in the house. These they assembled in the billiard-room, where Albert was now busy photographing them for a brochure which he intended to produce entitled ‘Recent Finds at Dalloch Castle,’ and which was to form a supplement to his larger work, ‘Household Art of the Nineteenth Century’.

Jane, who had up till then maintained a wholesome superiority with regard to everything Victorian, quickly smothered this feeling, and learnt from Albert really to admire the bead stools, lacquer boxes, wax flowers and albums of water-colour sketches which so fascinated him.

They practically lived in the billiard-room, hard at work the whole time, Albert making still-life compositions for his photographs, while Jane copied designs from chintzes and pieces of needlework in water-colours.

One day she was poking about in the attics trying to find more treasures for the catalogue when she noticed, poked away in a corner behind piles of furniture, a dusty glass dome. After a dangerous climb over rickety chests of drawers, derelict bedsteads and other rubbish, she managed to secure it and
carry it to her bedroom, where she carefully removed the dome, which was opaque with dirt, expecting to discover some more wax fruit. Underneath it, however, she found to her amazement a representation in white wax of Jacob’s Ladder. It was quite perfect. Jacob, in a sort of night-gown and an enormous beard, lay upon a floor of green plush. His head rested on a large square stone, and from just behind this rose the ladder, delicately balanced against wax clouds which billowed out of the green plush. Two angels were rather laboriously climbing on it (whether up or down it would be hard to say), while three more angels, supported by wires which rose from behind the clouds, hovered round about, twitching and quivering delightfully whenever the stand was moved.

Jane washed and replaced the dome, and then carried this treasure down to the billiard-room in great triumph. When Albert saw it his joy and delight knew no bounds.

‘It is easily our most important find and shall be the frontispiece of my book!’ he cried. ‘I have never seen anything half so lovely. It is a poem! How can I find out the name of the artist? I must endeavour to do so without delay. But how sad, my dear, to think that this jewel should belong to people who so evidently have no feeling for beauty! It ought, of course, to occupy a place of honour in a museum. Never mind, I shall photograph it from every angle and in all lights, so that the artistic public will be able to gain some slight idea of its exquisite form, and thus share, to a certain extent, in my own emotions.’

At that moment Lady Prague was seen to pass by the open door, and Albert, longing to share his enthusiasm with somebody, rather thoughtlessly dashed out, seized her by the arm and said:

‘Lady Prague, do come and see our wonderful new find. Something to cause the greatest sensation among all cultured persons – so amusing, so exquisite, so stimulating.…’

With the naïveté of a child showing off its new toy he led her up to the dome.

She stared at it for a moment, sniffed and said rather pityingly:

‘What a lot of drip you do talk. Why, that’s nothing more than a particularly unattractive form of dust-trap!’

She left the room.

All the excitement died out of Albert’s face and was succeeded by an expression of the deepest disgust.

‘Dust-trap!’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘You just wait until you see the booby-trap I’m going to make for you – you viviparous old vixen!’

Walter and Sally now came in and made up for Lady Prague’s lack of appreciation by an enthusiasm almost as unbounded as Albert’s. They walked round and round the dome, exclaiming:

‘How beautiful!’ – ‘How amusing!’ – ‘That angel’s so like Lord Prague, d’you see? And, of course, Jacob just
is
the admiral with a beard!’

Walter soon retired to write a poem beginning:

Even Lady Brenda was quite appreciative, saying that her children would simply love it.

‘It reminds me so much of a lodging-house at Westgate where we used to go for our summer holidays when we were small. Every room in it had several domes of that sort.’