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Chapter thirteen

A Difficult Evening

September 1956

I see that my memories are becoming more and more upsetting. This is probably because of the difficult evening I have just had. My present mood is also possibly connected to the fact that tomorrow - if I can find some petrol - I shall be arriving in Little Compton and I shall be seeing Miss Kenton again for the first time in twenty years.

Of course, I expect our interview to be polite and professional in character. The most important thing is for me to discover whether Miss Kenton is interested in returning to Darlington Hall or not. I have to confess that, having re-read her letter, I am beginning to have doubts. Although it seems that her marriage, sadly, has broken down, and that she is without a home, I cannot find any words which state clearly that she wishes to return. But there is something about the way she describes her memories of the house that is definitely nostalgic. It would not surprise me to discover that she would be happy to come back.

But again, why am I wasting time imagining what might or might not happen in the future? It will happen soon enough. And I have moved away from the subject of this evenings events. These last few hours, I have to say, have been very difficult for me. I am sure that my kind hosts, Mr and Mrs Taylor, did not deliberately intend to make me suffer. But as soon as I had sat down to supper at their table, a most uncomfortable situation began to develop.

A large, rough wooden table dominated the room downstairs at the front of the cottage. On its surface there were many small marks left over the years by bread-knives and other sharp instruments. I could see them clearly despite the fact that the only light in the room came from an oil lamp on a shelf in one corner.

‘We’ve been without electricity for almost two months,’ Mr Taylor explained. ‘But we don’t miss it much. There are a few houses in the village that have never had electricity at all. Oil gives a warmer light.’

Mrs Taylor served us with a good soup, and I was looking forward to an hour or so of pleasant conversation before going to bed. However, just as we had finished supper and Mr Taylor was pouring me a glass of home-made beer, we heard footsteps on the stony path outside.

‘I wonder who that is?’ Mr Taylor said, a tone of mild curiosity in his voice.

‘It’s George Andrews,’ a voice came from outside. ‘I was just passing.’

The next moment a well-built, middle-aged man in farming clothes entered the room, and Mr and Mrs Taylor gave him a warm welcome. With the easy informality of a regular visitor, he sat down on a small chair by the doorway and removed his muddy boots. Then he came towards the table, stopped and stood in front of me like a soldier reporting to an officer.

‘The name’s Andrews, sir,’ he said. ‘A very good evening to you. I’m very sorry to hear about your problem, but I’m sure you’ll be happy spending the night here in Moscombe.’

The fact that Mr Andrews had heard about my ‘problem’ puzzled me. But I replied with a smile that I was very grateful for the warm treatment I had received. I had of course been referring to Mr and Mrs Taylor’s kindness, but Mr Andrews seemed to think that my expression of thanks included him because he immediately said: ‘Oh no, sir, you’re most welcome. We’re very pleased to have you. We don’t have gentlemen like you passing this way very often. We’re all very pleased you could visit us.’

The way he said this seemed to suggest that the whole village was aware of my ‘problem’ and of my arrival at this cottage.

A few minutes later another visitor arrived. He looked and behaved so much like Mr Andrews that at first I thought they were brothers. But then the newcomer introduced himself to me as: ‘Morgan, sir. Trevor Morgan.’

Mr Morgan expressed regret concerning my ‘problem’, and assured me that all would be well in the morning. He finished by saying:

‘It’s a privilege to have a gentleman like yourself here in Moscombe, sir.’

Before I could think of a reply to this, a middle-aged couple arrived and were introduced to me as Mr and Mrs Harry Smith. As they took their places around the table, Mr Harry Smith said: ‘I believe that beautiful old Ford up there on Thornley Bush Hill, sir, is your car?’

I agreed, then added:

‘But I’m surprised to hear you’ve seen it.’

‘I’ve not seen it myself, sir. But Dave Thornton passed it on his tractor a short time ago as he was coming home. He was so surprised to see it there, he actually stopped and got out.’ Then Mr Smith turned to the others around the table. ‘It’s an absolute beauty. Dave said he’d never seen a car like it.’

‘Your health, sir,’ somebody said, lifting a glass of beer, and everybody around the table drank to my health.

I smiled and said:

‘I assure you, the privilege is all mine.’

‘You’re very kind, sir,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘You’re a real gentleman. Not like Mr Lindsay. He may have had a lot of money, but he was no gentleman.’

There was general agreement with this comment, and Mr Taylor explained by saying:

‘Mr Lindsay used to live in the big house not far from here, sir. He wasn’t very popular.’

Mrs Smith then leaned towards me and said:

‘We told Doctor Carlisle you were here, sir. The doctor would be very pleased to meet you.’

‘I expect he has patients to see,’ Mrs Taylor added apologetically ‘I’m afraid we can’t say for certain when he’ll be here.’

Before I could reply, Mr Harry Smith leaned forward and said:

‘That Mr Lindsay, he had it all wrong, see? Acting the way he did, thinking he was so wonderful. But he soon learnt his lesson.’

‘He was no gentleman,’ Mr Taylor agreed.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Mr Harry Smith said. ‘He had a fine house and good suits, but we could all tell he was no gentleman.’

‘That’s true,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘You can always tell a real gentleman. You, for example, sir. It’s not just the style of your clothes, or your fine way of speaking. There’s something else that shows you’re a gentleman. Hard to say exactly what it is, but it’s clear for everyone to see.’

There were more sounds of agreement around the table.

Mr Morgan, who had said little since his arrival, bent forward and said to me:

‘What do you think it is, sir? Maybe someone who’s got it has a better idea of what it is. We’re all talking about who’s got it and who hasn’t, and we don’t know what we’re talking about. Perhaps you could tell us, sir?’

There was silence around the table and everybody looked at me. I gave a small cough and said:

‘It is hardly for me to say what qualities I may or may not possess. But in answer to your question, I suspect that the word you’re looking for is dignity.’

‘There’s a lot of truth in that, sir,’ Mr Andrews nodded, and a number of voices agreed with him.

But Harry Smith said:

‘Excuse me for not agreeing with you completely, sir, but in my opinion dignity doesn’t just belong to gentlemen. Dignity’s something every man and woman in the country can get, if they try. Forgive me, sir, but we like to express our opinions directly around here.’

I decided that it would be too complicated to attempt to argue with him, so I just smiled and said:

‘Of course, you’re quite correct.’

Mr Harry Smith, however, had not finished. He leaned even further forward and began to talk about the war. In his opinion, everybody who fought Hitler was a hero. Every Englishman who risked his life in order to defend the country had an important part to play. There should be freedom of speech and dignity for all Englishmen, rich or poor. It didn’t matter how poor or uneducated a person was. Everybody’s opinion was important, and the government should pay attention to what people from villages like Moscornbe wanted to say. Mr Taylor tried to interrupt, but nothing could stop Mr Harry Smith. After several minutes, he finished by saying: ‘I’m not talking politics, sir. I’m just saying that you can’t have dignity if you’re a slave. That’s why we fought Hitler. For the freedom to have dignity, however poor we might be.’

‘This may seem like a small, unimportant place, sir,’ his wife then added. ‘But we lost many young men in the war.’

At this, the room went very quiet. Finally, Mr Taylor broke the silence by saying to me:

‘Harry does a lot of organizing for our local member of parliament. He loves telling everybody what’s wrong with the country.’

‘Ah, but I was saying what’s right about the country.’ Mr Harry Smith attempted to start arguing again.

But Mr Andrews ignored him and asked me:

‘Have you had any connection with politics yourself, sir?’

‘Not directly,’ I said. ‘And certainly not these days. More before the war, perhaps.’

‘It’s just that I remember a Mr Stevens who was a member of parliament a couple of years ago. That wasn’t you, was it, sir?’

‘Oh no,’ I said with a laugh.

I am not at all sure what made me make my next statement. I can only say that it seemed somehow appropriate to the circumstances. For then I said:

‘In fact, I was more involved in international affairs than domestic ones.’

At these words, my listeners looked at me with a mixture of wonder and respect. I added quickly:

‘Of course, I was never in government myself. I was only an unofficial adviser.’ But they continued to stare at me quietly.

Finally Mrs Taylor broke the silence and said:

‘Excuse me, sir, have you ever met Mr Churchill?’

‘Mr Churchill? He did come to the house on a number of occasions. But frankly, Mrs Taylor, while I was involved in great affairs, Mr Churchill was not as important as he later became. People like Mr Eden and Lord Halifax were more frequent visitors in those days.’

‘But you have actually met Mr Churchill, sir? That must have been a great honour.’

‘I don’t agree with many things Mr Churchill says,’ Mr Harry Smith said, ‘but he’s a great man. It must have been an honour to discuss things with him.’

‘It was, as you say, a privilege to be in such a great man’s company,’ I said. ‘It is true that I have been very fortunate. I have met not only Mr Churchill, but also many other great men from America and Europe. I have been very lucky to be able to advise such important people on the great topics of the day. I do feel most grateful for my good fortune.’

The conversation continued in this way for some time. I was asked about the famous people I had met, and Mr Harry Smith kept repeating how important it was for people ‘in high places’ to listen to the opinions of ordinary people like himself.

Suddenly his wife said:

‘I wonder where Doctor Carlisle is. I’m sure the gentleman would appreciate some educated talk now.’

Everybody laughed. I decided the time was right for me to go to bed.

‘Although it has been extremely enjoyable to meet you all,’ I said, ‘I must confess I’m beginning to feel a little tired.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Mrs Taylor said, ‘you must be exhausted. Perhaps I’ll fetch another blanket for you. It’s getting much colder at night now.’

‘No, I assure you, Mrs Taylor, I’ll be perfectly comfortable.’

But before I could rise from the table, Mr Morgan said:

‘Ah, there’s someone coming. I expect that’s the doctor.’

‘I really must go,’ I said. ‘I feel quite exhausted.’

‘But I’m sure this is the doctor now, sir,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Do wait a few more minutes.’

Just as she said this, there was a knock on the door and a voice said:

‘It’s only me, Mrs Taylor.’

Doctor Carlisle was a tall, thin gentleman of about forty years old. No sooner had he said good evening to everybody than Mrs Taylor said to him:

‘This is our gentleman here, Doctor. His car’s stuck up at Thornley Bush and he’s been having to listen to Harry’s speeches as a result.’

The doctor came up to the table.

‘Richard Carlisle,’ he said with a cheerful smile as I rose to shake his hand. ‘Bad luck about your car. Still, I hope you’re being well looked after.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘Everyone has been most kind.’

‘Well, nice to have you with us.’ Doctor Carlisle sat down directly opposite me. ‘Which part of the country are you from?’

‘Oxfordshire,’ I said. Indeed, I found it hard to resist the urge to add ‘sir’.

‘I have an uncle who lives just outside Oxford. Fine part of the country.’

‘The gentleman was just telling us, Doctor,’ Mrs Smith said, ‘that he knows Mr Churchill.’

‘Really? I used to know a nephew of his, but we’ve lost touch. Never had the privilege of meeting the great man, though.’

‘And not only Mr Churchill,’ Mrs Smith went on. ‘He knows Mr Eden and Lord Halifax.’

‘Really?’

The doctor’s eyes examined me closely. Before I could make an appropriate remark, however, Mr Andrews said to the doctor:

‘The gentleman was telling us that before the war he was involved in foreign affairs.’

‘Indeed?’

The doctor went on studying me for several seconds, then he regained his cheerful manner and asked:

‘Touring around for pleasure?’

‘Mainly,’ I said, and gave a small laugh.

‘Plenty of nice country around here.’ Then he turned to talk to Mr Andrews about something he had borrowed and had not yet returned.

For a short time, I was no longer the centre of attention and I was able to remain silent. Then, at an appropriate moment, I rose to my feet and said:

‘Please excuse me. It has been a most enjoyable evening, but I am really very tired.’

Mrs Smith and a few others tried to persuade me to stay, while Doctor Carlisle studied me closely. Eventually, however, I began to make my way around the table. To my embarrassment, everyone in the room, including Doctor Carlisle, rose to their feet. I thanked everybody again for their kindness and good company. I had almost left the room when the doctor’s voice caused me to stop at the door.

‘Mr Stevens, I have to go to Stanbury first thing in the morning. I’d be happy to give you a lift to your car. It will save you the walk. And we can pick up a can of petrol on the way.’

‘That’s most kind,’ I said. ‘But I don’t wish to put you to any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all. Seven thirty all right for you?’

‘That would be most helpful, thank you.’

There was another exchange of goodnights, and I was at last allowed to withdraw to my room.