A Country House Christmas Read online

  Down this passage Phyllis hurried, through a door separating the back premises from the grand staircase, and so to the end of the passage and the door of the Long Gallery, through which came sounds of hammering.

  The Long Gallery

  A stage had been built at this end of the gallery and on it as expected she found Jim Bowden, the house-carpenter, putting the final touches to the woodland scene where the action of the play was set. Seen from the lighted stage, the great length of the dark gallery seemed to stretch away into infinity. To Phyllis it looked a little ghostly and frightening, but no more so than was pleasant.

  The walls were covered to within three feet of the ceiling with Tudor panelling. Halfway down the outer wall the huge chimney-piece, stone and gilded plaster, with the arms of Elizabeth in the centre, reached to the ceiling. On either side of this a row of long, uncurtained windows now showed only a deep purple twilight outside, and the two at the end looking on to the forecourt were almost invisible from the stage.

  Surveying the completed woodland scene which had been specially painted for the occasion, Phyllis thought it wonderful; the path winding away into the trees on the backcloth looked as if by a slight effort of will it could be walked upon. There was a fine drop curtain, too (which was up at the moment), showing the house surmounting its buttresses, with the Italian garden in the foreground below. They were doing a gipsy play this year. She was to be the rich young lady in love with a poor young man whom her worldly-minded guardian would not allow her to marry. The gipsies would help to circumvent him and true love triumph in the end. Last year she had been the beautiful village maiden courted by the wicked Duke (her brother Richard) and the virtuous peasant boy (her other brother, Piers). At one point in the play Piers had to say: “I am a poor but honest peasant”; and the Duke to reply: “A poor but honest pheasant! I will shoot you, you miserable pheasant!” “No, you cannot shoot me till October!” Of course, the audience had not failed to go into the appropriate roars of laughter. After this there was to be a highwayman piece in which her mother and Uncle William took the leading roles. Her sister Lettice was to play opposite Captain Tarporley, the son of a neighbouring squire, and rehearsals were to start on Boxing Day. The producer and manager was to be Mr. Blunt, who was by no means easy to please and something of a perfectionist.

  Her father never took part in the acting. Though always ready to acclaim their success, he could be counted on to throw plenty of cold water at the outset. In fact, Sir Thomas Vayne either pretended to or really did dislike Christmas and all its festivities, unbelievable as this seemed to his youngest daughter. Phyllis had even noticed a slight tendency on the part of Lettice and Richard to be a little blasé about it also. Sometimes Richard seemed to forget about this, but if it awoke in her too violent a response he would very quickly revert to his former mood.

  She now put her request to Jim, which was that he should make them a sham chicken for the supper scene in the play. Jim Bowden, a small man with a large, drooping moustache, seemed dubious.

  “Mr. Truelove said as ’ow ’e thought you could make do with a real one,” he replied at last.

  At this moment the door at the far end of the gallery started to creak open, and gradually emerging from the darkness into the rays of the footlights a group of men appeared bearing a large fir tree. Slowly and carefully they advanced accompanied by a tall commanding figure which took no share of the burden but directed them at every step. At its orders they placed the tree about halfway down the room and some way in front of the stage.

  “That will do, thank you.”

  Truelove, for it was he, dismissed the gardeners and turned to Phyllis, who had left the stage to inspect the tree.

  It would have been hard to find a more perfect butler than Truelove. He was tall, but not quite so tall as his footmen, and that was as it should be. Immaculate in appearance, rigidly upright, quiet, dignified, confident, there was one thing about him both unconventional and surprising in a butler: his upper lip was closely shaved, but his lower jaw was covered by a grey growth, perfectly kept and trimmed and not unlike King Edward’s, but still a beard.

  There was a rumour that Truelove had a delicate throat which must be protected, but the more probable explanation was that it placed him above the general level, gave him a particular cachet. What Mr. Brown of Bayswater could not tolerate in his butler, Sir Thomas Vayne of Vyne could and did. So Truelove had a beard.

  “A nice tree, don’t you think, miss?” he now remarked to Phyllis.

  “Oh yes, but it’s not quite such a good shape as last year’s.”

  “Ah, wait till I’ve tied on a few extra branches. Jim, come over here please, I want you.”

  And taking the hint, Phyllis left to get ready for tea.

  Truelove was always at his best at Christmas. It gave him a chance to go all out and display to the full his powers of organisation. It was as if he said: “We’ll show them what Vyne can do!” Or perhaps more truly: “What I can do with Vyne.” The tree was his responsibility and no one else was allowed to decorate it. When the children of the estate employees came up on Boxing Day to have tea and receive their presents it was he who acted as master of ceremonies. After tea in the servants’ hall, lit for the occasion with Chinese lanterns, they would troop upstairs to the Long Gallery, where the tree in all its glory for the second day in succession provided, except for the blazing fire, the only light in the room. Ready and waiting, rather behind Truelove, Jim Bowden and Gregory the plumber would stand with sponges on the ends of long sticks. Then when everyone had walked round the tree and admired it thoroughly, Truelove would read out from a list, not the children’s names but their parents’ names and their respective ages—a nice distinction.

  “Jim Bowden’s little girl, aged six years”—and a small girl in best frock and button boots would clatter across the shiny boards to where Lady Vayne stood beside the tree, receive her gift with a bobbed curtsey and clatter back again.

  “George Jackson’s little boy, aged six years”—the same ceremony again, till from the youngest to the eldest they had all had their presents. Then Truelove would make a speech.

  It was the same every year—“I’m sure we’re all very grateful to her Ladyship for providing this beautiful tree and presents. When I was a boy and Christmas came round I was pleased if I got a monkey on a stick. But of course times have changed. Now I want you all to give three hearty cheers,” etc.

  There was always a loyal response. Then the gallery would resound to the blowing of tin trumpets and whistles, the clicking of pistols and popping of crackers, and the broad North Country accents of excited young voices.

  In her own room Phyllis found a cheerful fire and a can of hot water (but not a brass one) standing in the wash-basin covered by a towel. On the bed lay a white muslin frock for her to change into after tea, and on the chest of drawers done up in white paper her little contribution of Christmas presents.

  She never quite knew how she managed to collect the money to pay for these. Nominally she received a shilling a week pocket money from her father, but he was not always there or sometimes could not be bothered, so she had to wait a favourable opportunity and get several weeks’ at a time. Sometimes this worked to her advantage.

  This year she had knitted him a silk necktie and it had cost her nothing, as her mother had paid for the silk. For her governess she had a pair of woollen mittens, also her own work and knitted at her mother’s expense. For Lettice, her eldest sister, she had a handkerchief sachet scented with lavender, and for Richard a framed photograph of Mike the Irish terrier taken by herself. For Piers there was a penknife, and for Hilda, the one nearest her own age, a book by L. T. Meade. Her mother’s present was always the most costly and was a joint offering from all of them. Lettice had chosen it, a Georgian snuffbox, and it had cost a whole pound.

  The fortunate Lettice always accompanied her parents when they went to London for the three weeks before Christmas. If only, thought Phyllis, she mi
ght have gone too, for just long enough to do her shopping at Harrods; delectable Harrods with its moving staircase, the ornate plaster work on walls and ceilings, its heavy bosses and curlicues, so reminiscent of iced cakes, almost made her mouth water. And just inside the main entrance, in the Stationery, that exquisite little red-leather covered folding writing-table, equipped with every possible accessory from patent inkstand, pens and sealing wax to perpetual calendar, paper and penknife. What a glorious Christmas present for anybody! But, of course, beyond her wildest dreams. Failing the writing-table, however, what an infinite choice of lesser objects more suited to her purse lay disposed on every side. Instead, she and Hilda had to make do with the village shop, not as yet, but later, renamed the ‘Gifte Shoppe,’ which dealt exclusively in ‘novelties and fancy goods,’ and they would devote a whole afternoon to it, the coachman having to put up at the Vayne Arms. Although their combined expenditure amounted to less than a sovereign, kind Mrs. Turner would give them her undivided attention whilst they pored over her stock-in-trade; china cats with elongated necks, coy shepherds and shepherdesses, ‘trinket’ stands and inkstands which might have been expressly designed to defeat their own ends, being wide at the rim and tiny at the base, satin cushions and nightdress cases painted with flowers, small trumpet-shaped silver vases at the very sight of which any flower might be expected to wither and die—such was the composition of the supply base from which Christmas after Christmas the two youngest Vaynes had to make their selections.

  Hilda was having tea at the vicarage this evening, a rather rare invitation which for some reason had not been extended to her younger sister. A better mixer than Phyllis, Hilda was a great favourite at the mothers’ meeting, which held weekly sessions throughout the autumn and winter. Lettice had lately emancipated herself from attendance at these meetings, but Lady Vayne, quite determined not to suffer alone, always insisted on one or both of her younger daughters accompanying her. For Phyllis it was certainly an ordeal, especially on a fine afternoon when she might have been on the moors or golf course. The only advantage was that it meant rather less time at afternoon lessons. It was not permissible to knit things like silk ties at the meeting—only woollen garments, socks or scarves known as ‘comforters’ were allowed. They met in the upper room of a disused public house on the outskirts of the village, perched at the top of so steep a hill that they had to get out of the carriage and walk up the last stretch of the lane. Invariably they were met at the summit by old Mrs. Swindells, the mother-in-chief, ceaselessly plying her steel knitting needles even as she came to greet them. In appearance she was the stock witch of Grimm’s fairy stories—every feature perfect—mournful heavy-lidded eyes gazing fixedly from under a deeply corrugated brow, great curved nose almost meeting the sharp, jutting chin, and in between the sunken crescent of a mouth, devoid of even a single tooth. Only the high-crowned hat was replaced by a large black bonnet, and her expression was lugubrious rather than wicked.

  She seemed to draw her soul’s sustenance from receiving and transmitting bad news:

  “Mrs. Gee’s ’ad another narsty fall. Broke ’er leg. Doctor says she won’t never wark agen.

  “It’s a pity about Mr. Jackson. ’Aven’t you ’eard? ’E died larst night!

  “It was ’is broother as ’oong ’imself in bedroom, soomer before larst. Wife’s bin in asylum ever since.”

  Phyllis’s spirits would sink lower and lower as she and Hilda followed their mother and Mrs. Swindells out of the fresh air into the dark building, up the narrow stairs and into the stuffy room with the large coal fire in the hob grate and every window closed. There would be a scraping of chairs as the gathering of middle-aged and elderly women (there was hardly ever a young face to be seen) rose respectfully at Lady Vayne’s entrance. She and her daughters had to sit at a small table facing the gathering, with their backs to the large fire. The proceedings began with a chapter from some suitable book, possibly one of Mrs. Humphry Ward’s—and this was the time when the knitting for the charitable society was done. After about twenty minutes the book was abandoned and hymns chosen by the mothers from the Moody and Sankey collection would be sung, Lady Vayne playing the accompaniment on a cracked piano. Almost always the hymns included ‘Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.’

  After that there would be a chapter from the Bible and then roll-call: “Martha Whittaker?” “Yes, m’lady.” “Elizabeth Gaskell?” “Yes, m’lady.” “Ellen Row-bottom?” “Yes, m’lady.” “Mary Wild?” “Not here, m’lady.”

  Phyllis always hoped the owner of this name would be present. It seemed to hold out promise of somebody young and interesting—but never once did Mary Wild put in an appearance. After roll-call the meeting broke up.

  Phyllis knew she was not a success with the mothers who, of course, guessed she was an unwilling participant. “Ah, I like Miss ’ilda!” said one matron looking pointedly at Phyllis, who with difficulty could complete only two woollen comforters in the season, whilst Hilda’s pile of assorted garments would have done credit to a much older person. Yet they themselves seemed to be in two minds as to the undiluted pleasure of the meetings, for once when Lady Vayne was apologising for not being able to come the following week, “Beg pardon, m’lady,” said one of them, “but next week’s Wakes week—and we always have a holiday in Wakes week.”

  When ready for tea, Phyllis passed into the adjoining schoolroom, where she found both her German governess and tea waiting.

  Fräulein Thur, who only left her pupils during the summer holidays, was rather remarkable in that she spoke German, French and English almost equally well. Rigidly conscientious, she never allowed a word of English to pass between her and her pupils except during the Christmas holidays or when visitors were present. She and Phyllis spent most of their time together and on the whole got on well, for Fräulein Thur (in spite of her protests she was always called ‘Fräulein’) had a kind heart. She was rather elderly and summer or winter never wore anything but black. Above her broad Dutch doll’s face her greying hair was arranged in two conical puffs rising like twin volcanoes from a centre parting.

  “Liebes kind, where have you been since you left me?” she asked. “I saw your father in the garden; he was looking for you to go with him to feed the ducks.”

  Sir Thomas had an almost passionate love for birds. Rare and decorative waterfowl, teal, widgeon, pintail and gorgeous mandarins graced the ornamental lake which bounded the lawn and sometimes nested on its banks. Demoiselle and crested cranes from South America and gold and silver pheasants haunted the glades of the wood and water-garden, and a peculiar species of ostrich, a rather bad-tempered pair, stalked the lime avenue at the back of the house. The climate was too severe to allow many of these creatures to breed; but if any of them ever did produce offspring there was great rejoicing, and corresponding black gloom if they did not survive. Phyllis thought secretly that her father’s love of birds was the real reason why he never now made one of the guns at a shoot. Rather ironically, though born to great possessions, he was a man of simple tastes and unconventional ideas, for whom life in the grand manner had no appeal. He carried his dislike of any kind of display or vulgarity to such lengths that his wife once said of him that he would be content to dress in rags if it would not make him too conspicuous. More far-seeing than many, he often said places like Vyne were an incubus and to live in them a mistake. Life in a villa by the sea would be infinitely preferable, and in fact he predicted most of them would so be living before they were much older. To Lettice, who in London was not allowed out walking unaccompanied, he had said: “You ought to be going about in buses alone.” He much preferred parlourmaids to ‘great stupid louts of footmen’ and would have liked to introduce them at Vyne.

  But Lady Vayne did not share these views. She was quite determined that neither should Lettice frequent buses with or without her maid, nor parlourmaids be seen whisking their streamers and aprons about the stately rooms of Vyne. She had no yearnings for villa life whether by the sea
or elsewhere. Vyne was what she wanted and she loved it with a wholehearted, almost passionate devotion, later to find expression in a real labour of love—a history of the house and family from its foundation. Compiled from a mass of ancient documents (her own discovery) this work was to receive recognition as a valuable contribution to the history of English country life.

  Phyllis, who felt just the same as her mother about their home, was sometimes troubled by a question she longed to put but was doubtful if anybody knew the answer. Hilda was the only person she had approached on the subject, and she had frankly confessed herself unable to make a pronouncement.

  The question was: when, as she hoped, one at last reached heaven, would one find Vyne there? She had no doubt whatever of what her mother would reply—it would be yes—most decidedly; in fact, Phyllis knew that for her mother heaven was unimaginable without Vyne. But did her mother really know? Fräulein she also had no doubt would reply differently. Life in heaven would far transcend any earthly form of happiness, but if it were possible on that plane to experience pleasure in things and places as on earth, then they would be more like the things and places in Germany. Canon Waldegrave, their parish priest, Phyllis felt ought to know, but she was far too shy to ask him, so the question remained unanswered.

  Fräulein Thur understood her small pupil better than anyone else. She knew her weaknesses and her good points. Like all her family she was shy and reserved but in addition selfconscious and rather vain—anxious to excel but at the same time both lazy and diffident: good-hearted and generous in some things, tiresomely self-assertive and too easily roused to anger in others. She had the excuse of extreme youth. There were, however, as with all human relationships, things both good and bad in Phyllis of which her governess knew nothing.