Laughing House by Warwick Deeping (grave mercy .txt) 📕

But when the man saw Peter and his crutches his face seemed to go soft. He opened the car door.

“Can I help, sir?”

“Thanks. If you will hold my crutches I can slide in.”

The policeman held the crutches while I steadied Peter. The crutches were passed in, also the bag, and the door closed. I went round to the off side, and slipped into my seat. The policeman saluted us. He was more man than official, and I raised my hat to him.

There was silence between us. I had to attend to the incredible carelessness of a crowd that had claimed the road as theirs, and Peter was looking at England. I glanced once or twice at his face. He was thinner, older, less of the lad, and in losing that limb he had lost intangible things. Not till we reached the open country did we begin to talk. I wanted to ask him about that leg of his, how it was that he was still on crutches, and yet I don’t know how I got the impression that his lost limb was the one thing he did not want to talk about.

“Seen Sybil?”

Of course he had seen Sybil, and I gathered that Sybil was more than crutches to him. His face had come more alive, and his glances were quick and eager as he looked at England in June.

“It’s so green, Uncle, incredibly green.”

We passed through Framley and the cricket pitch on the green, protected by white posts and chains, had been mown. His eyes observed it.

“Cricket. That’s strange, somehow. I wonder—”

“Yes, you will,” said I.

He gave me a quick glance.

“Yes, that’s the idea. My old stump has been playing tricks. Too green as yet for Auntie.”

“Auntie?”

“That’s what I’m going to call my Bader leg. What a lad!”

“Yes, what a lad! And I like an old fool wondered if—”

“You didn’t really, being you.”

“Thanks, my lad. I think I needed a war-cure, and I have had it.”

Ellen had tea for us in the garden, but I had a dreadful omission to make good. I got Peter into a long chair, and carried his bag indoors, and sought out Ellen.

“Oh Ellen, we’ll have to rig up a bed downstairs. Mr. Nash is on crutches. Those stairs.”

Ellen was the instant mother. Thank God for such women. Well, she could manage. We could turn the small parlour into a bedroom. Mrs. Potter happened to be in the kitchen. They would manage. I was told to go out and have my tea, and to leave domestic details to the women.

“I can manage, sir.”

“You always do, Ellen. God bless you.”

As I filled Peter’s cup I must have had the feeling of being observed, for I glanced at Peter and found his eyes fixed upon me rather like the eyes of an interested child. Nor did he show any self-consciousness, or glance elsewhere, and I smiled at him.

“Taking stock of the old fellow?”

His eyes remained serious.

“You look younger, Uncle-”

I passed him his cup and a dish of scones, and as I filled my own cup I had one of those moments of illumination which come to one in a flash.

“Curious you should say that. Fact is, I have shed certain obsessions*”

“I’m not being cheeky.”

“-No, just vetting the old fellow, eh? I’m no longer the correct fogey who used a walking-stick and wore his clothes just so, and was a kind of cultured potterer. All that is past and done with. I am living the life of a labouring man, and earning my appetite.”

He smiled at me suddenly.

“And liking it.”

“Yes, I think I am.” ,

“Hats off to you, Uncle. You can’t be an antique if you can adapt like that.”

I laughed. Peter was doing me good.

He was enjoying a slice of one of Ellen’s cakes when he asked me that question.

“Are we still with you?”

“You mean the Army?”

He nodded.

“How’s the old house?”

“Rather sorrowful,” said I, “rather finished.”

IX

I HAD jobs to do on the farm, and I took Peter with me in the car. One had a good view of the old house from Lower Mead where the crops were showing promise, and when I had parked the car by the main shed and helped Peter out, he stood poised on his crutches and looked long and steadfastly across the bank of rhododendrons and the pool at the poor old place. For lorn it was, and I seemed to read compassion upon his grave young face.

“God, what a mess!”

I stood by him, holding a bucket of chicken feed.

“Yes, I call it Sad House.”

He was frowning.

“That shouldn’t be. I always had a feeling—”

“Of what?”

“That it had a kind of happy richness of its own, association, and all that.”

“It had.”

“Well, when the war is over you will be able to—”

I was silent, and he looked at me questioningly.

“You will be able to, won’t you?”

“No,” said I, “I shall have to sell.”

“Sell?”

“Yes. Finance. I shan’t be able to afford to live there.”

He looked shocked, and I left him poised there and went off with my bucket to feed the fowls. There is something consoling in scattering grain to live creatures, and the way they gather round your feet. There was one particularly greedy hen which would try and fly up on to the bucket. They made contented conversation while they pecked up the corn and scratched. I was absorbed in the job, and when I had fed my flock and taken a look at the drinking fountains and collected eggs I found that Peter had gone. And then I saw him, swinging up the valley field on his crutches towards Beechhanger Wood.

I packed the eggs away into boxes, locked up the bins, for grain and meal can be too persuasive even to the best of men, and shut up the sheds. There seemed more noise than usual across the way, a burble of crude voices. A lorry came rumbling up the road, and there was a scrambling rush and loud cheering. Some of the lads began to sing “Roll Out The Barrel.” So that was it. Baron Bung was paying a visit to the house.

My mood was to get away from those animal voices, and the exultations of the thirsty, and I took to the road and entered the wood by the old trackway. It was profoundly still and restful here, and I made my way between the trees towards the summit and the evening sunlight, so it happened that I came upon Peter like some woodland ghost, and he neither saw nor heard me. He was leaning forward, his crutches laid beside him, and so still and intent was he that I paused and watched him. Here was young England looking down upon the new world as it was symbolized by my poor shabby old house. Did he feel as I did about it? How could he? That which was precious and poignant to me could be no more than progress to him.

I made a move and trod upon a dead twig, and the sound startled him. His brown body turned on its hips, while his hands pressing upon the earth gave him support and balance. I saw his profile, sharp and clear. He was head up, like youth suddenly inspired and laughing.

“Uncle—!”

“I’m afraid I have sneaked in upon meditation.”

“Oh, I’ve got an idea, a great idea.”

He was a little flushed, and his eyes were alive. I sat down beside him, unsuspectingly.

“Is it for publication?”

He appeared to hesitate.

“Well, yes. To you in particular. But you may want to snub me.”

“Let us have the great idea.”

“Why shouldn’t you run the house as a country club and hotel?”

Good God, the old house an hotel, full of noise and of strange faces! All my memories somehow commercialized, and the house touting for custom? My face must have given me away, for he was quick to humour me.

“Sorry, Uncle. It was just an idea. You see, if you can’t afford to stay on—”

He was so gentle with me, and so sensitive about it, that I could not feel peeved.

“That’s all right, Peter. New ideas like the new world, can be a bit boisterous.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. You were trying adaptations, and for my benefit. I am not quite a stick-in-the-mud. Go on. Sketch out the idea.”

He was silent for some moments, hands interlocked, eyes gazing steadily at the house down yonder.

“I seem to have come back rather raw, Uncle.”

“Raw?”

“Well, let’s call it sensitive to impressions. I suppose that when you come back to a country after going through hell, you may be quicker to feel and see changes.”

I nodded.

“You see more than the folk who have been part and parcel of the transformation scene?”

“Yes. They say the young don’t feel and divine things, but they do. Am I boring you?”

“My dear lad, hardly so. Go on.”

“Well, what struck me was how damned tired this country is. People look bleached. There’s more patient apathy than bad temper. Everybody hard put to it yet carrying on. Old people left in the lurch. No help. Damned dull food, and not much future.”

I looked at him, but his eyes were on the English scene, and he spoke from within.

“That is what has come to me.”

“And you are thinking of what comes afterwards?”

“Yes, because I am part of the afterwards, and perhaps that makes the problem more hurting.”

Even as he spoke that tender stump of his must have pained him, for I saw him wince, and put a hand to the pinned-up trouser-leg.

“Just a reminder, Uncle. Like a kick in the pants.”

He smiled wryly, and suddenly I was moved to feel and to understand that which was in him, and to salute it. Suffering can quicken the insight of the spirit. His pain could be a purge to my crusty egoism, and make prejudice, and pride of possession appear inhuman.

“Go on, Peter. I’m more than interested. What follows?”

“That’s what I’m trying to get at. Ideas sometimes come through talking. Just look down there. Isn’t it lovely, in spite of everything. It ought to go on, but maybe it might go on differently.”

Suddenly I seemed to catch the idea toward which he was groping.

“Wait a moment, Peter. As you say life is going to hurt; it’s going to be hard. Tired people; people without homes or help. What you are thinking of is—”

He turned to me quickly.

“You’ve got it. What a job for a lovely old house to do. Give rest and peace and beauty even for a week or two. Yes, smooth out crumpled souls.”

I looked into his young, bright eyes.

“My lad, you make me feel ashamed.”

“Oh, no, Uncle. I’m only—”

“Painting a picture? Well, I’m not so sure—your picture, isn’t it.”

His face lit up.

“What a sport you are. You see, if—”

I looked down at the house, and I seemed to see it as he saw it, not as a possession, but as opportunity.

“Let me think a moment. Twenty or so bedrooms. What an accusation! And what a devil of a job!”

“Uncle, I believe you are smitten.”

“Wait a bit; I’m getting ideas too. I know damn all about running an hotel.”

And suddenly he laughed.

“I do. But I wasn’t playing puss-cat. No ulterior motive.”

I looked him straight in the face.

“I believe you. And supposing—?”

“What, Uncle?”

“We went into partnership?”

“Gosh! Do you really mean—?”

“It’s an idea, my lad. But would the job give you enough scope?”

He put