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

>“Well, they can’t say no for ever, though it does so delight the little people to say no.”

“Quite so. About their only way of feeling big. But if as at present no one is allowed to build a private house costing, more than twelve hundred or so? Mind you, I think-that is fair, considering the house short age.”

Peter grinned at me.

“True blue Tory and gentleman, Uncle. But, maybe, there will be such a goddam mess, that the whole show will blow up and settle back to dust and reality.”

“I thought that the Socialists were the realists.”

“Far too real to be real. Casual man may get fighting drunk, and bash in the faces of the pundits and the planners.”

We were to be presented with an extraordinary situation.

Peter brought a letter to me one morning, and when I had read the signature I nearly dropped my breeches. As a matter of fact they were minus two buttons, and I was about to appeal to Sybil.

“Caradoc Griffiths! It can’t be the—”

“Why not, Uncle? He asks for a private bathroom,”

“That can’t be the great man.”

“How simple of you, sir. The ‘Great’ deserve and demand private bathrooms.”

So, that Celtic Paragon and Protector of the Poor came to us, plus wife and car. He was a large, swarthy, unbuttoned sort of man with a woof of black hair and an incipient tummy, the kind of man whose tie flops out. His face was a genial crumple of good humour; he had a large laugh like himself, and a voice that boomed, for at the moment all the world was his platform. His wife was a bright little blonde, and very much the lady.

The Caradoc Griffiths’ had our best bedroom, and the key of a bathroom. It so happened that I was playing butler-waiter that evening, for Marie was out, and Jean had a headache. Mr. Griffiths plus wife walked into the room as though making a state entry, and he walked in in front of his wife. We had reserved them a table by a window, and bowed them into it. I was wearing a white linen jacket.

They sat down, and Mr. Caradoc Griffiths gave me a broad and half quizzical smile.

“Have you such a thing as a wine list?”

“We have, sir. I am afraid wine is rather—”

“Oh, quite so,” said he, “old wine in an old house, Sir John. Very gallant of you.”

So, he had spotted me, and was amused, and for a moment I wondered whether his grin was an “Up with us, and Down with the Rich” gloating. As a matter of fact it wasn’t, as I realized later. I found him the wine list, a very simple brochure, and he studied it.

Now, we had a little Chambertin left, and some Nuits St. George, which I confess I had put in the list to create atmosphere. We had not sold a bottle in six months, for the price was beyond the purses of our people. Sybil and I were carrying round plates of soup, and when I placed the plates on the Caradoc table he addressed me.

“I see you’ve got Chambertin.”

“Yes, a little.”

“I’ll have a bottle.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like it warmed?”

“Just take the chill off.”

So, this Pea Green Incorruptible had chosen Chambertin at three pounds a bottle! The House chuckled.

I will admit that I had been prejudiced against Mr. Caradoc Griffiths both as a politician and a person who had posed in public, but his choice of Chambertin gave me a shock, as did the obvious appreciation he displayed in his savouring and sipping of this lovely wine. If the fellow could appreciate prime Burgundy he could claim some comradeship with the Cote-d’or. In fact, I got to like the man, in spite of his politics. He was a large and human creature, with a jocund sense of humour and he was helpful. He actually turned to once or twice to give a hand with the washing-up, and was nimble with his big fingers, and he laughed and let off quips. What is more he came down and volunteered to help with the potato crop, and he was lusty and capable.

“A fork instead of a pick, Sir John.”

“You used to be—”

“Yes, a miner. Sweat and coal-dust and reality.”

Yes, I got to like the man, and we became quite pally, and I had Peter in the background, licking his lips, and fidgeting.

“You know what he is, Uncle?”

Of course I knew. With one gesture, if he cared to make it, Mr. Caradoc Griffiths could give us the earth.

But I was feeling that the man had integrity, and that though he sometimes talked popular and passionate tosh, or what might seem tosh to us, he had a human light in his lantern. He really did believe in a braver new world. Moreover, he had colour, something big and almost Shakespearian about him, and more surprising still he could play the piano and play it well in a rather Wagnerian fashion. He borrowed books from my library, and they were books after my own heart.

I was picking apples one afternoon, Worcester Pearmains, and he joined me, and his reach was useful. Also, I saw that he had some knowledge of the job and a conscience, for he placed the apples gently in the bushel basket.

“May I ask you a question, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“I suppose you call yourself a Tory?”

We grinned at each other.

“Well—a somewhat developed Tory.”

“In fact, a bottle of Chambertin.”

I put two apples in the basket.

“From that I might infer—”

“Mutual appreciation. Yes. I suppose you thought me a ghastly fellow?”

“I don’t. Prejudice is a base quality, Chambertin makes for mellowness.”

He put a very red apple to his large and human nose, and looked at the valley.

“Men discover things about each other, Sir John. I rather believe that a man’s education should include a month in a coal mine, in a spinning mill, a foundry, on the land in the mucky season, behind a counter, and perhaps in a hospital.”

“I’m afraid my education has been badly neglected.”

“I don’t think so. This is a good human job you are doing. And you are doing it. After all we Labour people are not blind to beauty.”

“Beauty in nature?”

“Yes, and in behaviour.”

I did not tell him of our needs, or of our plans for the future, for that would have been unseemly and an insult to his working conscience, but Sybil, who had become very matey with Mrs. Caradoc, prepared the ground for Peter. I was told all this afterwards. Sybil, having prepared the indirect approach, was followed by her husband, who, with an air of humility, asked for Mr. Griffiths’ advice. Would the enlargement of such a Rest House as ours be regarded with sympathy by the planning authority? Peter had his answer. Most certainly it would, provided that Sir John Mortimer remained in control.

They told me all this afterwards, the young beggars, not with sly laughter, but seriously and appreciatively so.

“We knew you couldn’t and wouldn’t do it, sir, so we sounded the great man.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“He really is big rather like a large and benignant St Bernard dog. And no fool. What do you think he asked me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Whether you had suggested. Well, of course I could tell him you hadn’t.”

“Thank you, my lad.”

“You’ll be amused by what he said.”

“Shall I?”

“He said: ‘Sir John, without realizing it, is one of the most enlightened democrats I have met. We want all men to be gentlemen.’ “

I did not blush.

“Well, that is rather a new point of view. You are a damned young scoundrel, my lad.”

“Oh, no, Uncle, I had a good case.”

I wagged a finger at his wife.

“I jolly well know who started it. Cherchez la femme.”

Sybil came and kissed me.

“You are a lamb.”

XXII

LAUGHING HOUSE!

Yes, it was so. The house had learned to laugh, at life, at me and with me, and at itself.

I could hear it say: “I was a potterer’s house, I was a sad and dirty house, but now I am a working and a laughing house. Yes, sir, and I am going to grow. I am going to be celebrated in a pleasant sort of way. I am going to be full of fun, and voices and laughter.”

Fun and adaptations! Even our two remaining army huts were put to work. One became an additional garage, the other was taught to be a potato and vegetable store and a fruit-grading establishment, and a home for garden oddments. Somewhat to my surprise, and greatly to my relief, our staff continued to be a happy crowd at a time when all the world was in a snarling temper. Our Staff Fund was mounting up. We intended producing complete accounts for the benefit of our workers, with a share-out at Christmas.

And we were booked up for the winter.

I said to Peter: “Are you and Sybil satisfied. I mean is this show going to give you sufficient scope?”

He grinned at me.

“Uncle, we are going to be big. We are going to be the most popular Rest House in Surrey, and a Country Club as well. No, don’t worry; I don’t want a noisy, pinch-my-backside drink centre. Fact is, I’m damned happy here.”

“Well, so am I, my lad. We seem to be slipping into the new world without shedding our pants.”

Yes, the House laughed, and in other ways. We got some funny people, a few, and I must catalogue one specimen. He and his name were incredible but true. Sir George Bounce! Would you believe it! And the name fitted him like a body-belt to support fat.

He bounced. He had a large voice, and swollen man ners. He was civic in the worst sense. He looked rather like a wart-hog, and the staff loathed him. He appeared to have little consideration for those who served. The war and the peace had taught him nothing.

Almost he was musical comedy, and “Punch,” while loving him, might have found him a little too obvious. He sported a dinner-jacket, when we had the moth in ours, and his long lean wife, who was hauteur personified, behaved as though she was crowned with a tiara. I have heard it said that exacting people obtain better service than those who are softer and more sensitive, and Sir George and his wife were exacting enough, but our staff was not accustomed to being hectored, and Sir George’s bounce fell rather flat.

I disliked the fellow. He was rude to me, but that did not matter, but when I happened to hear him being rude to Peter, my dander rose.

“Look here, young man I expect—”

I cut in. I said to him with emphasis:

“Look here, old man, we don’t cater for cads.”

And the curious thing was he went flat as a football whose bladder had burst. I saw Peter’s grin, and I heard the House chuckle.

Sir George and her Ladyship left us next day, and I am sure the House dismissed them with laughter.

It was on one of those November mornings when there has been a night frost, and the air is like iced wine, that I strolled up alone to the high wood. The grass was dew-drenched and still silvered with frost where the sun had not reached it. I sat down on a grey root, with my back to the great beech bole, and looked at the valley and the wooded hills. The oaks were still tawny, and a few beeches thinly brilliant, but most of the trees had gone into winter lace,