Clear and cold: Frost already sparkled on the grass when Jack and Daisy set off in the Triumph. He’d offered to take everyone in the family Crossley, but the other three elected to walk down the footpath to the village. Adelaide showed no disposition to want to join them. She was busy describing some frightfully clever exploit of her boys to their admiring grandparents.
Though the moonlight was beautiful, the chilly air nipping at Daisy’s ears almost made her wish she had asked Jack to put up the hood. She pulled her hat down and tucked in the motoring rug he had thoughtfully provided.
Her mind full of questions, she racked her brains for something to say which would appear neither nosy nor critical of his family or friend. She was about to enquire what part, if any, he was going to play in the fireworks display tomorrow, when he said abruptly, “I say, do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Ask away. I won’t promise to answer.”
“No, of course not, if she told you in confidence . . . . The thing is, it’s what my father said, about Gwen and Miller. You heard, didn’t you? I just . . . I can’t imagine . . . I mean, he’s quite old!”
“Gwen’s my age. We’re no longer spring chickens, alas. I dare say you still think of her as your big sister. Well, in a way she still is, but you’re an adult yourself now.”
“She’s always been my favourite sister. She’s nearest to me in age, though she’s six years older. I’m twenty-one, so she’s . . .”
“Don’t say it!” Daisy laughed. “We ladies of a certain age prefer not to examine that particular number.”
“So I suppose Miller isn’t really too old for her, is he? Only, I haven’t seen any sign that they . . . care for each other particularly. Not that I’d mind if she married him. He’s a jolly good fellow, absolutely brilliant, and what does it matter if he’s not a gentleman? I mean, all that tommyrot is frightfully old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
“Rather. My husband’s father was a bank manager.”
“No, really? And your father was a viscount. It just goes to show!”
“But you can’t expect your parents to see it that way. Parents do tend to be antediluvian.”
“I suppose so,” Jack said disconsolately. “It’s just that Father thinking there’s something between them, even if there’s not, gives him one more reason to object to Miller. It’s all my fault.”
“What, exactly?”
“If I’d only broken it to him gradually! You see, he sent me to Cambridge to make the right sort of friends, punt on the Cam and row in the Mays, and generally kick up a lark. I should have told him when I first got interested in engineering.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I funked it. I knew he’d be angry. I mean, he’s always been jolly good to me, and let me do pretty much what I wanted, but I’d never before wanted most frightfully to do something I knew he’d strongly disapprove of. I suppose I thought, too, that perhaps I’d find I wasn’t so keen after all, and then he need never know I was buckling down to my books instead of boating on the river and developing a taste for fine old port.”
“When did you decide engineering was
it
for you?”
“I was pretty sure last summer, summer 1923, that is, and quite sure by the end of the Michaelmas term. I couldn’t decide which branch I wanted to go into— hadn’t even considered aeronautical— till Miller came to talk to us. Then he showed me around the factory.”
“Gwen said Mr. Miller came here last spring. Is that when you told your father? He’s surely had time to get over the shock!”
“No, I asked Miller not to say any more than that he’d taken me up in a ’ plane. I was afraid Father might refuse to let me go back for the Easter term, my last term. There was nothing definite at that point anyway. They couldn’t give me a job till they saw how I did in the Tripos. They only take the top people, you know. There’s no room for mistakes with an aeroplane.”
“Gosh no!”
“Well, I didn’t do too badly,” Jack said modestly as they passed the gatehouse, now with lights in the upstairs windows. He swung the little car around the sharp bend into the lane with a verve that made Daisy clutch her seat. “They offered me a job. Since I wasn’t desperate to start earning a living, Miller suggested I should take the summer off before I started, and read all the latest stuff on aeronautics.”
“Summer’s long past,” Daisy pointed out.
They entered the village. Jack turned right into the main street and came to a halt in front of a many-gabled building of the inevitable Cotswold stone. The moon, a lantern, and the Triumph’s headlamps illuminated the inn sign: three ravens perching on the body of a fallen knight in armour.
“What a grim sign!”
“‘ “And I’ll pick out his bonny blue e’en,” ’” Jack quoted, grinning.
“‘Many a one for him makes moan . . .’ ” She didn’t attempt a Scots accent. “‘But none shall ken where he is gone. O’er his white bones when they are bare, the wind shall blow for evermair.’ But that’s the ‘ Twa Corbies’—
two
ravens. ‘ The Three Ravens’ is ‘ God send every gentleman such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.’
The hounds and hawks and his lady keep the ravens away.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge.”
“Well, they didn’t teach us any science at school, and not much arithmetic, but we did learn our literature.”
“Don’t tell Dawson, the landlord. He’s dashed proud of that sign. I’ll tell you what: If you don’t mind sitting here for a minute, I’ll pop in and see if the others are here yet. You won’t want to be the only lady present.”
Daisy wasn’t so sure of that. In spite of coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and a motoring rug, she was cold. But no doubt all sorts of rumours and speculation would go around the village if she walked in, pregnant, alone with Jack. She said, “Yes, do,” and tucked the rug tighter around her legs.
They had arrived just too soon for her to find out when and how Jack had broken the news of his grand ambition to his parents. On the other hand, she hadn’t been forced to deny or acknowledge any attraction between Gwen and Miller. In any case, she knew only one side of that aspect of the story.
Before Jack returned, she heard the other three approaching. Miller and Babs were discussing farm machinery. Glancing back, Daisy thought she saw Gwen holding hands with Miller, but away from the inn’s lantern the deceptive moonlight made it hard to be sure. Jack came out just then and hailed the walkers, and when they reached the car, Gwen and Miller were a good yard apart.
Three boys came up to them, pulling a handcart containing a bundle of old clothes vaguely human in shape.
“Penny for the guy!” they chanted. “Penny for the guy!”
Jack and Miller delved into their pockets for change and dropped a few coins into the outstretched cap. The boys, apparently impervi- ous to cold, settled on the pavement near the door of the pub, waiting for customers to come out.
“Don’t you lay a finger on the car, or I’ll skin you alive,” Jack threatened.
Notably, the three glanced at Babs before swearing and crossing their hearts and hoping to die if the car came to any harm at their hands.
“Is that your guy?” Daisy asked Jack as they went in.
“No, they just throw something together as an excuse to beg for money to buy a few fireworks of their own. Ours is a work of art. I should know, I made it this year. Come to think of it, it’s rather a gruesome custom, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jack teased. “As gruesome as the inn sign. Burning an effigy, I mean. And Guy Fawkes wasn’t burnt at the stake anyway, he was hanged.”
T
he pub was snug, with a roaring fire in the hearth and crimson-cushioned oak settles black with age, as were the ceiling beams and the bar itself, at one end of the long room. The brass handles of the beer pumps gleamed through a haze of pipe smoke.
A dozen men and three dogs turned to stare at the newcomers in their evening frocks and dinner jackets. Daisy wondered if the Ravens really was the sort of pub where the presence of a strange female was acceptable. It was all very well for the Misses Tyndall, daughters of the lord of the manor, to waltz in as if they belonged. In fact, the building might well belong to their father, along with the rest of the village.
The men at the bar looked like local farmworkers and tradesmen, except for one stout fellow in a flashy checked suit, a commercial traveller perhaps. The checks reminded Daisy of Alec’s detective sergeant, Tom Tring, who was wont to say villains were so stunned by his suits that they didn’t notice who was wearing them until too late, when he collared them. Maybe the traveller’s clothes had the same effect on his customers— they didn’t notice what they were buying until they’d signed for it.
In the moment taken by this reflection, most of the men had turned back to their beer and chat, and the dogs to their patient waiting for their masters.
A couple of prosperous-looking farmers in leggings, sitting in a corner, stood up and nodded to Babs as she went to join them.
“Evening, Miss Tyndall,” called out the one with a round red face fringed with white.
“Evening, Miss Tyndall.” The second raised a hand in greeting.
“Evening, Miss Gwen.”
“What will you have, chaps?” Jack asked them jovially. “Just let me get the ladies settled. Come here by the fire, Mrs. Fletcher. You look half-frozen. What will you have?”
“I’ll stick to ginger beer, thanks.” She sat down, and Gwen took the place beside her.
“Half of cider, Gwen? Right-oh. The usual for you, Miller?” Jack went to the bar.
As Miller joined Gwen and Daisy, she saw a middle-aged couple at a table at the far end of the room from the bar. They appeared to be finishing a meal, so perhaps they were staying at the inn. The woman had silver hair piled on top of her head in a loose, untidy bun. Her face was much more youthful— she was in her early forties perhaps, plump and good-humoured. She was beaming across the table at her companion, who had his back to Daisy.
He shook his head. Even from behind, Daisy sensed doubt and worry in the gesture. The woman said something vehement, pleading, and he got up slowly and reluctantly. A short, stocky man, he wore a new-looking blue suit. His face was very brown, except for the upper part of his forehead. He was definitely not happy as he walked towards the bar.
Miller interrupted her thoughts. “We’d like your opinion, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve invited Gwen to go up for a sight-seeing flight, and she can’t make up her mind. Would you— not at present, I imagine, but in the normal way— would you ever consider going up in an aeroplane?”
“Actually, I already have. A year ago, Alec and I flew right across North America, from New York to Oregon, on the West Coast.”
“Daisy, you didn’t!” Gwen gasped. “Was it fun?”
Remembering that cold, cramped, noisy, endless flight and the hair-raising bits when they zigzagged between the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains, Daisy said, “I wouldn’t exactly call it fun, not overall. But the first bit was, and that’s all you’d be doing. I wouldn’t mind flying to Paris in an ‘ air-liner,’ for instance.”
They peppered her with questions, Gwen about her adventures in America, Miller about the type of aeroplane, flying conditions, American airfields, and similar matters. Daisy was laughingly confessing her entire ignorance of the capacity of the fuel tanks when Jack brought their drinks.
“Half of ginger beer, Mrs. Fletcher. Half of cider, Gwen. Pint of the best bitter, Miller.”
“Thanks.”
“I say, Mrs. Fletcher, would it be frightfully rude of me to go and have a few words with those people over there? They’re from Australia. I was talking to the chappie, Gooch, at the bar, and he said his wife’s originally from this part of the world. She’s heard of our Bonfire Night do but never attended and wanted to know if we’d mind their coming along with the village people. I just want to go and assure Mrs. Gooch that will be quite all right.”
“Why don’t you ask them to join us?” Daisy suggested. “We— you, rather— could pull up a couple more chairs.”
“They’re not what he calls ‘ flash,’ which I take to mean gentry,” Jack warned.
“Jack, how can you say such a thing?” Gwen demanded.
Her brother glanced at Miller and flushed. “Sorry, old chap. The thing is, I forget.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Miller said dryly.
“Ask them over,” Daisy urged. “I’ve never met any Australians, and all is grist to my journalistic mill, you know. Presumably they’re not from the absolute dregs of society or they couldn’t have afforded the passage to England. They look perfectly respectable.”
So Miller brought two more chairs to the table while Jack fetched the Gooches. Mrs. Gooch was sensibly dressed in a grey woollen frock— merino, thought Daisy, with vague memories of geography lessons— but adorned with a big chunky gold brooch set with a huge blue-green opal. She appeared to be in quite a flutter, somewhere between nervous and jubilant, more so than the situation warranted.
Jack introduced the couple and seated Mrs. Gooch with all the courtesy of a well-brought-up young man. He sat down beside her and asked whereabouts in the district she came from.
“Evesham,” she said. “You’ve lived all your life here, haven’t you, just up the hill? Did you go away to school?” Her voice, tentative at first, mixed the soft, familiar cadence of Worcestershire and the sharper tones of Australian English.
Mr. Gooch spoke broad Australian. He was sitting opposite Daisy, so she found herself involved in the conversation between him and Miller. The Gooches now lived in Perth, in Western Australia, he told them. He had gone west from Victoria in ’ 92 when the gold was found at Coolgardie, and set up in business in the outback supplying miners with everything they needed.
“Started out with billies and boots and beer. A lot of them wanted to pay with gold, so I told ’ em good-oh and got into the gold business.”
“‘ Billies’?” Daisy asked.
“What you might call a kettle, ma’am, or a teapot, but it’s just a big tin can. Out in the bush, you boil water over a fire and drop in a handful of tea leaves, to wash down the damper and ’ roo steak. And I sold ’ em the flour for the damper and the knives to cut the steaks.”
“How on earth did you come to meet Mrs. Gooch, out in the wilds?” Miller wanted to know. It seemed as unlikely as his own meeting with Gwen.
“Ellie came out west the year after they put the water pipeline in, in ’ 04, with a bit of a stake, looking to buy into a business. She wasn’t hardly more than a girl, but she’s a bonzer businesswoman, my El-lie,” Gooch said with pride and a fond glance at his wife. “She reckoned there was more opportunity in the west and she turned up just when I was looking for a bit of capital to expand. But Coolgardie ain’t bush, or the wilds, as you said. She’s a beaut town and only around three hundred and fifty miles from Perth.”
“Three hundred and fifty miles!” Miller echoed. “They’re both in Western Australia?”
“That’s nothing. From Coolgardie east to the South Orstrilia border is another five hundred miles or so, and north to south, she’s about twice the width. Course, half is desert, but that still leaves a lot of outback to get around in.”
“It sounds as if you’re ripe for air travel.”
“Too right. Fellow started a regular service up in the Kimberley in ’ 21 and extended it to Perth just this year.”
The men started discussing the future of aviation in Western Australia. Turning to the other end of the table, Daisy saw that Gwen was listening to Miller with a look of fond pride, very like Gooch’s for his wife. Jack and Mrs. Gooch were getting on like a house on fire. It sounded as if Jack was telling her the story of his life. Daisy thought hers must be much more interesting, but she was listening with apparent fascination to his tales of university life.
Babs, her business completed, came over and was introduced. As soon as she found the Gooches were not involved in farming, she lost interest. “Time we were heading home,” she proposed.
“Not yet,” Jack objected, pulling up another chair. “Have a seat, Babs.”
“I’d rather—”
“I’ll run you all home later, so you don’t have to walk up the hill.
We can all squeeze into the old bus.”
“I really don’t—”
“No need to squeeze,” said Mrs. Gooch. “We’ve got a hire car, a big Vauxhall. Jimmy’ll take you, won’t you, Jimmy?”
“Or’right, Ellie.” Gooch sounded resigned. “Let’s have another round, my shout. What’s yours, Miss Tyndall?”
Babs gave in and settled for a bottle of pale ale. Daisy refused another drink, as she hadn’t finished her first. She was making it last, having no desire to have to go in search of what was almost certainly an outside lav, frequented by pub patrons, in the dark.
Polite if indifferent, Babs asked what the Gooches had seen on their visit to England. Since landing at Southampton, they had spent a fortnight in London. In the ensuing discussion of the sights of London, Mr. Gooch stoutly upheld the superiority of Perth on every count save that of antiquity.
“Which I don’t call such an advantage,” he pointed out, “when it means you got a whole lot of crook buildings, dirty, cramped cubbyholes that ought to be pulled down.”
The landlord called for last orders. As they finished their drinks and got up to leave, Mrs. Gooch said eagerly, “Is it really all right for me and Jimmy to go to the fireworks?”
“Of course,” Gwen assured her. “People come from the farms roundabout, as well as the villagers.”
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Jack said. “Why don’t you both come up to the house? Even with the bonfire, you’ll freeze down in the meadow, coming from a warm part of the world such as Mr. Gooch assures us Perth is. A couple more won’t throw off your housekeeping, will it, Gwen? It’s a buffet supper.”
Gwen and Babs exchanged a glance of dismay, but Gwen said, “Of course not. There’s always plenty.”
“Well, it’s mighty kind of you,” said Mr. Gooch, “but we wouldn’t want to intrude amongst the flash society folks, would we, Ellie?”
“Oh, Jimmy, do let’s go!” Mrs. Gooch’s lips quivered. “Just for once. What harm can there be?”
The Tyndalls were far too well brought up to rescind an invitation once given.
“You needn’t worry about evening dress,” said Gwen. “People wear their warmest because we watch from the terrace.”
Under their reassurances, Mr. Gooch capitulated. “Good-oh,” he said. “Or’right, I’m off to bring the car round to the door for them that’s in need of a lift. Won’t take two ticks. Starts like a dream, that car.” He went out.
It was decided that the ladies would take advantage of the comfort of the Vauxhall while Jack drove Miller in the Triumph. They all took their leave of Mrs. Gooch, Jack with especial warmth, as if to banish any suspicion that the Gooches might not be entirely welcome at Edge Manor. She went upstairs, smiling.
Daisy, Miller, and the Tyndalls stepped out into the street.
“Jack, how could you!” Babs exclaimed. “Father will be furious.
If you want his blessing to go off and build aeroplanes, inviting a couple he’ll strongly object to isn’t the way to go about it. And tomorrow, of all times, when the cream of two counties will be there to meet them!”
As the Vauxhall touring car pulled up before them, Jack said with youthful exuberance, “Don’t worry, Babs, we won’t tell the parents they’re coming, and we’ll keep them apart. Wait and see, it’ll be all right on the night.”
Having been advised that Lady Tyndall always had breakfast in bed, Daisy decided to follow suit the next morning. When she got up, the sun shone in a pale blue sky without a hint of a cloud. From her bedroom window, she saw three men and two small boys down on the lowest terrace of the gardens.
Several more figures moved about in the meadow beyond, where the bonfire had visibly grown. From their motions, she guessed they were pitchforking faggots on top of the heap.
She put her notebook and a couple of pencils in her handbag and went downstairs. In the hall, servants scurried about, dusting and sweeping in last-minute preparations for the party.
“Do you know where Miss Gwendolyn is?” Daisy asked a housemaid wielding a feather duster.
“In the kitchen, I think, ma’am. Down the passage there, ma’am.”
She pointed to a door to the right of the fireplace. “Just across from the dining room.”
An unusually sensible arrangement, Daisy thought, recollecting mansions where the kitchens were separated from the dining room by miles of draughty corridors. Edge Manor, long and narrow, was bisected by a single passageway, its only natural light a large fanlight above the door.
Stepping through, Daisy recognized from a previous visit the dingy watercolours of local landscapes, painted by some long-ago lady of the family. The passage was used mostly by servants and seldom by guests.
To her left were the doors to the drawing room and dining room, and at the end, if she remembered correctly, one to the combined smoking/billiard/gun room, whence a staircase led to Sir Harold’s den. To her right, a row of baize doors gave access to the usual of-fices: the butler’s pantry (where Jennings must be polishing his silver— or snoozing), the housekeeper’s room, the servants’ hall, kitchens, sculleries, larders, broom cupboards, back stairs and cellar stairs, and so on.
In fact, she was faced with a positive plethora of baize doors, none exactly opposite the dining room door. She was trying to decide between the two nearest when Gwen came out of one, looking harried.
“Oh, Daisy, were you looking for me? I’m so sorry! I’m being a rotten hostess this morning. The thing is, the aspic didn’t set and the mayonnaise curdled and Cook panicked. She just needed soothing. Everything’s under control now. Mother’s doing the flowers.”