Sir Harry Takes A House

23

Sir Harry Takes A House

    As the months went by Sir Harry had become more and more bored—as, it might be remembered, his second son had predicted. Waddington-on-Sea did not offer much in the way of congenial companionship. Miss Calpurnia’s company of course was always delightful, but he could scarce force his company on the girl every waking minute of the day! Sailing trips with Mr Rattle were enjoyable enough and certainly allowed the baronet to see a little of the surrounding district, but of course the old sailor himself, though a shrewd enough fellow, and extremely knowledgeable in a small boat, could not hold what Sir Harry considered a rational conversation. Mrs Lumley was even more lacking in this regard but perhaps fortunately Sir Harry did not require conversation from his landlady. Her food, however, was beginning to pall—the more so as he had become accustomed over the previous fifteen years to the great variety of fruits and vegetables available in Spain. Mrs Lumley did not even offer a green salad unless her lodger thought to ask her in advance to buy something fresh at the market—and Sir Harry, alas, was not used to having to think out his daily menus in advance.

    With the advent of the warmer weather Sir Harry was pretty much ripe for mischief. He did not, however, get into the sort of mischief he had in Spain. What he did do was take a house. Mr Rattle had taken him to Sunny Bay several times, tolerantly pulling in, since his passenger seemed to wish for it, though pointing out there weren’t nothing there and you’d be lucky to net a few shrimps in the bay. Sir Harry was not averse to a few fresh shrimps, but it was Sunny Bay House that had caught his eye. Or rather, since it was quite an ordinary little house, its situation. The bay was delightfully warm and sheltered, the back of the house had a southerly view straight over the gently sloping field to the sea, and it could become a most comfortable dwelling with but a few improvements here and there: a verandah along that south-facing back wall, more doors and windows let into that wall, possibly extend the verandah along the western side of the house and put in a walled garden there… And the stable block was in excellent repair, and quite a decent size. He did not appear in the transaction himself but got Luís’s man of business to handle the thing. Mr Simpson had his office in Brighton but, though quite happy to come over to Waddington-on-Sea to meet with Sir Harry, was a little surprised, though he did know where the baronet was currently living, to realise how small Sunny Bay House was. It belonged to Lord Stamforth but the grazing lands which surrounded it sat awkwardly with the rest of Stamforth Castle’s Home Farm. His Lordship’s agent, therefore, advised Mr Simpson that the lease of the house together with the grounds and accompanying farmlands might be available for a suitable price.

    “Sounds all right,” concluded Sir Harry, rubbing his hands.

    Mr Simpson eyed him cautiously. “Er—yes, sir. I believe that the home farm has not found it precisely economic to put in an extra shepherd just to manage the small flock that the land supports.”

    “Dare say not, no, but then they farm on a considerably larger scale, hey?” he said cheerfully.

    This was certainly correct: Mr Simpson could not but agree.

    “Runtish things, ain’t they? Short faces,” he remarked.

    “Er—the sheep? Er—well, yes, I suppose… Southdowns, sir, I believe. The breed is generally run hereabouts.”

    “Better have ’em, then, hey?” he said genially. “Tell the man we’ll take the lease, then, if he allows us to make what alterations we please to the house, and throws in the sheep.”

    “Very good, Sir Harry.” Mr Simpson was uneasily aware of precisely how much money Mr Ainsley had left at his Papa’s disposal while he was in Spain, and though it was a large sum, it was not enough to take a long lease on a whole farm. He said nothing to the baronet for the nonce, however, but went back to the agent with their offer. The suggestion that the tenant might alter the fabric of the building did not go down at all well and the man declared he would have to consult his Lordship. Mr Simpson, not unused to this sort of move in business, allowed he had best do that and sat back to await developments.

    The developments were not what he expected. The agent appointed another meeting and when Mr Simpson arrived, was not alone: a thin, dark-faced man in his mid-years, dressed in an unremarkable brown coat, breeches and boots was with him. To Mr Simpson’s complete horror this person was introduced as Lord Stamforth.

    “Delighted, your Lordship,” he croaked, bowing until his nose nigh to touched his knee.

    It was apparent to Lewis Vane that the poor fellow was not that. He got him sat down, however, and then said, smiling: “Before we proceed, Mr Simpson, you had best see the map of the estate. –Show it him, if you would, Hollis.”

    Mr Hollis duly unrolled a big map of the Vane estate. Mr Simpson was aware that the Vane lands were considerable, but he swallowed, in spite of himself.

    “This area immediately around the castle, stretching from Underdene village, over to the west nearer the coast, and up to Upperdene, further inland, is our Home Farm,” said Viscount Stamforth. “Longacre Farm, to the east of Underdene, neighbours the Sunny Bay property.”

    “Yes, your Lordship,” he croaked.

    “To the east there are really only the woods: no farmland near the shore except this small pocket around Sunny Bay.”

    That was correct, and so was the fact that to the north the man owned about half of Sussex.

    “The children would never forgive my leasing off our access to the beaches, but as you see, this series of coves, just west of Sunny Bay, is all Vane land. And in fact our boathouse is just here,” he said, putting his finger on the spot.

    “Er—indeed, my Lord. Oh—er, I see: the family does not use Sunny Bay, then?”

    “Very little: the road that winds down to it from the Castle is quite a circuitous route: it follows the lie of the land, you see, and in fact we think it lies upon the course of an old Roman road. The children usually go straight down to the village”—Mr Simpson nodded, he meant Underdene—“and then down this lane, here.”

    “I see, my Lord,” he said, wondering what was coming next.

    What came next was the firm statement that the estate could not possibly consider, if the tenant was to alter the fabric of the building, anything less than a twenty-year lease. And the request, polite but firm, to know precisely who Mr Simpson’s principal was.

    Sir Harry had breezily told Mr Simpson that he’d take the place in the name of Smith. The unfortunate man swallowed. “Er—my principal is a Mr Smith, but, er, will be vouched for by Mr Luís Ainsley, who has lately had the lease of Little Lasset, near Waddington-on-Sea, and by Mr Ainsley of Ainsley Manor in Wiltshire.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Vouched for or guaranteed by?” asked his Lordship calmly.

    Mr Simpson looked at him uneasily but the dark, ugly Vane face was inscrutable. “Well, er, both, my Lord,” he admitted.

    There was another short silence.

    “I cannot imagine,” said his Lordship, the face a perfect blank, “why Sir Harry Ainsley wishes to remain incognito in Sussex: in especial as her Ladyship and I know Mr Luís and Mr Bungo Ainsley quite well. However, that is his own business.”

    Mr Simpson gulped. “Yes, my Lord—I mean, thank you, my Lord! I—I think it’s just the gentleman’s whim!” he gasped.

    “Mm. Mr Hollis was understandably reluctant to ask you this, sir, so I said I would do it for him,” he said, the face as unreadable as ever. “Does Sir Harry in fact have the capital to justify his signing a twenty-year lease?”

    “No, your Lordship,” admitted Mr Simpson glumly.

    There was another silence.

    Lord Stamforth rubbed his chin. “He’s adamant about wishing to alter the house, is he?”

    “Er—yes, my Lord!” he gulped.

    “Mm. In that case I’m afraid I am adamant about the twenty years.”

    “My Lord,” he quavered, “I think Mr Luís Ainsley would be quite happy to take the long lease. The—the house is smaller than what he envisaged but—but if the tenant were allowed to enlarge it…”

    “Mm. Well, in principle I have no objections, but it would have to be Mr Luís who signed the lease, I’m afraid,” he said politely. “But if Sir Harry would care merely to hire the house for the rest of the summer, he is most welcome to it. It is furnished, but very sparsely, I should add.”

    “Thank you, my Lord!” gasped Mr Simpson. “I’ll put it to him, my Lord!”

    “Good.” He then enquired very properly after the Señora Ainsley and, Mr Simpson reporting glumly that the last word they had had from Spain the poor lady was fading fast, gave him a message of polite sympathy and, mercifully, took his leave.

    In his wake Mr Simpson unashamedly mopped his forehead.

    Mr Hollis looked at him with a certain sympathy but murmured: “He’s a very fair man to work for, and the estate’s not looked back since he inherited.”

    “I dessay, Mr Hollis, and I’m sure there’s not a man in the county as’d contradict you on that one, but who walks into an agent’s office and expects to meet one of the greatest landowners in England in person?” retorted Mr Simpson with considerable feeling.

    Mr Hollis’s eyes twinkled a little. “Well, anyone what knew Lord Stamforth, Mr Simpson, only I can’t say as I blame you for the sentiment!”

    Sir Harry agreed with a cheery, dismissive wave of his hand to every word that was then purveyed to him. Poor Mr Simpson looked at him dubiously, not liking to ask the baronet if he’d taken in what he’d said and truly meant to comply with Viscount Stamforth’s requirements. But consoled himself with the reflection that it was he who doled out the money and that there was not enough of it for Sir Harry to do anything really drastic to the house. He then began to make plans for hiring a staff for him, Sir Harry also agreeing cheerily to all of this.

    “Oh—got a head groom and a cook,” he then remembered.

    “I beg your pardon, sir?”

    “They’re up at Ainsley Manor. Forget the groom’s name, actually—Menendez, I think. Or is it Mendoza? No matter. Luís couldn’t take him back to Spain, fellow’s in strife with the authorities—nothin’ to worry about, somethin’ political,” he said dismissively as Mr Simpson looked horrified. “Dare say they can live above the stable for the time being, hey?”

    “They?” echoed Mr Simpson faintly.

    “Fellow’s got a family. Well, not little Consuelo, she went back to Spain with Inez, out of course. Wife and the rest of the brats. Then there’s the cook: he ain’t got a family!” He shook all over. “Not officially, anyroad! Manuel de los Angeles. Bit of a scoundrel but cooks like his name!” He shook again.

    The name had just sounded like a collection of foreign syllables to Mr Simpson, as Sir Harry had of course given it its native pronunciation. “Er—yes, sir. At Ainsley Manor.”

    “Aye. Oh, and the little lad: Julio Juarez. Manuel said he’d keep an eye on him. Well, no way Berthe would have put up with him in her kitchen, so Paul said he’d give the fellow a cottage. Or his cousin would—same thing. Just send a message to Ainsley Manor, Paul’ll send ’em all down.”

    Somewhat weakly Mr Simpson agreed to do so, comforting himself with the reflection that if he just wrote “Spanish servants” Mr Ainsley could hardly mistake his meaning.

    The thought did occur, later that day, that if Sir Harry required the head groom he must intention acquiring some decent horses like a gentleman, instead of rattling about in that absurd donkey-cart! Much cheered, the worthy Mr Simpson purveyed this thought to his spouse.

    Mrs Simpson eyed him drily. “By the sound of him, I wouldn’t bet a groat on that, Ted.”

    Mrs Simpson was, of course, correct, and as soon as the Spanish servants arrived, Sir Harry, Don Quijote and the cart set off for Sunny Bay House. Mrs Lumley had been invited to come and keep house for him but, as Sir Harry had expected, this offer was refused: she couldn’t face leaving New Short Street.

    “Limited,” he said to Don Quijote as they jogged gently over the rolling land towards Sunny Bay. “Typical of that class, out of course. Pity. Oh, well.” They jogged on along an ill-defined cliff-top track, a fine stand of chestnuts soon appearing before them.

    “Ah! Chestnuts! Dare say we could plant a few, hey? No, well, probably take years to bear… Never mind, Manuel de los Angeles can get out in the woods, hey, Don Quijote? Think we turn off through the woods about here—aye, here we are! Walk on!”

    “Ah,” said Mr Rattle thoughtfully to Captain Cutlass’s enquiry as to whether Mrs Lumley’s account of the whereabouts of Mr Smith could possibly be correct. “Well, did say as ’e was a-gonna ’ire Sunny Bay ’Ouse for a bit, aye.”

    “He did speak of taking a house, but I thought he meant a small cottage! How can he afford Sunny Bay House?”

    Mr Rattle looked thoughtfully out to sea. “Said as ’ow ’e’d come into some money.”

    “Oh, good!” said the innocent Captain Cutlass, sagging. “He did mention he might have a surprise for me, but this is astonishing!”

    The old sailor shot her an amused glance but said only: “Ah. Bit o’ luck. Mind you, that ’en, she wouldn’t go with ’im—told ’im so.”

    “Mrs Lumley? No, she is too set in her ways,” said Captain Cutlass with a smothered sigh.

    “Right. ’E’s took on some furriners to look after ’im and the donkey.”

    “Foreign servants? In these parts?”

    “Ah. Well, think the story was as Mr Loowis Ainsley, ’e left ’em behind. Couple o’ fellers, one of them reckons as ’e can cook,” said Mr Rattle on a detached note. “Think as ’ow they’d made Spain too ’ot for them, Cap’n Cutlass, deary: couldn’t go back with ’im.”

    Captain Cutlass had gone very red, both at the mention of Luís’s name and at the thought that he might have deserted his servants. “Oh!” she said, in great relief.

    Within the whiskers Mr Rattle’s mouth twitched a little. “Ah.”

    “Shall we take the boat over?” she suggested, her eyes shining.

    Mr Rattle scratched the whiskers. “’E did say as we’d be welcome any time,” he allowed.

    “Then what are we waiting for?” she cried with an excited laugh. “Come on!”

    Mr Rattle looked wry, but came on.

    … “Ooh, help!” gulped Captain Cutlass as they rounded the point and Sunny Bay House hove into view.

    “Ah. That Tim Trickett, ’e were right,” allowed the old sailor.

    Sunny Bay House was now a charming shade of pale pink with its doors, sills and shutters a bright, deep blue. The effect was the more startling in that several window boxes had been added to its facilities and these were planted up with bright marigolds in full bloom.

    “Surely Mr Trickett didn’t agree to paint it pink?” she gasped.

    “A working feller can’t turn down work, Cap’n Cutlass. But it weren’t ’im: he just made them windy boxes for ’im. See them marigolds?”

    “Yes,” she said faintly. She could also see a wheelbarrow, painted a cheerful scarlet, right in the middle of the lawn. It positively swore at every other shade in sight.

    “Tim Trickett, ’e reckons Mr Smith druv the donkey down to the village and bought ’em right out o’ someone’s garden. Dirt and all.”

    “Er—if one wants flowers in full bloom I suppose that is the only way to achieve them,” she said weakly. “A pink house?”

    “Ah.” Mr Rattle was at the tiller. He leaned on it and gazed thoughtfully at the newly pink Sunny Bay House.

    After quite some time Captain Cutlass said in a very firm voice: “Why should not a house be pink, after all? One should not allow oneself to be prejudiced by preconceived notions. It was ever one of Dr Adams’s firmest precepts.”

    Mr Rattle had understood very little of this speech but as he was very relieved to hear her mentioning Dr Adams he agreed happily: “Dessay that’d be right.”

    “And in fact if one does not allow oneself to be prejudiced by preconceived notions,” said Captain Cutlass with a laugh, “the effect is very pretty! Though personally I would not place that scarlet wheelbarrow in full view! Come on, shall we pull in?”

    And, Mr Rattle consenting with his customary monosyllable, they pulled in to the beach.

    The main entrance to Sunny Bay House was of course at the far side, which faced onto the sparsely-gravelled apology for a sweep and thence the lane, but Captain Cutlass headed to their right, where the back door gave onto a small paved yard and thence the stables.

    “Ooh, look, someone has added to Mouse’s herb garden!” she noted pleasedly.

    Her companion eyed the additions dubiously. More marigolds and some leafy things. “Rabbit food.”

    “What is it with you men and salads?” replied Captain Cutlass merrily, bashing on the back door. “HOY! Anyone home?”

    “Donkey Oatee’s ’ome,” noted Mr Rattle as this effort produced nothing but silence from the house and the appearance of a meek little grey face over a stable door.

    “Indeed! Hullo, Donkey Oatee!” Captain Cutlass picked some of the “rabbit food” and went over to him with it.

    Mr Rattle was eyeing the blue door uncertainly when it opened. He blinked, but managed: “’Ullo, sonny. Mr Smith in?”

    Though his stay in those parts had not radically improved his English, Julio Juarez had been most impressed by the style of things at Ainsley Manor and had requested a livery from Sir Harry if he was to be, as the Señora Ainsley had promised, a “payth boyé”. The combined resources of Waddington-on-Sea and Underdene village had not managed to produce anything that Master Julio considered sufficiently impressive, so Sir Harry had let Señora Mendoza, the head groom’s wife, loose with her needle and thread. The entire household appeared thrilled with the result, no-one apparently remarking that the heavily embroidered waistcoat was more suited to the bull ring than a gentleman’s country residence. Perhaps fortunately Señora Mendoza had been unable to find gold thread, so the colours were merely emerald, royal blue, bright citrus yellow and a cheerful pink upon the original black stuff of what had been a very ordinary little waistcoat. Even the cloth-covered buttons were embroidered: a thoughtful touch. The nankeens merely sported a strip of the embroidery down the side seams. The cheerful cotton print of the shirt gave one pause, however. Señora Mendoza had assured her master that she had managed to get a whole roll of it at a very reasonable price. Happily Julio Juarez did not seem to mind that the three little Mendoza girls were now all running round in dresses of the stuff. Thanks to Christabel Ainsley Julio did possess a respectable pair of shoes that fitted, but as it was a fine summer’s day he had dispensed with them.

    The servants had had it impressed upon them that Sir Harry was to be “Mr Smith” until Señor Luís came back, but so far, though they had taken the instruction without a blink, no-one was remembering to use the new name. Julio just stared blankly at Mr Rattle.

    “Mr Smith,” repeated that worthy stolidly.

    It dawned. “¡Si, señor! Meestair Smeeth!” agreed Julio. “Pleath to steppeen!”

    “Must be one of the furriners,” noted Mr Rattle as Captain Cutlass rejoined him. “Think ’e’s saying to step in.”

    “Steppeen!” agreed Julio, bowing and gesturing.

    “Yes,” agreed Captain Cutlass. “Thank you.”

    They followed the brightly-garbed boy through to a sitting-room at the western side of the house, where Sir Harry was discovered frowning out of the window.

    “That’ll do!” he said as Julio burst into speech. “Speak English! Oh, it’s you,” he said lamely, turning and sighting the callers. “The boy’s hopeless; thought he might have learnt more English by now.”

    “How long has he been in the country, do you know, sir?” asked Captain Cutlass with a smile.

    “Uh—” Belatedly Sir Harry recalled that Julio was not supposed to be his son’s servant. “Well, uh, some months, I think. They’re Spaniards what a Mr Ainsley left behind. Er—in need of employment, said I’d take ’em on as I speak the lingo,” he offered.

    “I thought that must be why!” beamed Captain Cutlass. “Has anyone tried to teach him, sir?”

    Sir Harry near as dammit said that his daughter-in-law had. He coughed. “Think so. Well, a bit. Doesn’t appear to have worked. See, he gets together with t’others and they all jabber Spanish.”

    “Of course, that is very natural. I would say he needs some proper lessons.”

    He looked at her glumly. “Doesn’t appear to take in a word one says, me dear.”

    He looked quite a bright little boy. Certainly he was very bright-eyed. “Perhaps I could try?” she offered.

    “Uh—well, that’s very kind, Captain Cutlass, but he is only a serving lad, y’know.”

    “Does that mean he does not deserve any schooling?” replied Captain Cutlass grimly.

    “Never said that,” replied the baronet calmly. “Just thought I should remind you that people may think you odd if you give a lad of his class lessons.”

    “People think I am odd in any case. But I suppose as his master you have a right to a say in the matter,” said Captain Cutlass with a glare.

    “Don’t look at me like that. I’d be only too glad to have him taught anything. I’d send him to school if I thought he’d be able to understand a word that was said.”

    “Of course you would, and I apologise for doubting you, sir!” she cried. “Please ask him if he would like lessons!”

    “Uh—best tell him rather than ask him; there never was a lad that wanted lessons of any variety, y’know!” he said with a grin. “Julio, the señorita is going to teach you to speak English properly,” he said in Spanish.

    “Love a duck,” muttered Mr Rattle.

    “Yes: is it not strange?” hissed Captain Cutlass, her eyes shining.

    Julio’s reply was not translated for them and his master announced: “You can start any time you like, Captain Cutlass. Just telling him the words for ‘table’ and ‘door’ would be a start.”

    “I’ll have to let him have a summer holiday: Mouse and I are fated for Derbyshire with our Cousin Victoria for a month this summer,” she reminded him. “I’ll consult with Miss Finch—that’s Ned’s teacher—and do the thing properly. But I could teach him a few words today! What’s his name, Mr Smith?”

    Sir Harry scratched his head. “It’s a Spanish name. Thing is, if I wrote it down you wouldn’t think it was, but it is.”

    “Eh?” said Mr Rattle.

    “Julio,” said Sir Harry glumly. “Yes, you,” he said as Julio beamed and nodded.

    “Hooly-oh?” repeated Captain Cutlass numbly.

    “Looks a bit of a ’ooligan, an’ all!” choked Mr Rattle, suddenly going into a wheezing fit.

    Sir Harry pulled his ear, looking rueful. “Mm. J,U,L,I,O,” he spelled out glumly.

    “What?” she croaked.

    “Aye; the letter J is pronounced as an H in Spanish. Likewise two L’s are pronounced as Y. C,A,B,A,L,L,O: horse. Caballo,” he said glumly.

    “Would that be right?” Mr Rattle asked Captain Cutlass cautiously.

    “Yes, if that is the pronunciation, that would be the word he spelled,” she said, staring at Sir Harry.

    The baronet shrugged.

    “Well, it will be an uphill battle, but— Stay! Does he read any Spanish?”

    “Doubt it.”

    “Then at least I will not have to cope with—” Captain Cutlass paused, her eyes twinkling. “Preconceived notions!” she finished with a laugh. “We were admiring what you have done to the house, Mr Smith, and decided that if one does not believe a house ought not to be pink, it’s very pretty!”

    “Ah. ’Tis that,” agreed Mr Rattle stolidly. “Seen pink ’ouses in furrin parts, I ’ave.”

    “You would have, aye,” conceded Sir Harry. “Well, it’s only a tinted whitewash, dare say Stamforth can get rid of it if he don’t like it, but Manuel de los Angeles had the stuff to bung in it to make it pink, and the rest of ’em seemed keen, so I said, why not? Made quite a difference to the old place, hey? Now all I have to decide,” he said, turning back to the window and giving it a glare, “is whether to build on a verandah here, or not. And a walled garden would be nice, shelter it from the north, y’see, only would that mean that it would be too shaded on the south and west?”

    “You would not get the morning sun on this side of the house, in any event,” replied Captain Cutlass seriously.

    “No; westerly, it be,” agreed Mr Rattle.

    “Hm. Well, think on it, hey? Now, you’ll take a glass and a bite with me! ¡Holà, Julio!” Jovially Sir Harry ordered up a glass and a bite, allowing once the little boy had scampered off: “Well, it’ll be Spanish, or the best Manuel de los Angeles can do until we get our own kitchen garden going, but none the worse for that. Told the rascal off to kill a chicken, earlier: dare say he may have done it. Sit down, my dear; sit down, Rattle.”

    “So have you bought some poultry already, sir?” asked Captain Cutlass eagerly, taking a seat on a tired-looking sofa, what time Mr Rattle, eyeing a second, spindlier sofa askance, chose a sturdy wooden settle drawn up at an angle to the empty fireplace.

    “No, ain’t got no poultry-yard to fence ’em in. Merely bought a couple of birds for the pot. I’ll have to get over to Waddington market, the damned village here don’t have a thing, not big enough to swing a cat in. Nothing you’d call a sausage, neither,” he grumbled.

    “The local people must make sausages whenever they kill a pig, though?” she ventured.

    He sniffed. “English-style. Tasteless. Don’t even add a sprig of thyme nor sage to ’em. Never heard of garlic, neither.”

    “Oh, dear. Er—I believe that Mrs Matthews from Longacre Farm, just over towards Underdene, makes fine black puddings, if you care for that type of sausage. And if you do want poultry, you cannot go past Mr Matthews, he has the finest poultry-yard in the district. I think he’d give you a far better price if you bought direct from him, too.”

    “Ah,” agreed Mr Rattle. “Mrs Matthews makes a fine cheese, too, Mr Smith. Dessay they could let you ’ave a pig, as well. Then you could make yer own sausages.”

    “Er—yes,” said Captain Cutlass on an uneasy note, “but would your cook wish to kill it, sir?”

    “Eh? A Spanish servant? Kill anything, hoofed, furred or feathered!” replied Sir Harry jovially, forgetting his rôle, rather.

    “Oh. Well, good. Though I suppose Mr Matthews would kill and dress it for you if you needed him to do so.”

    ‘Right: kill it, dress it and charge through the nose for it, hey? Think I’d best write that down,” he decided. “Gettin’ confused with all these English names. ¡Holà, Julio!”

    “Hah, hah,” said Captain Cutlass feebly as the little boy dashed in again.

    The false Mr Smith was, however, entirely serious and requested her courteously to draw him a map, as Julio produced pen, ink and paper.

    “Certainly, if you wish it, sir.” Captain Cutlass came to sit down at the little table in the window, and Mr Rattle came to breathe heavily over her shoulder.

    “Ah. Sunny Bay,” he discerned as it took shape on the page.

    “Yes,” she agreed, writing “Sunny Bay House” next to the position of the house. “Now, this lane that leads to Sunny Bay bifurcates a little way further up, Mr Smith, and to the west leads more or less straight to Underdene, as I think you will have found. The other way is the route to the castle and eventually to Upperdene. It’s larger but, um, I’m afraid you won’t find any better sausages there. Mr Matthews’s farm lies here, between your house and the village. All the rest of this land, over here, is the castle’s Home Farm—farmed by a Mr Farmer, oddly enough!” she said with a laugh.

    “Right. The castle, it’ll take most of their sausages and stuff, see,” explained Mr Rattle. “Large Whites, Mr Farmer, ’e’s got.”

    Sir Harry shook his head. “Meaty, but not so tasty as your Berkshire. Not that there is anything to beat a wild boar, like one gets in Spain. Now, me son—” He broke off.

    “Yes?” said Captain Cutlass politely.

    “Uh—nothing. What’s up here to the north and east of the castle?”

    “Northeast is Mr Wright’s farm, sir: Castleview Farm. He runs Southdown sheep, and a small dairy herd. And if you continue northwards along this road you come to the property called Camperdown, which is occupied by a man called Mr Waters.”

    “Ah. Not a farm, though,” noted Mr Rattle.

    “No, that’s correct,” she agreed.

    “That it?” said Sir Harry on a weak note.

    “Er—yes. Over here to the east”—Captain Cutlass drew some small trees—“are the woods which belong to the castle. Largely oaks, with several stands of chestnuts and some hazels.”

    “But, um, here?” He put his finger to the spot immediately to the north of Castle Hill.

    “That is all part of Home Farm, sir.”

    “Like, it goes round and round the ’ill, Mr Smith,” explained Mr Rattle.

    “And to the west of Underdene?” he said numbly.

    “All Vane land. More sheep, sir, and a small herd of beef animals,” said Captain Cuttle. “Home Farm is very extensive and Mr Farmer is very well-to-do.”

    “Ah. Notions, Mrs Farmer, she’s got. Told Cap’n Cox she didn’t require no fish from out a dirty boat. –Wasn’t dirty. Might of ponged a bit: that was the bait.”

    “It served her right for spurning our Waddington fish and going over to Guillyford Bay, didn’t it, Mr Rattle?” said Captain Cutlass.

    “That it did, me deary!” he grinned.

    Captain Cutlass looked at Mr Smith’s face. “Well off the map, on the far side of Brighton, sir, only of course it ain’t that far by boat, is it, Mr Rattle?”

    Sir Harry ran his hand through his white curls. “So the society in the neighbourhood of Sunny Bay consists of the three farms?”

    “If you count Home Farm, yes, though the farmhouse is a ways off,” she said cautiously.

    “Ah. If it was society as you was a-wanting, Mr Smith, you did ought to of stayed in New Short Street,” noted the old sailor. “There’s the village, I s’pose. Landlubbers, mind.”

    “Never mind, we’ll come over as often as you like!” said Captain Cutlass quickly. “Won’t we, Mr Rattle?”

    “Could do, aye. Depends on the weather and the tides. Get a few shrimp in the bay, too,” allowed Mr Rattle.

    “Thankee. I own I should be glad of the company,” he said weakly.

    Some fifteen minutes later Sir Harry had what might have been considered his revenge for his two callers’ unwelcome information. Manuel de los Angeles had discovered the shrimp in the bay for himself and what with those, a few oysters and whelks, and the chicken he had been ordered to slaughter, had produced a huge pan of paella for the midday meal.

    “Rice?” faltered Captain Cutlass. “We only have it as a pudding, at home.”

    “I’ve ate something a bit like this out in the Indies,” allowed Mr Rattle. “’Ot as ’Ell, it were: felt like your insides was being scrubbed down like the deck.”

    “You mean it was a—a savoury dish, Mr Rattle?” she faltered.

    He sniffed. “One word for it.”

    “Rice is eaten as a savoury dish throughout the Mediterranean and all the way to China,” said Sir Harry unemotionally. “It’s only the English that eat it as a pudding.”

    “Mina Benedict says that the Indian servants at the castle also make a pudding of it,” replied Captain Cutlass uncertainly.

    “Oh, aye? She don’t claim they don’t eat it savoury, though, I’ll wager.”

    “Um, no. I think there may be rice in the heathen pies, as well as—as other stuff.”

    “Dare say. Well, this is rice, it is not hot—Spanish food ain’t hot like you’ll have had out it the Indies, Rattle—and it is entirely delicious. Didn’t you say your mamma was used to make bouillabaisse, my dear?”

    “Whuh-what?” she faltered.

    “Uh—oh! Amazin’ly insular, the English, even the most educated of ’em!” said the baronet with a laugh. “Your mamma’s foreign fish soup, me dear!”

    “Put anything in it,” offered Mr Rattle, faint but pursuing.

    “Exact! It’s a very well known dish of the south of France, my dear Miss Calpurnia, and far more like Spanish cuisine, in fact, than French. Same sort of spice as Manuel uses in his paella, you see.”

    “Saffron?” she ventured.

    “Exact. What was that you was sayin’ earlier about preconceived notions and prejudices?” he said airily.

    Captain Cutlass bit her lip. “Mm. I do beg your pardon, sir! Mr Rattle, just because we do not eat rice as a savoury dish at home, and do not mix seafood and chicken, there is no reason that the rest of the world should not, is there?” Bravely she tried it.

    Sir Harry watched sardonically as an expression of amazement spread across the milk and wild roses complexion. “Like it?”

    “It’s miraculous!” she breathed.

    “Might try it, then,” conceded Mr Rattle, seizing the spoon which Julio had thoughtfully placed by his plate.

    “Well?” said Captain Cutlass as, having chewed and swallowed, he did not venture an opinion.

    “Ah. Not bad at all. ’Ad something similar in the Azores.”

    “Indeed?” said his host courteously “That would have been Portuguese cuisine, I dare say; many of their dishes are not dissimilar to the Spanish ones.”

    “Right. ’Ad little things on sticks, too: did them over little fires, they did, on the quay. Little fish and all sorts. Bits o’ meat and stuff.”

    Nodding pleasedly, Sir Harry launched into a comparison of the quayside treats to be found along the entire Mediterranean coast…

    Captain Cutlass just ate paella numbly. Miraculous was the only word for it. It was quite inconceivable, indeed, that it could have been produced within the shores of England!

    “I see,” said Julia on a tired note on her third daughter’s return to Number 10 New Short Street. “Well, if you want to teach the little boy, dear… Mr Smith seems harmless enough. But what about Mrs Lumley?”

    There was a short pause, during which Julia’s relatives avoided one another’s eyes.

    “She didn’t wish to become his housekeeper, Ma,” said Captain Cutlass finally.

    “Too set in ’er ways—used to New Short Street,” offered Bouncer.

    “Yes, of course,” she said on a vague note. “No, I mean, that will leave her without a lodger.”

    “We shall just have to hope she finds another one, Ma,” said Niners valiantly. “What’s for supper? Can I help?”

    “What?” replied Julia vaguely. “Oh—supper. I dare say Cookie’s made something… I don’t really feel hungry: I think I’ll go to bed early.” With this she drifted out.

    Silence fell in the Formby front parlour.

    Niners got up, looking firm. “Supper. Come along, Mouse, let’s see what there is.”

    Obediently Mouse went out with her.

    Silence fell again.

    Eventually Nunky Ben said valiantly: “Go on, lovey, tell us a bit more about this foreign muck as Mr Smith served up.”

    Captain Cutlass brightened. “Well, it was the most extraordinary thing, Nunky! Chicken and seafood together, and the whole cooked in a great pan! Afterwards the cook kindly explained how he did it—well, he has almost no English, but he managed to point and so forth! And showed me all the strange things they have in their kitchen and larder: there is an huge barrel which I thought must contain wine but no, it’s full of olive oil!”

    “Ugh. Would of made the food real oily, eh?” he offered.

    “No, no: that is the strange thing! If anything it was… aromatic!” decided Captain Cutlass with an excited laugh.

    The family looked at her shining eyes and did not have the heart to say that they were with Nunky Ben on that one.

    “Ah,” said Mr Rattle to Lash’s cautious enquiry. “She won’t come to no ’arm with Mr Smith, Mrs Yates, deary.”

    Lash sagged. “Well, if you think so, Mr Rattle! It’s just— Well, Julia is not herself yet and so I thought I had best, um, check.”

    “Right.” The old sailor sucked peacefully on his pipe. “Told yer the ’ouse is pink, did she?”

    “Yes!” she admitted with a laugh. “A pink farmhouse on the shore of England! It must be an intriguing sight!”

    “Ah. Could get on over there, if yer like.”

    The boat which Mr Rattle used for his expeditions after lobsters and oysters spent as much time upside-down on the beach under repair as it did in the sea, so Lash replied cautiously: “In your boat or ours?”

    “Mine. She’s seaworthy; Commander Henderson and that ’Artshorne, they give me a ’and to caulk ’er.”

    “What?” said Lash limply.

    “Ah. See, ’e’s only got the one arm, but quite ’andy.”

    “Y— Er, yes, of course.”

    “Ah. Tide’s right,” he offered.

    Number 10 New Short Street was not at the moment a very cheery place to be. Mouse and Captain Cutlass had now left for the promised expedition to Derbyshire with Victoria, Captain Cutlass very excited at the opportunity to see the Derbyshire countryside and Mouse silently bitter at being dragged away from the vicinity of Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague. Niners was with Miss Henderson, of course. The kitchen was at the moment occupied by Cookie and the aunties, bottling some of the early plums that Charles Quarmby-Vine had sent over from the orchards. This activity unfortunately did not occupy the tongues. Lash had intentioned spending an entirely proper day purchasing a length of cloth for a couple of new shirts for Ned and cutting out and stitching the same.

    “Oh, why not! Thank you very much, Mr Rattle!”

    Looking very pleased, the old man got up, knocked the pipe out and put it in his pocket, and prepared to launch the boat.

    Sunny Bay House was pink, all right. Lash collapsed in giggles.

    “Ah. Pretty, but funny,” agreed Mr Rattle, grinning.

    “Oh, yes!” she gasped.

    “Ah. That there’s the furrin cook,” he advised, nodding at the ragged figure wielding the shrimping net in the shallows.

    “I see.” A man was working on the face of the house: Lash peered. “Is that Mr Trickett?”

    “That’s right, Mrs Yates. Mr Smith’s decided ’e wants a pergoly: ’e’s a-gonna grow roses up it. What the castle, they can let ’im ’ave one or two.”

    Lash smiled: sections of the castle’s great stone walls were smothered in climbing roses; this was a piece of Mr Rattle’s typical mild irony. “I expect so!”

    “Ah. –A feller from Underdene, ’e did come up to do the garden, only them furriners, they was too much for ’im.”

    “I see,” said Lash feebly, wondering who was doing the housekeeping.

    Mr Rattle squinted at the sky. “Dessay Mr Smith’d be glad to see yer.”

    Oh, why not! It was scarcely the done thing to call on a single gentleman with no hostess, but— Lash allowed Mr Rattle to lift her out of the boat and splash through the shallows with her ladylike person.

    Mr Smith was delighted to see her, welcoming her in the most courtly manner imaginable, and happily showing her the house. It was horribly empty, the furnishings obviously odds and ends, but he seemed happy and full of plans. And politely assured her that she could be certain of Miss Calpurnia’s complete safety and comfort whenever she came over.

    Lash then accepted a glass of something and some exotic little nibbles—it would have been too mean to deny Mr Rattle the treat—and, thanking Mr Smith for his hospitality and for his good offices towards Captain Cutlass, escaped in good order.

    “Setting ’imself up quite nice,” allowed Mr Rattle as they headed out to sea.

    “Indeed.” Lash had not seen very much of Mr Smith during his sojourn in New Short Street, as of course she had been extremely busy after Joe’s death. She took a deep breath. “Mr Rattle,” she said, leaning forward: “who on earth is he?”

    “Ah. Don’t rightly know, Mrs Yates. ’E’s a gent, though: sticks out a mile, dunnit?”

    “It most certainly does! I could not have been received with more courtesy at the Court of Saint James’s itself!”

    “Right. Well, that Poulter, ’e give me a message for yer, if so be as yer should ask.”

    “Yes?”

    “’E said,” said the old sailor carefully, “as ’is Lordship said as yer weren’t to worry and he could promise you ’e knows ’is family and there’s no ’arm in ’im.”

    “Lord Stamforth vouches for him?” said Lash dazedly.

    “That’s right.”

    In that case a mere Formby need have no worries! Lash smiled weakly. “Good.”

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/a-very-quiet-summer.html