I Capture the Castle (3 page)

“If Miss Marcy is really going to advise us,” said Topaz, “she’d better be told we have no visible income at all this year.”

Miss Marcy flushed and said: “I did know things were difficult. But, dear Mrs. Mortmain, there must be some money, surely?”

We gave her the facts. Not one penny has come in during January or February. Last year Father got forty pounds from America, where Jacob Wrestling still sells. Topaz posed in London for three months, saved eight pounds for us and borrowed fifty; and we sold a tallboy to a King’s Crypt dealer for twenty pounds. We have been living on the tallboy since Christmas.

“Last year’s income one hundred and eighteen pounds,” said Miss Marcy and wrote it down. But we hastened to tell her that it bore no relation to this year’s income, for we have no more good furniture to sell, Topaz has run out of rich borrowees, and we think it unlikely that Father’s royalties will be so large, as they have dwindled every year. “Should I leave school?” said Thomas. But of course we told him that would be absurd as his schooling costs us nothing owing to his scholarship, and the Vicar has just given him a year’s ticket for the train.

Miss Marcy fiddled with her pencil a bit and then said:

“If I’m to be a help, I must be frank.

Couldn’t you make a saving on Stephen’s wages?”

I felt myself go red. Of course we have never paid Stephen anything—never even thought of it. And I suddenly realized that we ought to have done so. (not that we’ve had any money to pay him with since he’s been old enough to earn.) “I don’t want wages,” said Stephen, quietly.

“I wouldn’t take them. Everything I’ve ever had has been given to me here.”

“You see, Stephen’s like a son of the house,” I said. Miss Marcy looked as if she wasn’t sure that was a very good thing to be, but Stephen’s face quite lit up for a second. Then he got embarrassed and said he must see if the hens were all in. After he had gone, Miss Marcy said:

“No-no wages at all? Just his keep?”

“We don’t pay ourselves any wages,” said Rose —which is true enough; but then we don’t work so hard as Stephen or sleep in a dark little room off the kitchen.

“And I think it’s humiliating discussing our poverty in front of Miss Marcy,” Rose went on, angrily.

“I thought we were just going to ask her advice about earning.”

After that, a lot of time was wasted soothing Rose’s pride and Miss Marcy’s feelings. Then we got down to our earning capacities.

Topaz said she couldn’t earn more than four pounds a week in London and possibly not that, and she would need three pounds to live on, and some clothes, and the fare to come down here at least every other weekend.

“And I don’t want to go to London,” she added, rather pathetically.

“I’m tired of being a model. And I miss Mortmain dreadfully. And he needs me here—I’m the only one who can cook.”

“That’s hardly very important when we’ve nothing to cook,” said Rose.

“Could I earn money as a model?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Topaz.

“Your figure’s too pretty-there isn’t enough drawing in your bones. And you’d never have the patience to sit still.

I suppose if nothing turns up I’ll have to go to London. I could send about ten shillings a week home.”

“Well, that’s splendid,” said Miss Marcy and wrote down: “Mrs. James Mortmain: a potential ten shillings weekly.”

“Not all the year round,” said Topaz, firmly.

“I couldn’t stand it and it would leave me no time for my own painting. I might sell some of that, of course.”

Miss Marcy said “Of course you might,” very politely; then turned to me. I said my speed-writing was getting quite fast, but of course it wasn’t quite like real shorthand (or quite like real speed-writing, for that matter); and I couldn’t type and the chance of getting anywhere near a typewriter was remote.

“Then I’m afraid, just until you get going with your literary work, we’ll have to count you as nil,” said Miss Marcy.

“Thomas, of course, is bound to be nil for a few years yet. Rose, dear?”

Now if anyone in this family is nil as an earner, it is Rose; for though she plays the piano a bit and sings rather sweetly and is, of course, a lovely person, she has no real talents at all.

“Perhaps I could look after little children,” she suggested.

“Oh, no,” said Miss Marcy, hurriedly, “I mean, dear—well, I don’t think it would suit you at all.”

“I’ll go to Scoatney Hall as a maid,” said Rose, looking as if she were already ascending the scaffold.

“Well, they do have to be trained, dear,” said Miss Marcy, “and I can’t feel your Father would like it.

Couldn’t you do some pretty sewing?”

“What on?” said Rose.

“Sacking?”

Anyway, Rose is hopeless at sewing.

Miss Marcy was looking at her list rather depressedly.

“I fear we must call dear Rose nil just for the moment,” she said.

“That only leaves Mr. Mortmain.”

Rose said: “If I rank as nil, Father ought to be double nil” Miss Marcy leaned forward and said in a hushed voice: “My dears, you know I’m trying to help you all. What’s the real trouble with Mr. Mortmain?

Is it-is it drink?”

We laughed so much that Stephen came in to see what the joke was.

“Poor, poor Mortmain,” gasped Topaz, “as if he ever laid his hands on enough to buy a bottle of beer. Drink costs money, Miss Marcy.” Miss Marcy said it couldn’t be drugs either —and it certainly couldn’t; he doesn’t even smoke, once his Christmas cigars from the Vicar are gone.

“It’s just sheer laziness,” said Rose, “laziness and softness. And I don’t believe he was ever very good, really. I expect Jacob Wrestling was overestimated.”

Topaz looked so angry that I thought for a second she was going to hit Rose. Stephen came to the table and stood between them.

“Oh, no, Miss Rose,” he said quietly, “it’s a great book-everyone knows that. But things have happened to him so that he can’t write any more. You can’t write just for the wanting.”

I expected Rose to snub him, but before she could say a word he turned to me and went on quickly:

“I’ve been thinking, Miss Cassandra, that I should get work—they’d have me at Four Stones Farm.”

“But the garden, Stephen!” I almost wailed—for we just about live on our vegetables.

He said the days would soon draw out and that he’d work for us in the evenings.

“And I’m useful in the garden, aren’t I, Stephen?” said Topaz.

“Yes, ma’am, very useful. I couldn’t get a job if you went to London, of course -there’d be too much work for Miss Cassandra.”

Rose isn’t good at things like gardening and housework.

“So you could put me down for twenty-five shillings a week, Miss Marcy,” Stephen went on, “because Mr. Stebbins said he’d start me at that. And I’d get my dinner at Four Stones.” I was glad to think that would mean he’d get one square meal a day.

Miss Marcy said it was a splendid idea, though it was a pity it meant striking out Topaz’s ten shillings.

“Though, of course, it was only potential.” While she was putting Stephen’s twenty-five shillings on her list, Rose suddenly said:

“Thank you, Stephen.”

And because she doesn’t bother with him much as a rule, it somehow sounded important. And she smiled so very sweetly. Poor Rose has been so miserable lately that a smile from her is like late afternoon sunshine after a long, wet day. I don’t see how anyone could see Rose smile without feeling fond of her. I thought Stephen would be tremendously pleased, but he only nodded and swallowed several times.

Just then, Father came out on the staircase and looked down on us all.

“What, a round game?” he said—and I suppose it must have looked like one, with us grouped round the table in the lamplight. Then he came downstairs saying:

“This book’s first-rate. I’m having a little break, trying to guess the murderer. I should like a biscuit, please.”

Whenever Father is hungry between meals—and he eats very little at them, less than any of us—he asks for a biscuit. I believe he thinks it is the smallest and cheapest thing he can ask for. Of course, we haven’t had any real shop biscuits for ages but Topaz makes oatcake, which is very filling.

She put some margarine on a piece for him. I saw a fraction of distaste in his eyes and he asked her if she could sprinkle it with a little sugar.

“It makes a change,” he said, apologetically.

“Can’t we offer Miss Marcy something his Some tea or cocoa, Miss Marcy?”

She thanked him but said she mustn’t spoil her appetite for supper.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt the game,” said Father.

“What is it?”

And before I could think of any way of distracting him, he had leaned over her shoulder to look at the list in front of her. As it then stood, it read:

Earning Capacity for Present Year Mrs. Mortmain nil.

Cassandra Mortmain nil.

Thomas Mortmain nil.

Rose Mortmain nil.

Mr. Mortmain nil.

Stephen Colly 25/- a week.

Father’s expression didn’t change as he read, he went on smiling; but I could feel something happening to him. Rose says I am always crediting people with emotions I should experience myself in their situation, but I am sure I had a real flash of intuition then.

And I suddenly saw his face very clearly, not just in the way one usually sees the faces of people one is very used to. I saw how he had changed since I was little and I thought of Ralph Hodgson’s line about “tamed and shabby tigers.” How long it takes to write the thoughts of a minute! I thought of many more things, complicated, pathetic and very puzzling, just while Father read the list.

When he had finished, he said quite lightly: “And is Stephen giving us his wages?”

“I ought to pay for my board and lodging, Mr. Mortmain, sir,” said Stephen, “and for—for past favors; all the books you’ve lent me-was “I’m sure you’ll make a very good head of the family,” said Father. He took the oatcake with sugar on it from Topaz and moved towards the stairs.

She called after him: “Stay by the fire for a little while, Mortmain.” But he said he wanted to get back to his book. Then he thanked Miss Marcy again for bringing him such a good one, and said good night to her very courteously. We could hear him humming as he went through the bedrooms on his way to the gatehouse.

Miss Marcy made no remark about the incident, which shows what a tactful person she is; but she looked embarrassed and said she must be getting along.

Stephen lit a lantern and said he would go as far as the road with her—she had left her bicycle there because of the awful mud in our lane. I went out to see her off. As we crossed the courtyard, she glanced up at the gatehouse window and asked if I thought Father would be offended if she brought him a little tin of biscuits to keep there. I said I didn’t think any food could give offence in our house and she said:

“Oh, dear!” Then she looked around at the ruins and said how beautiful they were but she supposed I was used to them. I wanted to get back to the fire so I just said yes; but it wasn’t true. I am never used to the beauty of the castle. And after she and Stephen had gone I realized it was looking particularly lovely. It was a queer sort of night. The full moon was hidden by clouds but had turned them silver so that the sky was quite light. Belmotte Tower, high on its mound, seemed even taller than usual. Once I really looked at the sky, I wanted to go on looking; it seemed to draw me towards it and make me listen hard, though there was nothing to listen to, not so much as a twig was stirring. When Stephen came back I was still gazing upwards.

“It’s too cold for you to be out without a coat, Miss Cassandra,” he said. But I had forgotten about feeling cold, so of course I wasn’t cold any more.

As we walked back to the house he asked if I thought La Belle Dame sans Merci would have lived in a tower like Belmotte. I said it seemed very likely; though I never really thought of her having a home life.

After that, we all decided to go to bed to save making up the fire, so we got our hot bricks out of the oven and wended our ways. But going to bed early is hard on candles. I reckoned I had two hours of light in mine, but a bit of wick fell in and now it is a melted mass. (I wonder how King Alfred got on with his clock-candles when that happened.) I have called Thomas to see if I can have his, but he is still doing his homework. I shall have to go to the kitchen— I have a secret cache of ends there. And I will be noble and have a companionable chat with Topaz, on the way down. I am back. Something rather surprising happened. When I got to the kitchen, Heloise woke and barked and Stephen came to his door to see what was the matter. I called out that it was only me and he dived back into his room. I found my candle-end and had just knelt down by Heloise’s basket to have a few words with her (she had a particularly nice warm-clean-dog smell after being asleep) when out he came again, wearing his coat over his nightshirt.

“It’s all right,” I called, “I’ve got what I wanted.”

Just then, the door on the kitchen stairs swung to, so that we were in darkness except for the pale square at the window. I groped my way across the kitchen and humped into the table. Then Stephen took my arm and guided me to the foot of the stairs.

“I can manage now,” I said-we were closer to the window and there was quite a lot of the queer, shrouded moonlight coming in.

He still kept hold of my arm.

“I want to ask you something, Miss Cassandra,” he said.

“I want to know if you’re ever hungry-I mean when there’s nothing for you to eat.”

I would probably have answered “I certainly am,” but I noticed how strained and anxious his voice was. So I said:

“Well, there generally is something or other, isn’t there his Of course, it would be nicer to have lots of exciting food, but I do get enough. Why did you suddenly want to know?”

He said he had been lying awake thinking about it and that he couldn’t bear me to be hungry.

“If ever you are, you tell me,” he said, “and I’ll manage something.”

I thanked him very much and reminded him he was going to help us all with his wages.

“Yes, that’ll be something,” he said.