In Distant Fields (15 page)

‘Master Harry's race that day was as a result of a wager laid between His Grace and the rest of the house party at the time, and the money won was given to the cottage hospital at Welton,' the Duchess said, tapping an impatient finger on a nearby table to emphasise her point. ‘Gracious, Dr Jones, there has to be some sport allowed around the estate, or there will be no visitors to the house; and if there are no visitors there will be no donations to the hospital. There has to be give and take on an estate of this size, and without sport these places do not survive. Henry hunted here, Elizabeth hunted here, Anne would have hunted here, had she not been so busy having babies, poor dear queen. Swings and roundabouts, Dr Jones, swings and roundabouts.'

Harry half closed his eyes. He always loved the way the Duchess referred to the kings and queens of England by their first names, just as if she had played with them as a child, but Dr Jones looked unconvinced by both swings and roundabouts. He turned away, shortly followed by the Duchess and Harry, and as he did so the sound of music being played came drifting towards the three of them. It was not just any music either, it was music with a distinctly
cheerful sound and a song that Harry happened to know well.

‘
For I am a Pirate King! And it is, it is a glorious thing To be a Pirate King
!'

‘I think I can be trusted to bandage Harry's ankle in my own special way,'

‘Very well, Your Grace, you bandage Harry's ankle in whatever way you think fit. I was actually on my way down to the kitchens, where Mrs Dewsbury has poured hot fruit juice over her leg when, if you remember, you called me in here, Your Grace.'

‘Since you were passing, it was the least I could do, truly it was.' Circe watched the doctor leaving. ‘Just remember not to put butter on Mrs Dewsbury's leg,' she murmured, a little too loudly. ‘It will only fry it.' Then to Harry she said, ‘Come on, I will finish your bandaging. We had to make sure nothing was broken, that's all.'

Circe bandaged the ankle in her own special way, and minutes later she watched with some satisfaction as, despite the fact that she knew he was in some considerable pain, Harry was able to make his way about the stage as if nothing at all had happened.

After which there was a sudden commotion at the great doors. The Duchess turned.

‘Gussie? Back from London, so soon?'

‘Mother.'

The Duchess smiled and held out her arms to her younger son. Gus gave her a quick
perfunctory hug while at the same time looking around at the busy activity that was beginning to make the whole place seem like the West End of London, while the Duchess looked Gussie straight in the eyes, her expression unwavering.

‘Gussie, would you not, please,
not
call me “Mother”, dearest? It makes me feel as if I should be serving you brown soup.'

Gus looked innocent, his large grey-green eyes widened, and he put his head on one side, pulling a mock-serious face. ‘Oh, had you rather I called you something else, Mother, dearest?' Despite every effort on his behalf, Gus burst out laughing.

‘Gus, you are just as naughty as when you went away. Austria was meant to have
cured
you of all that naughtiness. Why have they not cured you of your mischief, may I ask?'

‘Austria has cured me of most things, Mamma, so it has,
Mamma
, so it has.' Gus looked round at the army of workmen busying themselves in every direction. ‘But
you
, I see, have not been cured of your love of the theatre.' He looked back at her and grinned, at the same time lowering his voice. ‘Anything to get out of having to join the hunting field, eh, Mamma?'

‘Gus!
Ça c'est interdit!
Please. It is utterly forbidden.'

‘I want to play one of the policemen –
a policeman's lot is not a happy one, happy one
.'

Gus looked round what was now a theatre,
and let out a sigh that was half contented and half filled with melancholy.

‘I feel I am home just in time,' he confided to Circe.

The Duchess turned away. She hated to talk about anything too serious. She only wanted to talk about
The Pirates of Penzance
.

‘How was the skiing, Gus, you never did tell?'

‘Very white.'

‘And how is your German?'

‘Very Prussian.'

‘So.' A small pause while his mother sat down and put her head to one side while rehearsals continued apace on the stage. ‘So, what will you do next, I wonder?'

Gus also knew enough not to tell his mother that he had already chosen which regiment he and his friends intended to join, so he pulled another mock-serious face and said, ‘I am going to become a pirate! I shall sail under the black flag, owing nothing to anyone, taking all and sundry prisoner – except of course those who are orphans.'

He was alluding to the story in
The Pirates of Penzance
when everyone whom the pirates try to take prisoner turns out to be an orphan, it being well known that pirates – in Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, anyway – never rob or steal from orphans.

As it happened it was just the right note for Gus to strike. His mother laughed as, rehearsals temporarily at a halt, everyone started to drift
into the library, where drinks were served, after which they went into luncheon. Guests helped themselves from silver dishes, while Wavell directed the servants as a bandmaster might on a regimental parade ground.

As for Gus, the younger Knowle boy, of the sunny nature and the sweet smile, whom some newly arrived guests were now greeting with love and affection, hugging him delightedly, the thought occurred to him, and would not go away, that he was not really home at all, but on a roundabout horse, and the horse was going up and down, as roundabout horses do, and any minute now the music was going to stop.

But until that moment he was happy not to think of anything except that he was going to be a pirate, along with Teddy Heaslip, and James Millings, his sister Allegra's beau, and their neighbours on the vast Bauders estate, Pug Stapleton and Bertie Milborne, and, of course, Harry Wavell, who was now limping about with a bandage around his ankle. And of course there would be Almeric, and Perry Catesby, and no doubt a whole host of people roped in from around and about the house. Tully Tuttle would be hard to keep out, and old Coggle and Flint, who had both sung in the church choir since they were knee high to a grasshopper.

Oh, it would be a riot, would the Bauders' version of
The Pirates of Penzance
. He could not wait to hear the orchestra playing the opening
chords of the overture, and watch the heavy red curtains being drawn apart by the tall bewigged footmen to reveal the audience seated, the women fanning themselves, the men prepared to be bored, only shortly afterwards to find themselves becoming enchanted.

It was a marvellous thing to be at home and part of this great, untidy band of good-hearted people all living and working together on the magic island that was called Bauders; all wanting nothing more than to make jolly music for the entertainment of friends and neighbours.

But first the costumes had to be completed. The Duchess had already set up a sewing room on the first floor. Here everyone's maids, once they were clear of their other duties, skipped along to help out with the sewing of the costumes. Twenty pirates' costumes were being cut from sundry materials retrieved from around the place. Black patches were carefully designed, together with fearsome beards, made and dyed from remnants of coarse sheep's wool.

All the ladies of the chorus were destined to wear the prettiest little crinolines, the silk cut to be spread about their swaying hoops, their parasols made to match or tone with the dresses, so that they looked as fetching to the audience as they would look inviting to a band of pirates.

‘It's the policemen's uniforms we are going to be stuck for this year.' Browne, who as the Duchess's maid had naturally assumed the position of authority, was standing at the head of
the cutting-out table, frowning round at Bridie and Tinker, and the rest of the maids, all of whom already had their heads bent and their sewing needles darting.

‘My George is a policeman; I dare say we could ask to borrow some of the old uniforms from the station, Miss Browne,' stuttered one of the newest of the younger maids, looking up from her neat hemming, but only after having been nudged into having her hand held up for her by a neighbour at the table.

Browne looked down the table at the flushed face of the young maid. It was years since she herself had felt nervous of anyone, even the Duke.

‘You are new, aren't you, Findlay?'

Miss Findlay nodded and blushed, frightened that she might have spoken out of turn.

‘And none the worst for that, Findlay,' Browne told her in a purposefully kind voice. ‘No, you may indeed go to the police station and tell the men that we are badly in need of help on policemen's uniforms – and singers, for that matter.'

Browne nodded and turned away. They must have some singers down at the station; at least half of them would have been in the church choir when they were small. It was part of the reason the Reverend Mr Bletchworth and the Duchess were such friends. He could provide a choir for the castle, and she could provide cottages for the parents and children in the choir. It was an arrangement that suited everyone.

‘Very well, we will wait to hear from Findlay. Have you a bicycle?'

Mary Findlay nodded.

‘Go at once then, and tell them we need to beg, steal or borrow uniforms.'

Findlay bicycled off down to the park gates. The drive to the castle was so long, it would take her an hour to reach the old police station where her George worked. She bicycled harder and harder, knowing that on her depended so much; but more than that, she could not wait to tell George that he might be asked to be in the Duchess's musical play, because if there was one thing that George Bite could do was sing. Not that he could not do other things, of course he could, but his singing voice was exceptionally strong. He might even get to sing the lead and make a name for himself. She pushed harder at the foot pedals, and then coming at last to a downhill section of the great tree-lined drive, she freewheeled all the way downhill to the police station where she knew George would be sitting twiddling his thumbs.

‘I don't know what the world is coming to, really I don't,' George's sergeant was saying to George and his friend Billy Andrews as Mary pushed open the police station door. ‘Last week Miss Ponting had Rosalinda, her pet goat, taken from out her front garden where she'd tethered same. Tied up to a ring near horse trough in the square is where she found her. Not withstanding
that, yesterday someone decorated the top of the village post box with a chamber pot, if you would believe it.'

‘It was a prank, Sergeant.'

‘And a very nasty one too. Someone could have hurt themselves when they was posting of a letter. And as to that poor goat belonging to Miss Ponting, she needed milking – the goat did. Imagine that – a goat taken at milking time? The cruelty of it. Leathering, that is what pranksters like that need, a good leathering, and then we would have less crime here, and that is certain. Ah, now who is this, may I ask? Why it is Miss Findlay, if I am not mistaken.'

‘Good afternoon, Sergeant. I am come to ask your permission for George here to come to the castle, on behalf of the Duchess herself, speaking through Miss Browne.'

‘I see, Miss Findlay. And may I ask on what duty am I to send PC Bite?'

‘He is needed for … singing, now you come to ask, Sergeant Trump, singing in the musical play, which is all about policemen. You will all be needed, I hear, uniforms and all, and Miss Browne says any old uniforms, borrowed, or not needed, she will be most grateful to you, Sergeant Trump.'

‘And who will mind the station when we are all meant to be a-singing, may I ask, Miss Findlay?'

Mary smiled. ‘Oh, I dare say some of the Duke's men from the castle could stand in for
you at the police station when you are needed up at the castle, Sergeant Trump.'

‘But will they not be needed for the singing?'

‘Most of them, unlike you, Sergeant are a little too – how shall I say? – too mature to be on the stage? After all, it takes young, fit men to sing in a musical play.'

Mary was not so naïve that she was not aware that flattery could get her everywhere, and so it proved, because she returned up the long, long drive to the castle with not one fully uniformed policeman bicycling behind her, but two.

Half an hour later the Duchess found herself staring from George Bite and Billy Andrews to Browne and a justifiably triumphant Mary Findlay.

‘Gracious, Browne. I know we needed policemen's uniforms,' she said in a faint voice, ‘but it seems that we have both the uniforms
and
the men.'

‘It is not just their uniforms, Miss Browne. They can both sing too,' Mary told Browne in a proud whisper.

Browne turned to the Duchess. ‘They can both sing, Your Grace.'

Circe stared at them and, realising that both men were looking petrified by the sudden turn of events, soon set about putting them at their ease, discovering as she did so when she sat down to play a few simple scales for them, that they could not only sing, they could
really
sing.

‘Perfect. You are cast,' she told them, standing
up and shutting the piano lid, having followed up the scales with a number of standards. ‘And if there are any more like you at home, spread the word, we need all the policemen you can find for us!'

PC Bite and PC Andrews cycled back down to the police station, their lives transformed. After all, it was one thing to sing in the church choir, but to sing up at the castle, and in one of the Duchess's plays, that was indeed an honour.

‘Let us just hope that we can keep crime to the minimum, PC Bite, let us just hope that,' the sergeant murmured quietly as he did up the gates to the police station with the station handcuffs. ‘We must pray that there will be no more of these chamber pot and goat pranks during the time we are needed by Her Grace.'