Laughing House - Warwick Deeping (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

and it were more sensitive than most municipal autocrats. I was conscious of his hesitation.

“What did you think?”

“Well, sir, that er your house would make a most charming country club or—”

“Hotel.”

“Yes,”

“A case of pure prevision. That is why we want to get the place in order. My partner and I have our plans on paper, but paper isn’t paint—”

He nodded.

“I will be quite frank, sir. Had you been asking for mere personal expenditure I could not have passed it. That’s why I had to turn down your previous application. You did not state quite clearly—”

“Silly of me. But if I give you my word that the place is for service, and not for an old gentleman’s private pleasure?”

“That will satisfy us. Have you any idea whether you can find a firm who will do the work?”

“No. We waited. May I say I’m grateful for your understanding attitude,”

Hitherto I had approached the more pretentious people, and then I remembered old Tom Brown of Framley, a working builder and decorator in a small way. I had never employed him, and he had the reputation of being an awkward old devil, and rather fond of the pub. It occurred to me to try Mr. Brown. He might even be glad of a job.

I spoke of it to Sybil.

“Got any whisky left, Uncle?”

“Whisky?”

“Yes, just plain whisky.”

“Quite a lot.”

“Try a couple of bottles.”

“What on —?”

“Of course. All the world’s a wangle.”

“Naughty, naughty!”

Somehow, Sybil had put me in a laughing mood, and I drove my decrepit car to Framley with a couple of bottles of whisky on the back seat. I’ll admit they were camouflaged. I, found Mr. Thomas Brown painting a chest of drawers in his workshop. He was an austere looking rustic with a goatee beard and a very shrewd grey eye, laconic, aloof, vaguely spiteful.

“Good morning, Mr. Brown.”

“Mornin’.”

He went on painting.

“Any chance of you taking a job?”

“What sort o’ job?”

“Painting and distempering Beech Hill.”

That seemed to astonish him.

“What, the ‘old ‘ouse?”

“Yes.”

He sniffed and laid his brush across the paint-pot.

“Got yer authority to spend more than ten pounds?”

“I have.”

This time he grunted, and his grunt might have been yes or no, but I had my plan.

“Supposing you come and look round. I can drive you up and back.”

“No ‘arm in looking.”

I had taken out our front seat to give me room for shopping baskets, etc., and Mr. Brown sat down in the back seat almost on the whisky bottles. I glanced round and saw a hand. The rug revealed the bait.

I said: “Are those things in your way?”

He grunted.

“I forgot to take them out. I happen to have plenty. It’s damned difficult to get the stuff.”

He became topical.

“You’re tellin’ me.”

I drove off, and then I said quite casually: “When one’s tired a tot at night does one a world of good.”

He grunted, but there seemed to be a most consenting sound in the grunt.

“We’re not so young as we were. I like mine with a little hot water.”

Almost, he smacked his lips.

“I get that tired, sir, that I could go to bed with m’ clothes on.”

“Do you? That’s rather hard. Now I come to think of it, I can spare two bottles. You can have them to help you sleep.”

XIV

WE WERE to be more fortunate than I could have believed possible. Sybil was waiting for us, and she gave Mr. Brown her hand and her best smile. I am afraid I winked at her behind his back and held up two fingers. We took Mr. Brown all over the house, and explained that it was to be an hotel, and that redecoration was urgent. We were prepared to pay hand somely for any work done.

He caressed his beard, and was so grumpily mute for a while that I wondered whether the whisky had done its work as a persuader. We returned to the hall where Sybil had collected three empty cases, three bottles of beer and three glasses.

“Have some beer, Mr. Brown.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Miss.”

We all had beer, and to my surprise and relief Mr. Brown gave us a toast.

“Here’s to it, sir.”

“You’ll do the work?”

“How much have they allowed you?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

He grunted.

“Cost nearer a thousand I reckon.”

“Well, could you do as much as you can for five hundred?”

He emptied his glass, and Sybil refilled it. He gave a sudden grin in my direction.

“Call it five hundred, sir, for the time being. I ain’t in a hurry. Pound notes are useful things.”

“Splendid. Have you the labour?”

“Myself and my chap, and my boy. He’s been invalided out, but he’s pretty good.”

“Splendid,” said I again, “as a matter of fact I have some paint in store, if you are short. Could you make a start soon?”

“Next week.”

I felt like bouncing up and down on my box.

I drove Mr. Brown and the whisky home. He offered to pay for it, but I told him it was a present. Then I drove back and picked up Sybil.

“Well that’s a bit of luck, my dear.”

“Gorgeous.”

“By the way, what did he mean about pound notes?”

She gave me a mother look.

“Oh you sweet lamb. He’ll send you a bill for five hundred, and then you’ll stroll down one day with a wad of pound notes, and settle the difference.”

“But that’s—”

“Quite so,” said she, “just a harmless wink and a tiny wangle.”

I believe that the first thing Sybil did was to write a letter to Peter, and to run off to post it in the letter-box near Framley church. I was chuckling and reviewing my morals. Were we committing a social sin? I could not see it in that way, for there was no war damage waiting to be repaired in our neighbourhood, and old Brown had jumped at the job. Moreover, it was to be a good job, and not merely to satisfy an old gentleman’s luxury appetite.

Nor was this the end of our luck. Wicks turned up that afternoon and said that he had changed his mind. He would take the two huts we did not want, if the price was not too high. Yes, he had a little more labour and could remove the beastly things.

I said: “Take them with my blessing. I’ll charge you half the price the official people want for them.”

I gave him a stiff whisky, and the thing was done.

When I told old Potter he almost jumped with glee.

“We’ll get the Auto on them lawns, sir, and plough ‘em and scuffle ‘em, and I can sow ‘em ready for next year.”

Sybil and I went shopping. She had the list, and it was somewhat lengthy.

Eight basins for running water.

Three lavatory pans and seats.

Two baths.

Ten electric fires.

An electric water-heater.

Sundry kitchen utensils and gadgets.

Electric light bulbs.

We had no gas at High Beeches, but an electric cable had been laid years ago. I cannot say that I was opti mistic, and I was a little worried about the price of things. She catechized me in the train.

“Have you a Hoover, Uncle?”

“Yes, bought just before the war.”

“Fine. And a refrigerator?”

“A medium-sized one.”

“Oh great! Can old Brown plumb?”

“I believe so.”

We were luckier than I had expected. An electric water-heater was not to be had at present, but we got five basins, one bath, coloured a delicate green, and the lavatory pans. They allowed us five electric stoves of sorts, and Sybil did not do too badly with her kitchen stuff.

Had I a mangle, and a copper for washing?

I believed so.

And soap? Soap was the very devil.

I told her that I had a reserve of soap, dish cloths, glass cloths and towels.

“You lamb,” said she, under the very eyes of the salesman, and I wondered whether he thought that Sybil was to be an old man’s darling,

“Let’s try and celebrate, Uncle.”

We made the attempt, but not very successfully so. Every restaurant seemed chock-a-block, and my silly old club did not admit petticoats. We had to be satisfied with a Lyons, sausage and mash, and something they called trifle, but as a meal and for the price it was not too bad, and I take off my hat to Messrs. Lyons.

Aaother letter to Peter. I caught Sybil at it, and I made her add a postscript.

Britannia has begun to rule the waves. Try again for your release. If you think it will hety I will $ut in a letter.

I expect Sybil has given you all the news.

Old Potter came to me next morning.

“I be wanting ten gallons of weed-killer, sir. We’ll have to make do with that there smelly stuff.”

Figuratively I struck my forehead.

“By Jove, just remembered. I had ten gallons of arsenic in store somewhere.”

“That’s the stuff, sir. Where be it?”

“I remember now. Two drums in the cottage shed.”

Old Potter looked as pleased as though he was about to administer arsenic to the whole Hitler gang.

“Them darned weeds. Nothin’ like ars-nic for frizzlin’ them up. And they stay frizzled.”

I carted the drums up to the house, and for two days the weather being propitious Potter with budge and can, gave himself to the slaughter with an air of beatific satisfaction. The weedy drive, the paths, the stable yard were given their dressing, and in a few days that which had been a green and weedy mess, became a shaggy brown pelt. The gravel reappeared, and later old Potter and Tom, busy with stubbly besoms, swept up the dead and gave them a fine funeral pyre.

On Sybil’s very last morning the letter reached me. I read it at the breakfast table and smirked at my egg on toast.

“H’m, not bad news.”

“Who’s it from, Uncle?”

“Do you mean to tell me you haven’t done any snooping.”

“I don’t snoop other people’s letters.”

“Well, give a guess.”

“Not good at guessing.”

“It’s from Peter.”

“Peter!”

“He says that the weather is quite nice, and that potatoes look promising.”

And suddenly she tumbled to it.

“Oh Uncle Let me—”

“Now, now!”

“Don’t be a herb—”

She jumped up, but I forestalled her.

“Fact is Peter is getting his discharge.”

“Oh, my dear!” and she came round the table and kissed me.

Sybil and I had discussed painting and decorating. The distemper and paint I happened to have in store were both cream coloured, and Mr. Brown had a cer tain amount of material on hand. Purchases would be patchy. I gathered that some brown wall paint was on the market. Now, in many of the rooms the paper was still in passable condition and could be sized and dis tempered. The old Jacobean tapestry pattern in the lower rooms had received most damage, but not more than shoulder high, and Sybil had suggested that we should wash it over with a thin coat of whitish dis temper and let the old flowery blues and reds and greens show dimly through. The lower four feet of the walls could be cleaned up and painted brown. All ceilings of course would have to be whitewashed. I liked the idea, and talked it over with old Brown. The whisky appeared to have put him into a most consenting humour, and we decided to try the scheme of decoration out on one of the smaller rooms, but he pointed out to me that it would be wiser to get the out-door painting done while the good weather held, for many of the window frames were almost