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

and glistened in the sunlight. The grass looked as green as in spring. The pool was black and glassy, emphasizing the whiteness of the house, with its two sturdy pillars. Near by a big old pear tree still wore a few crimson leaves. Smoke went straight up from the chimneys. Windows blinked at me.

Or were they winking?

I was wearing my blue overalls, and an old leather jerkin. My hands rested on my knees, and happening to glance at them I realized that they were different hands, work worn along the inside of the thumbs and first fingers. I smiled at them. They were old hands, and yet young hands. My hair was white but thick. I felt smooth in my tummy, and clear of head.

Calmness should come with age, and a happy tranquility, but my calmness was not the coldness of death.

Yes, the House was winking at me.

Laughing House.

I sat there and reflected upon the years that had gone by, and upon the almost fantastic changes which had exploded upon us like an atomic bomb. They had blown me head over heels, and yet here I was, sitting on a tree root, and feeling good and not superfluous. Thanks to the young and my helpers I was doing a job and doing it not too badly.

What would Sibilla have thought?

My feeling was that she was somewhere near and smiling.

Then I heard Peter’s voice behind me.

“Hullo, Uncle, having a look-see—?”

“Hullo, what are you doing up here?”

He stood beside me.

“Not just coincidence. Saw you mooching up and felt like coming too.”

We were silent for some seconds.

Then he said: “Our show. Jolly good show. Isn’t the old house looking jocund?”

“It is. Laughing house, my lad.”

“Feeling good, Uncle?”

“Very good,” said I.

XXIII

CHRISTMAS.

The house was warm, and full of lights and colour, glancing in its many mirrors, and with wood fires burning everywhere. We had decided on a good old-fashioned Christmas and all of us had been hard at it with holly and laurels and laurestinus. It was a won derful berry year, blood on the chaplets of peace. Peter had managed to scrounge some boxes of crackers, and candles and coloured paper. Ellen had made puddings. I had arranged to kill three geese, poor dears, and Polly was so upset about it that we had to get Tom to do the job for her.

But I had a new idea for Christmas. The house was full, and of comfortable people; no human snags. I had some champagne left, and it seemed to me that now was the time to drink it in celebrating our first Christmas though I could not call it a season of peace. The whole world seemed to be squabbling like a huddle of old hags.

My idea was this; it should be a communal Christmas. Tables should be laid in the hall as well as in the dining-room, and staff and guests should dine in company and serve themselves and each other. We would sing carols, and have games in the billiard-room, the old games of my childhood: Blind Man’s Buff and Nuts in May, and Oranges and Lemons, and we would dance Sir Roger de Coverley. Peter could preside at the piano.

I put it to him and to Sybil, and they fell for the idea.

“Oh, great idea, Uncle.”

Sybil was more practical.

“What about the washing-up?”

“Oh, damn the washing-up,” said I, “let’s leave it to the morning, and tell everybody to be late out of bed.”

The House tumbled to the notion. I explained it to our guests, and they co-operated like Christians. Everybody would give a hand, volunteer to serve and wait. It might be a bit of a scramble, but great fun, and when we were all nicely laced with free champagne I rather thought there would be no grit in our gambols.

For I had been reflecting upon the cheerfulness and contentment of our staff. All women have bad days, when they must let off fireworks, but our fireworks were very small squibs, and I think our house was a happy house because each worker in and outside felt herself or himself to be a person. Modern man’s life is so damned impersonal, and this impersonality may be at the back of strikes, and envies and savageries. The common man, docker, miner, weaver knows in his heart that he will be no more than what he is, a twig in a bundle, and there is anger and bitterness in him. He may not be conscious that balked self-conceit is at the bottom of it all. And what does he do? Gathers himself and thousands of others like him into a bundle, a birch rod for the beating of the community. Only by making himself a bloody mass-nuisance to his fellows can he become conscious of a feeling of individual importance and power.

But of our dinner.

Lights, and dancing fires, and colour, polish on the old furniture, firelight on the pictures. I thought the House had never looked more rich, and jocund and happy. We gathered in the drawingroom for mild cocktails, all save Ellen and Mrs. Hobson who would not leave the kitchen. Our two senior guests carried round the glasses, which was a nice gesture, and I took two little drinks to Ellen and her helper. Ellen had a rosy and perspiring face, and she refused her drink. Mrs. Hobson accepted hers.

It was a laughing, jolly show. Sybil led the volunteer waiters and waitresses. We did not segregate. ourselves, but mixed staff and guests, and Marie, in a vivacious, glistening mood, was ready to give glad eyes to any man. Polly looked damned pretty in a light blue frock. I had put on a white jacket, and played wine-waiter.

I had kept the champagne a secret, except from Peter, and he helped me with the bottles. There was a merry popping and applause when I said that the sparkling stuff was a gift from the House. Everybody chattered, everybody laughed. We brought in a half-protesting Ellen and sat her down at the head of a table. I filled her glass and held up mine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the most important person of the evening: Our cook.”

We drank Ellen’s health, standing.

“Speech, Ellen,” said Peter.

She bounced off at that, and fled to attend to her geese.

I was kept busy, filling glasses, and popping bottles, until there was a protest from two or three of our ladies.

“It isn’t fair. Sir John is getting no dinner.”

“I’m quite happy,” said I.

But two charming creatures came and sat me down in my chair, and Peter took charge of the champagne.

I must say it was a great meal, though half of us were up and down, changing plates and serving. An eminent surgeon who was with us for a week, operated on the birds. The pudding was brought in in the old-fashioned way, alight and redolent of brandy. Jean and Marie insisted on playing pudding-maids. Then we pulled crackers, everybody with everybody. We put on caps and crowns, and swapped sentimental or provocative mottoes. Someone came and crowned me with gold paper; I think it was Sybil. Peter was on his feet, with his glass raised.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a toast. Here’s to the father of the show, our host Sir John Christmas.”

They called on me for a speech, and I stood and chuckled at them.

“Thank you, all of you, very very much. But I loathe speeches, especially my own. Let’s go and play Oranges and Lemons.”

“Uncle,” said Peter, “you’re a lemon.”

I found myself the first victim in Nuts and May, and Polly was sent to pull me over. She did so.

“So much for mere man,” said I.

And would you believe it, Polly kissed me, to the accompaniment of loud applause.

And before the evening was over I believe nearly all the women had kissed me.

What a Christmas, but after Sir Roger de Coverley, which I danced with Sybil, I sneaked away into the library, and lit a pipe and sat down and looked at my wife’s picture.

THE END