I Capture the Castle Read online

  I shall have to get off the draining-board—Topaz wants the tea-cozy and our dog, Heloise, has come in and discovered I have borrowed her blanket.

  She is a bull-terrier, snowy white except where her fondant-pink skin shows through her short hair.

  All right, Heloise darling, you shall have your blanket. She gazes at me with love, reproach, confidence and humor-how can she express so much just with two rather small slanting eyes his I finish this entry sitting on the stairs. I think it worthy of note that I never felt happier in my life-despite sorrow for Father, pity for Rose, embarrassment about Stephen’s poetry and no justification for hope as regards our family’s general outlook. Perhaps it is because I have satisfied my creative urge; or it may be due to the thought of eggs for tea.

  II

  LA-AR. Written in bed.

  I am reasonably comfortable as I am wearing my school coat and have a hot brick for my feet, but I wish it wasn’t my week for the little iron bedstead —Rose and I take it in turns to sleep in the four-poster. She is sitting up in it reading a library book. When Miss Marcy brought it she said it was “a pretty story.” Rose says it is awful, but she would rather read it than think about herself.

  Poor Rose! She is wearing her old blue flannel dressing-gown with the skirt part doubled up round her waist for warmth. She has had that dressing-gown so long that I don’t think she sees it any more; if she were to put it away for a month and then look at it, she would get a shock.

  But who am I to talk—who have not had a dressing gown at all for two years his The remains of my last one are wrapped round my hot brick.

  Our room is spacious and remarkably empty.

  With the exception of the four-poster, which is in very bad condition, all the good furniture has gradually been sold and replaced by minimum requirements bought in junk-shops. Thus we have a wardrobe without a door and a bamboo dressing-table which I take to be a rare piece. I keep my bedside candlestick on a battered tin trunk that cost one shilling; Rose has hers on a chest of drawers painted to imitate marble, but looking more like bacon.

  The enamel jug and basin on a metal tripod is my own personal property, the landlady of “The Keys” having given it to me after I found it doing no good in a stable. It saves congestion in the bathroom. One rather nice thing is the carved wooden window-seat- I am thankful there is no way of selling that. It is built into the thickness of the castle wall, with a big mullioned window above it. There are windows on the garden side of the room, too; little diamond-paned ones.

  One thing I have never grown out of being fascinated by is the round tower which opens into a corner.

  There is a circular stone staircase inside it by which you can go up to the battlemented top, or down to the drawing-room; though some of the steps have crumbled badly.

  Perhaps I ought to have counted Miss Blossom as a piece of furniture. She is a dressmaker’s dummy of most opulent figure with a wire skirt round her one leg. We are a bit silly about Miss Blossom-we pretend she is real.

  We imagine her to be a woman of the world, perhaps a barmaid in her youth. She says things like “Well, dearie, that’s what men are like,” and “You hold out for your marriage lines.”

  The Victorian vandals who did so many unnecessary things to this house didn’t have the sense to put in passages, so we are always having to go through each other’s rooms. Topaz has just wandered through ours-wearing a nightgown made of plain white calico with holes for her neck and arms; she thinks modern underclothes are vulgar. She looked rather like a victim going to an Auto da Fe, but her destination was merely the bathroom. Topaz and Father sleep in the big room that opens on to the kitchen staircase. There is a little room between them and us which we call “Buffer State”;

  Topaz uses it as a studio. Thomas has the room across the landing, next to the bathroom.

  I wonder if Topaz has gone to ask Father to come to bed—she is perfectly capable of stalking along the top of the castle walls in her nightgown. I hope she hasn’t, because Father does so snub her when she bursts into the gatehouse. We were trained as children never to go near him unless invited and he thinks she ought to behave in the same way.

  No—she didn’t go. She came back a few minutes ago and showed signs of staying here, but we didn’t encourage her. Now she is in bed and is playing her lute. I like the idea of a lute, but not the noise it makes; it is seldom in tune and appears to be an instrument that never gets a run at anything.

  I feel rather guilty at being so unsociable to Topaz, but we did have such a sociable evening.

  Round about eight o’clock, Miss Marcy came with the books. She is about forty, small and rather faded yet somehow very young. She blinks her eyes a lot and is apt to giggle and say: “Well, reely!” She is a Londoner but has been in the village over five years now. I believe she teaches very nicely; her specialties are folk song and wild flowers and country lore. She didn’t like it here when first she came (she always says she “missed the bright lights”); but she soon made herself take an interest in country things, and now she tries to make the country people interested in them too.

  As librarian, she cheats a bit to give us the newest books; she’d had a delivery today and had brought Father a detective novel that only came out the year before last—and it was by one of his favorite authors. Topaz said:

  “Oh, I must take this to Mortmain at once.”

  She calls Father “Mortmain” partly because she fancies our odd surname, and partly to keep up the fiction that he is still a famous writer. He came back with her to thank Miss Marcy and for once he seemed quite genuinely cheerful.

  “I’ll read any detective novel, good, bad or indifferent,” he told her, “but a vintage one’s among the rarest pleasures of life.”

  Then he found out he was getting this one ahead of the Vicar and was so pleased that he blew Miss Marcy a kiss. She said “Oh, thank you, Mr. Mortmain! That is, I mean—well, reely!” and blushed and blinked. Father then flung his rug round him like a toga and went back to the gatehouse looking quite abnormally goodhumored.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Miss Marcy said “How is he?” in a hushed sort of voice that implied he was at death’s door or off his head.

  Rose said he was perfectly well and perfectly useless, as always. Miss Marcy looked shocked.

  “Rose is depressed about our finances,” I explained.

  “We mustn’t bore Miss Marcy with our worries,” said Topaz, quickly. She hates anything which casts a reflection on Father.

  Miss Marcy said that nothing to do with our household could possibly bore her— I know she thinks our life at the castle is wildly romantic. Then she asked, very diffidently, if she could help us with any advice— “Sometimes an outside mind .. “

  I suddenly felt that I should rather like to consult her; she is such a sensible little woman-it was she who thought of getting me the book on speed-writing. Mother trained us never to talk about our affairs in the village, and I do respect Topaz’s loyalty to Father, but I was sure Miss Marcy must know perfectly well that we are broke.

  “If you could suggest some ways of earning money,” I

  “Or of making it go further—I’m sure you’re all much too artistic to be really practical.

  Let’s hold a board meeting!”

  She said it as if she were enticing children to a game. She was so eager that it would have seemed quite rude to refuse;

  and I think Rose and Topaz felt desperate enough to try anything.

  “Now, paper and pencils,” said Miss Marcy, clapping her hands. Writing paper is scarce in this house, and I had no intention of tearing sheets out of this exercise book, which is a superb sixpenny one the Vicar gave me. In the end, Miss Marcy took the middle pages out of her library record, which gave us a pleasant feeling that we were stealing from the government, and then we sat round the table and elected her chairman. She said she must be secretary, too, so that she could keep the minutes, and wrote down:

  INQUIRY INTO THE F
INANCES OF THE MORTMAIN FAMILY

  Present: Miss Marcy (chairman) Mrs. James Mortmain Miss Rose Mortmain Miss Cassandra Mortmain Thomas Mortmain Stephen Colly We began by discussing expenditure.

  “First, rent,” said Miss Marcy.

  The rent is forty pounds a year, which seems little for a commodious castle, but we have only a few acres of land, the country folk think the ruins are a drawback, and there are said to be ghosts-which there are not. (there are some queer things up on the mound, but they never come into the house.) Anyway, we haven’t paid any rent for three years. Our landlord, a rich old gentleman who lived at Scoatney Hall, five miles away, always sent us a ham at Christmas whether we paid the rent or not. He died last November and we have sadly missed the ham.

  “They say the Hall’s going to be re-opened,” said Miss Marcy when we had told her the position about the rent.

  “Two boys from the village have been taken on as extra gardeners. Well, we will just put the rent down and mark it “optional”. Now what about food? Can you do it on fifteen shillings a week per head? Say a pound per head, including candles, lamp-oil and cleaning materials.”

  The idea of our family ever coming by six pounds a week made us all hoot with laughter.

  “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.