At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [53]
‘I hope there will be something to drink tonight,’ said Mona.
‘Is it a bit short as a rule?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t exactly flow.’
‘Why didn’t you have a pint of gin before you came out then,’ asked Quiggin, gratingly, ‘if you can’t ever get through an evening without wanting to feel tipsy at the end of it? There always seems enough to me. Not buckets but enough.’
His nerves were still on edge.
‘All right,’ said Mona. ‘Don’t bite my head off. You grumbled yourself the last time you came here.’
‘Did I, ducks?’
He took her arm.
‘We’ll have a nice drink when we get back,’ he said, ‘if Alf should happen to be in one of his moods.’
1 felt apprehensive at the thought that Erridge might be ‘in one of his moods’. Quiggin had not mentioned these ‘moods’ before, although their nature was easy to imagine from what had been said. I wished we could continue to walk, as we were doing, through glades of oak and chestnut trees in the cool twilight, without ever reaching the house and the grim meal which now seemed to lie ahead of us. We had continued for about ten minutes when roofs came suddenly into view, a group of buildings of some dignity, though without much architectural distinction: a seventeenth-century mansion such as Quiggin had described, brick at the back and fronted in the eighteenth century with stone. The façade faced away from us across a wide stretch of lawn, since we had arrived at the side of the house amongst a network of small paths and flowerbeds, rather fussily laid out and not too well kept. Quiggin led the way through these borders, making for a projection of outbuildings and stables. We passed under an arch into a cobbled yard. Quiggin made for a small door, studded with brass nails. By the side of this door hung an iron bell-pull. He stopped short and turned towards me, looking suddenly as if he had lost heart. Then he took hold of himself and gave the bell a good jerk.
‘Does one always come in this way?’
‘The front of the house is kept shut,’ he said.
‘What happens inside?’
‘The state rooms—if that is what you call them—are closed. Alf just lives in one corner of the place.’
‘In the servants’ quarters?’
‘More or less. That is probably what they used to be.’
We waited for a long time. Quiggin appeared unwilling to ring again, but, under pressure from Mona, at last decided to repeat his wrench at the bell. There was another long pause. Then steps could be heard moving very slowly and carefully down the stairs. Inner fumbling with the door-knob took place, and the door was opened by a man-servant. I recognised Smith, the butler temporarily employed by the Jeavonses on my first visit to their house.
‘Lord Warminster?’ muttered Quiggin, interrogatively.
Smith made no answer. A kind of grimace had crossed his features when he saw Quiggin and Mona; naturally enough, he gave me no sign of recognition. Apart from this brief, indeed scarcely perceptible contraction of nose and lips—perhaps merely a nervous twitch—he expressed no further welcome. However, he stood aside to allow us to enter. We trooped in, finding ourselves in a kind of back hall where several passages met. There was an impression of oak chests, shabby bookcases full of unreadable books, mahogany dressers and other huge pieces of furniture, expelled at one time or another from the central part of the house; the walls covered with large oil paintings of schools long fallen out of fashion. Smith, as if suffering from some painful disease in the lower half of his body, strode uncertainly before us towards a narrow flight of stairs. We followed in silence. Even Mona seemed overawed by the cavernous atmosphere of gloom. Passing through corridors, and still further corridors, all lined with discredited canvases and an occasional marble bust, Smith stopped before a door. Then he turned almost savagely upon us.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Quiggin