9780099460879

EX LIBRIS

VINTAGE CLASSICS

DODIE SMITH

Born in 1896, Dodie Smith grew up in Manchester. She trained at RADA and began her playwriting career in 1931 with Autumn Crocus; Dear Octopus in 1938 was her abiding success. In 1939 she went to the USA with her manager, Alec Beesley, whom she married that year. There she wrote for Hollywood, made a close friend of Christopher Isherwood and acquired the first of her beloved Dalmatian dogs. I Capture the Castle was published in 1949, selling over a million copies. The Beesleys returned to the UK in 1954 and in 1956 The Hundred and One Dalmatians was published. Dodie Smith died in November 1990. Valerie Grove, who introduces this novel, has written her biography, Dear Dodie, championed by Fiona MacCarthy in the Observer as ‘a merry book . . . with a faultless sense of period . . . making a persuasive case for a long neglected talent’.

The Town in Bloom

It Ends With Revelations

A Tale of Two Families

The Girl in the Candle-lit Bath

children’s novels

The Hundred and One Dalmatians

The Starlight Barking

The Midnight Kittens

a U tobio G ra P hy

Look Back With Love

Look Back With Mixed Feelings

Look Back With Astonishment

Look Back With Gratitude

DODIE SMITH

I CAPTURE THE CASTLE

W ith an introd U ction by Valerie Grove

Vintage Classics is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies

Vintage, Penguin Random House UK , One Embassy Gardens, 8 Viaduct Gardens, London sW11 7bW

penguin.co.uk/vintage-classics global.penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © Dodie Smith 1949 Introduction © Valerie Grove 1996 Revised introduction © Valerie Grove 2004

The moral right of the author has been asserted

First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann in 1949 This paperback first published in Vintage Classics in 2004 This paperback reissued in Vintage Classics in 2025

Illustrations by Ruth Steed from sketches by the author

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the DSM Directive 2019/790, Penguin Random House expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library isbn 9780099460879

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

The authorised representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin d02 yh68

Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

C ONTENTS

INTRODUCTION vii

BookI: THESIXPENNYBOOK

March 5

BookII: THESHILLINGBOOK

AprilandMay 85

BookIII: THETWO-GUINEABOOK JunetoOctober 223

I NTRODUCTION

CassandraMortmain,asonecriticsaid,isayounggirl ‘poisedbetweenchildhoodandadultery’.DodieSmith wroteherselfintothecharacterofCassandra.She vividlyrecalledwhatitfeltliketobeseventeenandpouringherheartintoadiary–thoughshewasfifty-twoby thetimeshepublished ICapturetheCastle. Itwasherfirstnovel,writteninafeverofnostalgiafor England.In1945DodiewaslivinginCalifornia.She andherpacifisthusbandAlecandtheirDalmatian, Pongo(andtheirRolls-Royce)hadlefttheiridylliccottageatFinchingfieldinEssexjustbeforetheoutbreakof war.Itwasthepinnacleofherfameasaplaywright, when DearOctopus,themostenduringofhersixsuccessful1930splays,wasstillbeingperformedtopacked housesintheWestEnd.Hernamewasinlights,andshe neverimaginedthatshewasgoingintofourteenyears ofexile.InAmerica,shemadeahandsomelivingfrom Hollywood,butshefoundCaliforniaa‘meaningless’ place,andfeltscreenwritingtobeaprostitutionofher skills.Onlyonenewplay, LoversandFriends,madeitto Broadwayin1942.Shelivedinaperpetualstateof wretchedregretabouthavingleftLondon,whereshe longedtobe,herearpressedtothewirelessreports,avid forlettersfromfriendswiththeiraccountsofairraids, furiousathavingdeniedherselfthe‘goodcopy’that Britainatwarmighthavesuppliedherforherplays,if onlyshehadstayed.

Soshesatdownatthedeskfacingthewindowin AnatoleLitvak’ssplendidhouseatMalibu,witha

TheoriginsofthestorylayintheglimpseDodiehad had,oneeveningin1934,ofamediaevalmoatedcastle atWingfieldinSuffolk.ShelovedSuffolkvillages;their thatchedcottagesandruinedmanorhouses.Shebegan toconjureupafamilylivinginpenuryinthedilapidated castle:aonce-successfulwriternamedMortmain,now afflictedwithwriter’sblock;hissecondwife,Topaz,a formerartist’smodel;andhistwodaughters,thebeautifulRose,agedtwenty-one,andthesparkyCassandra, agedseventeen,whoyearnforromanticattachmentsbut fretatnevermeetinganymarriageablemen,‘even hideous,poverty-strickenones’.

OftheMortmainsandGodsendCastleDodiewrote, ‘Iknewthatfamily;Ilivedinthatcastle.’Itwasaplace wherethepastis‘likeapresence,acaressintheair’.She lyricallydescribes‘thepooloflightinthecourtyard,the goldenwindows,thestrangelong-agolookthatonesees inoldpaintings’.Cassandra’sdiarystartsinasixpenny notebookwiththewords‘Iwritethissittinginthe kitchensink’,whichbecameoneofthemostmemorable openinglinesintwentieth-centuryfiction.

ThetwogirlsandtheirschoolboybrotherThomasare growingimpatientwiththeirdifficult,eccentricfather, whoseroyaltieshavedwindledtonothingsincethe succèsd’estime hehadwithanexperimentalnovelcalled JacobWrestling,publishedjustbeforeJoyce’s Ulysses.

viii magnificentviewoverthePacificOceanandthewide bluesky,andbegantowrite ICapturetheCastle.Itwas theonlyoneofhernovels(shewaslatertowritefive more,aswellasthechildren’sbook TheHundredand OneDalmatians)whichwaswrittenwithrealinspiration,andpackedwithconvincingcharacters,whichhave keptitinprintandclosetoreaders’heartsformorethan fivedecades.

Afteraperiodinprison(followinganoddaltercation withaneighbour)hehasbecomealoof,secretive,sarcastic,andshuttershimselfinthecastlegatehouse.

Cassandrabelievestheironhasenteredhissoul.Her stepmotherTopazisafey,almostetherealpresence, pronetowaftaboutcommuningwithnatureinashroudlikenightgown,orintherain,nakedunderhermac.

LiketheFossilsistersinNoelStreatfeild’s Ballet Shoes,theyekeouteverypennyofexpenditureandthere ismuchmakingdoandmending,andleaningonthe kindnessofothers.Theonlyincomeinthefamilycomes fromtheirlodgerStephen,ahandsomeyounghired handwhodotesonCassandra.Shedescribeshimas‘fair andnoble-looking,buthisexpressionisjustafraction daft’.Alltheirfinefurniturehasgraduallybeensold, replacedwithminimumrequirementsboughtinjunk shops:‘allwereallyhaveenoughofisfloor’.Theyhave sofewtowelsthat‘onwashdaywehavetoshakeourselves’.Lightingisbycandle(Dodie’sfavouriteformof lightingthroughoutherlife,eveninherbathroom). Rose,‘apinkishperson’who‘looksparticularlyfetching byfirelight’saysshewouldmarrythedevilhimselfifhe hadmoney.Whenshedeclaresthatshewillgoonthe streetsifnecessary,Cassandraretortsthatshecannotgo onthestreetsinthedepthsofSuffolk.

Theirprospectsandspiritsrisedramaticallywiththe arrivaloftwoprosperoushalf-Americanbrothers,Neil andSimonCotton,andtheirAmericanmother,landlordsoftheGodsendCastleestateandheirsofScoatney Hall,thenearbymanorhousewherethearomaisof flowersandbeeswax.Thegirls’response,afterthefashionof PrideandPrejudice,ispredictablyromantic:Rose isinstantlydeterminedtomarrytheelderbrother, Simon,despitehisunprepossessingbeard.

Butthereisnothingpredictableaboutthecourseof events,noraboutthecharacterfulandamusingpersonalityofCassandra,throughwhoseeyesweseeeverything.Asthevicarperceptivelysaysofher,sheis‘Jane EyrewithatouchofBeckySharp.Athoroughlydangerousgirl.’Shemaybefanciful,whimsicalandevenpreciousattimes(withherritualsofgatheringwildflowers anddancingroundafireonMidsummerEve)andwhile sheispossessedofaguilelesscharm–onfirsttasting champagneshedecidesitis‘ratherlikegingeralewithouttheginger’–sheisalsofullofsturdygoodsense:‘O joyousnight!Itismybathnight.Ishallgodownandbe kindtoeveryone.Nobledeedsandhotbathsarethebest curefordepression’,‘Iamfeelingabsurdlyhappyatthe moment.MaybeitisbecauseIhavefulfilledmycreative urge;ormaybeitisthethoughtofeggsfortea.’She viewsRose’spredatorybehaviourtowardsthemenwith ayoungersister’sdisapproval:‘Thereweremoments whenmydeepandlovingpityforhermergedintoadeep desiretokickherfairlyhard.’

Rose’sengagementtoSimondulychangeseverything. EvenStephenthehandsomefarmhandistakenupbya Cottonrelativewhodeterminestomakehimintoafilm star.Cassandra’ssixpennynotebookisreplacedbya two-guineabook,boundinblueandgoldleather,agift withafountainpenfromSimon(‘ButIseemedtogeton betterwithastumpofpencil’)andwhenRosegoesto Londontobuyher£1000trousseau,Cassandraisleftto speculatethatthefulfilmentofone’shopesmightbring notblissbut‘nokindoffeeling’.‘Iwonderifthereisn’ta catchabouthavingplentyofmoney.Doesiteventually takethepleasureoutofthings?…Itdoesseemtomethat theclimateofrichnessmustalwaysbealittledullingto thesenses.’Itcertainlythreatenstodividethesisters,as

x

CassandraismovedtoturnonRose’scynicalscheming withunaccustomedspite:‘Ohgoandsitinyourbathroomandcountyourpeach-colouredtowels.’

Dodiefinisheddraftinghernovelshortlyafterthewar ended,buteventhelonged-forpeacedidnotrescueher fromtheanguishshesufferedoverthebook;shewasso anxiousthatherfirstnovelshouldbeasuccessafterthe longyearsoffrustrationandfailurewithplays.Therevisionswentonfortwoyears,andtormentedher.She rewroteeveryline,underAlec’scriticalsupervision, rehearsingeverylineofdialogueandunabletostop thinkingaboutit,eveninbed,wakingeachmorning withavisceraldread,hermindthrobbingwithnerves andnaggedbydoubts.Shefeltshewasdisintegrating mentallyandphysically.Butherindustrywasunflagging.Shedrewlittlesketchesofthegirls’bedroominthe tower(inspiredbyMargotAsquith’saccountofher girlhoodwithhersisterLauraTennantatGlen,their baronial,turretedancestralhome).Alecsharpenedher pencils,madeamodelofthecastle,questionedevery detailoftopography,andre-readthetextdozensof times.Dodie’s100,000wordnotebookontheprogress ofthenovelrecordshoweachcharacterdeveloped,and howeventheminorcharacters,downtotheMortmains’ dogandcat,werekeptinplay.Theendingremained uncertain.Dodieherselffeltthatitendedinatotally differentwayfromwhatshehadexpected.

Thepainstakinglabourpaidoff.Hernovelwaseffortlesstoread,andaninstantcriticalandpopularsuccess. HerBostonpublishersoldittotheLiteraryGuildbook clubwhichsubscribedhalfamillioncopies;theLondon publicationin1949tookitstraighttothetopofthe bestsellerlists.TworesponsestohernovelwereparticularlypleasingtoDodie.OnewasthatofChristopher

Isherwood,oneofthefriendsshehadmadeduringher yearsinAmerica,whohadcometodependonhercriticaladviceabouthisownnovels.Shehadwarned Christopher,withastudiedinsouciance,thatitwas‘just alittlepieceforPeg’sPaper–writtenwithacarethat wouldnothavedisgracedFlaubert.’Herespondedwith atreasuredletter:‘Tosay“Icouldn’tputitdown”is hardlyoriginal,buttrue…Yourtremendousstrengthis detail.Itislikeareallygoodcarving:themoreyoulook atit,themoreyousee…Ithinkitisabookthatwillbe verymuchlivedinbymanypeople;becauseyoucanlive init,likeDickens.’Hewascharmedandmovedbythe episodeinwhichCassandralocksherfatherinthetower togethimtounblockhistalentandwrite.Hefeltthatat timeshehadonlyjustescapedbeinglockedupbyDodie himself.

Andattheendof1949theMalibupostmanarrived onhismotorscooterdeliveringtheLondon Sunday Times whichthen,asnow,rana‘ChristmasBooksofthe Year’featureinwhichcelebritiesnamedtheirfavourite reading.TherewasRalphVaughanWilliams’snomination: ICapturetheCastle.ToDodietherecouldhave beennogreaterhonour,asshetoldhim;sheconsidered himthegreatestlivingcomposer,andhadbeenlistening tohisMassinGMinoronlythenightbefore.Hismusic personifiedEnglandforher,andallthatshewasexiled fromandnostalgicfor.

Howevermanytimesshetoldpeopleinlettersthather novelwasmerePeg’sPaperstuffshedidcaredesperately aboutitsreception.Andshelivedtoknowhowlongits appeallingered.Althoughtheplayshewrotebasedon thenovel(withVirginiaMcKennaexquisiteasCassandra,andRogerMoore,BillTraversandRichardGreene asthethreeyoungmen)lastedonlyfourweeksatthe

xii

Aldwychin1954,theyearshereturnedhome,thebook itselfstayedinprint,gatheringnewreaders,oftenpassed onbymothersandgrandmothersrecommendingitto daughtersandgranddaughters.

BythetimeDodiediedin1990,agedninety-four,she wasprobablymorepopularlyknownfor TheHundred andOneDalmatians,thankstoDisney’scartoonfilm. ButwhenembarkingonDodie’sbiographyinthemid1990s,Ikeptbeingtoldbypeoplethat ICapturethe Castle hadbeenaseminalbookintheirlives.Antonia FrasertoldmethatthesceneinwhichRoseisheard singinginherhotelroomisoneofthemosteroticever written;ArmisteadMaupin,whoseEnglishgrandmotherhadgivenhimthebookwhenhewasaboyinthe AmericanDeepSouth,paidhomagetoitbyorganising his1993novel MaybetheMoon alongCassandra’s ‘shillingnotebook’lines.Itwasafavouritebookof JoannaTrollopeandherdaughters;andwhenJ.K. RowlingeruptedontotheliteraryscenewithHarry Potter,shetoonamed ICapturetheCastle astheinfluentialbookofheryouth.Butitscharmdefiesclassificationintoreaderage-groups;Ireaditaloudtomy daughtersbeforetheirteens,butalsogavecopiestoseveralmenofsixtyormore,whowereastonishedtofind themselvesbeguiledbythesharpwitandperceptionof Cassandra.Ihavenevermetareaderwhowantedthe storytoend.

Andwhen,afterthirty-fiveyearsonthestocksofthe Disneyorganisation(Walthimselfhadboughtthefilm rightsin1963,afterthesuccessof TheHundredand OneDalmatians)ICapturetheCastle waseventually madeintoafilmreleasedin2003,theproducersdiscoveredinRomolaGaraiayoungactressofeighteenwho wouldplayCassandratoperfection.Romolahadbeen

giventhenovelbyanauntwheninherearlyteens.Dodie wouldhavelovedtoknowthatthenovel,herfinest legacy,hadbeenpasseddownthegenerationsinthisway intothetwenty-firstcentury.Shehad,afterall,entitled herownseventeen-year-olddiary‘AnEyeonPosterity’.

ValerieGrove,London2003

IC APTURE THE C ASTLE

I TheSixpennyBook

March

Iwritethissittinginthekitchensink.Thatis,myfeet areinit;therestofmeisonthedraining-board,which Ihavepaddedwithourdog’sblanketandthetea-cosy.I can’tsaythatIamreallycomfortable,andthereisa depressingsmellofcarbolicsoap,butthisistheonly partofthekitchenwherethereisanydaylightleft.And Ihavefoundthatsittinginaplacewhereyouhave neversatbeforecanbeinspiring–Iwrotemyverybest poemwhilesittingonthehen-house.Thougheven thatisn’taverygoodpoem.Ihavedecidedmypoetry issobadthatImustn’twriteanymoreofit.

Dripsfromtheroofareploppingintothewater-butt bythebackdoor.Theviewthroughthewindowsabove thesinkisexcessivelydrear.Beyondthedankgarden inthecourtyardaretheruinedwallsontheedgeofthe moat.Beyondthemoat,theboggyploughedfields stretchtotheleadensky.Itellmyselfthatalltherain wehavehadlatelyisgoodfornature,andthatatany momentspringwillsurgeonus.Itrytoseeleaves onthetreesandthecourtyardfilledwithsunlight. Unfortunately,themoremymind’seyeseesgreenand gold,themoredrainedofallcolourdoesthetwilight seem.

Itiscomfortingtolookawayfromthewindowsand towardsthekitchenfire,nearwhichmysisterRoseis ironing–thoughsheobviouslycan’tseeproperly,and itwillbeapityifshescorchesheronlynightgown.(I havetwo,butoneisminusitsbehind.)Roselooks

particularlyfetchingbyfirelightbecausesheisapinkish gold,verylightandfeathery.AlthoughIamratherused toherIknowsheisabeauty.Sheisnearlytwenty-one andverybitterwithlife.Iamseventeen,lookyounger, feelolder.Iamnobeautybuthaveaneatishface.

IhavejustremarkedtoRosethatoursituationis reallyratherromantic–twogirlsinthisstrangeand lonelyhouse.Sherepliedthatshesawnothingromantic aboutbeingshutupinacrumblingruinsurroundedby aseaofmud.Imustadmitthatourhomeisan unreasonableplacetolivein.YetIloveit.Thehouse itselfwasbuiltinthetimeofCharlesII,butitwas damagedbyCromwell.Thewholeofoureastwall waspartofthecastle;therearetworoundtowersinit. Thegatehouseisintactandastretchoftheoldwallsat theirfullheightjoinsittothehouse.AndBelmotte Tower,allthatremainsofanevenoldercastle,stillstands onitsmoundcloseby.ButIwon’tattempttodescribe ourpeculiarhomefullyuntilIcanseemoretimeahead ofmethanIdonow.

Iamwritingthisjournalpartlytopractisemynewly acquiredspeed-writingandpartlytoteachmyselfhow towriteanovel–Iintendtocaptureallourcharacters andputinconversations.Itoughttobegoodformy styletodashalongwithoutmuchthought,asupto nowmystorieshavebeenverystiff andself-conscious. TheonlytimeFatherobligedmebyreadingoneof them,hesaidIcombinedstatelinesswithadesperate efforttobefunny.Hetoldmetorelaxandletthe wordsflowoutofme.

IwishIknewofawaytomakewordsflowoutof Father.Yearsandyearsago,hewroteaveryunusual bookcalled JacobWrestling,amixtureoffiction,philosophyandpoetry.Ithadagreatsuccess,particularlyin America,wherehemadealotofmoneybylecturing

onit,andheseemedlikelytobecomeaveryimportant writerindeed.Buthestoppedwriting.Motherbelieved thiswasduetosomethingthathappenedwhenIwas aboutfive.

Wewerelivinginasmallhousebytheseaatthe time.Fatherhadjustjoinedusafterhissecond Americanlecturetour.Oneafternoonwhenwewere havingteainthegarden,hehadthemisfortunetolose histemperwithMotherverynoisilyjustashewas abouttocutapieceofcake.Hebrandishedthecakeknifeathersomenacinglythatanofficiousneighbour jumpedthegardenfencetointerveneandgothimself knockeddown.Fatherexplainedincourtthatkillinga womanwithoursilvercake-knifewouldbealong wearybusinessentailingsawinghertodeath;andhe wascompletelyexoneratedofanyintentionofslaying Mother.Thewholecaseseemstohavebeenquite ludicrous,witheveryonebuttheneighbourbeingvery funny.ButFathermadethemistakeofbeingfunnier thanthejudgeand,astherewasnodoubtwhatever thathehadseriouslydamagedtheneighbour,hewas senttoprisonforthreemonths.

Whenhecameouthewasasniceamanasever–nicer,becausehistemperwassomuchbetter.Apart fromthat,hedidn’tseemtometobechangedatall. ButRoseremembersthathehadalreadybeguntoget unsociable–itwasthenthathetookafortyyears’lease ofthecastle,whichisanadmirableplacetobe unsociablein.Onceweweresettledherehewas supposedtobeginanewbook.Buttimewenton withoutanythinghappeningandatlastwerealizedthat hehadgivenupeventryingtowrite–foryearsnow, hehasrefusedtodiscussthepossibility.Mostofhis lifeisspentinthegatehouseroom,whichisicycold inwinterasthereisnofireplace;hejusthuddlesover

anoil-stove.Asfarasweknow,hedoesnothingbutread detectivenovelsfromthevillagelibrary.MissMarcy,the librarianandschoolmistress,bringsthemtohim.She admireshimgreatlyandsays‘theironhasenteredinto hissoul’.

Personally,Ican’tseehowtheironcouldgetvery farintoaman’ssoulduringonlythreemonthsinjail–anyway,notifthemanhadasmuchvitalityasFather had;andheseemedtohaveplentyofitleftwhenthey lethimout.Butithasgonenow;andhisunsociability hasgrownalmostintoadisease–Ioftenthinkhewould prefernoteventomeethisownhousehold.Allhis naturalgaietyhasvanished.Attimesheputsonafalse cheerfulnessthatembarrassesme,butusuallyheiseither moroseorirritable–IthinkIshouldpreferitifhelost histemperasheusedto.Oh,poorFather,hereallyis verypathetic.Buthemightatleastdoalittleworkin thegarden.Iamawarethatthisisn’tafairportraitof him.Imustcapturehimlater.

Motherdiedeightyearsago,fromperfectlynatural causes.Ithinkshemusthavebeenashadowyperson, becauseIhaveonlythevaguestmemoryofherandI haveanexcellentmemoryformostthings.(Ican rememberthecake-knifeincidentperfectly–Ihitthe fallenneighbourwithmylittlewoodenspade.Father alwayssaidthisgothimanextramonth.)

Threeyearsago(orisitfour?IknowFather’sone spasmofsociabilitywasin1931)astepmotherwas presentedtous.We were surprised.Sheisafamous artists’modelwhoclaimstohavebeenchristenedTopaz –evenifthisistruethereisnolawtomakeawoman sticktoanamelikethat.Sheisverybeautiful,with massesofhairsofairthatitisalmostwhite,andquite extraordinarypallor.Sheusesnomake-up,noteven powder.TherearetwopaintingsofherintheTate

Gallery:onebyMacmorris,called‘TopazinJade’,in whichshewearsamagnificentjadenecklace;andone byH.J.Allardywhichshowshernudeonanold horsehair-coveredsofathatshesayswasveryprickly. Thisiscalled‘Composition’;butasAllardyhaspainted herevenpalerthansheis,‘Decomposition’wouldsuit itbetter.

Actually,thereisnothingunhealthyaboutTopaz’s pallor;itsimplymakesherlookasifshebelongedto somenewrace.Shehasaverydeepvoice–thatis,she putsoneon;itispartofanartypose,whichincludes paintingandlute-playing.Butherkindnessisperfectly genuineandsoishercooking.Iamvery,veryfondof her–itisnicetohavewrittenthatjustassheappears onthekitchenstairs.Sheiswearingherancientorange tea-gown.Herpale,straighthairisflowingdownher backtoherwaist.Shepausedonthetopstepandsaid: ‘Ah,girls...’withthreevelvetyinflectionsoneach word.

Nowsheissittingonthesteeltrivet,rakingthefire. Thepinklightmakesherlookmoreordinary,butvery pretty.Sheistwenty-nineandhadtwohusbandsbefore Father(shewillnevertellusverymuchaboutthem), butshestilllooksextraordinarilyyoung.Perhapsthatis becauseherexpressionissoblank.

Thekitchenlooksverybeautifulnow.Thefirelight glowssteadilythroughthebarsandthroughtheround holeinthetopoftherangewherethelidhasbeenleft off .Itturnsthewhitewashedwallsrosy;eventhedark beamsintheroofareaduskygold.Thehighestbeam isoverthirtyfeetfromtheground.RoseandTopazare twotinyfiguresinagreatglowingcave.

NowRoseissittingonthefender,waitingforher irontoheat.SheisstaringatTopazwithadiscontented expression.IcanoftentellwhatRoseisthinkingand

Iwouldtakeabetthatsheisenvyingtheorangeteagownandhatingherownskimpyoldblouseandskirt. PoorRosehatesmostthingsshehasandenviesmost thingsshehasn’t.Ireallyamjustasdiscontented,butI don’tseemtonoticeitsomuch.Ifeelquiteunreasonablyhappythisminute,watchingthemboth;knowing Icangoandjointheminthewarmth,yetstayinghere inthecold.

Oh,dear,therehasjustbeenaslightscene!Rose askedTopaztogotoLondonandearnsomemoney. Topazrepliedthatshedidn’tthinkitwasworthwhile, becauseitcostssomuchtolivethere.Itistruethatshe canneversavemorethanwillbuyusafewpresents–sheisverygenerous.

‘AndtwoofthemenIsitforareabroad,’shewent on,‘andIdon’tlikeworkingforMacmorris.’

‘Whynot?’askedRose.‘Hepaysbetterthanthe others,doesn’the?’

‘Soheought,consideringhowrichheis,’saidTopaz. ‘ButIdislikesittingforhimbecauseheonlypaintsmy head.Yourfathersaysthatthemenwhopaintmenude paintmybodyandthinkoftheirjob,butthatMacmorrispaintsmyheadandthinksofmybody.Andit’s perfectlytrue.I’vehadmoretroublewithhimthanI shouldcaretoletyourfatherknow.’

Rosesaid:‘Ishouldhavethoughtitwasworthwhile tohavealittletroubleinordertoearnsomerealmoney.’

‘Then you havethetrouble,dear,’saidTopaz.

ThismusthavebeenveryannoyingtoRose, consideringthatsheneverhastheslightestchanceof thatsortoftrouble.Shesuddenlyflungbackherhead dramaticallyandsaid:

‘I’mperfectlywillingto.Itmayinterestyoubothto knowthatforsometimenow,I’vebeenconsidering sellingmyself.Ifnecessary,Ishallgoonthestreets.’

Itoldhershecouldn’tgoonthestreetsinthedepths ofSuffolk.

‘ButifTopazwillkindlylendmethefaretoLondon andgivemeafewhints—’

Topazsaidshehadneverbeenonthestreetsand ratherregrettedit,‘becauseonemustsinktothedepths inordertorisetotheheights’,whichisthekindof Topazismitrequiresmuchaffectiontotolerate.

‘Andanyway,’shetoldRose,‘you’rethelastgirlto leadahard-workingimmorallife.Ifyou’rereallytaken withtheideaofsellingyourself,you’dbetterchoosea wealthymanandmarryhimrespectably.’

Thisideahas,ofcourse,occurredtoRose,butshe hasalwayshopedthatthemanwouldbehandsome, romanticandlovableintothebargain.Isupposeitwas hersheerdespairofevermeetinganymarriageablemen atall,evenhideous,poverty-strickenones,thatmade hersuddenlyburstintotears.Assheonlycriesabout onceayearIreallyoughttohavegoneoverand comfortedher,butIwantedtosetitalldownhere.I begintoseethatwritersareliabletobecomecallous.

Anyway,TopazdidthecomfortingfarbetterthanI couldhavedone,asIamneverdisposedtoclasppeople tomybosom.Shewasmostmaternal,lettingRose weepallovertheorangevelvettea-gown,whichhas sufferedmanythingsinitstime.Rosewillbefurious withherselflateron,becauseshehasanunkindtendencytodespiseTopaz;butforthemomenttheyare mostamicable.Roseisnowputtingawayherironing, gulpingalittle,andTopazislayingthetablefortea whileoutliningimpracticableplansformakingmoney –suchasgivingaluteconcertinthevillageorbuying apigininstalments.

Ijoinedinwhilerestingmyhand,butsaidnothing ofsupremeimportance.

Itisrainingagain.Stepheniscomingacrossthe courtyard.Hehaslivedwithuseversincehewasalittle boy–hismotherusedtobeourmaid,inthedays whenwecouldstillaffordone,andwhenshediedhe hadnowheretogo.Hegrowsvegetablesforusand looksafterthehensanddoesathousandoddjobs–I can’tthinkhowweshouldgetonwithouthim.He iseighteennow,veryfairandnoble-lookingbuthis expressionisjustafractiondaft.Hehasalwaysbeen ratherdevotedtome;Fathercallshimmyswain.He isratherhowIimagineSilviusin AsYouLikeIt –but IamnothinglikePhebe.

Stephenhascomeinnow.Thefirstthinghedidwas tolightacandleandstickitonthewindow-ledge besideme,saying:

‘You’respoilingyoureyes,MissCassandra.’ Thenhedroppedatightlyfoldedbitofpaperonthis journal.Myheartsank,becauseIknewitwouldcontain apoem;Isupposehehasbeenworkingonitinthe barn.Itiswritteninhiscareful,ratherbeautifulscript. Theheadingis,‘‘‘ToMissCassandra’’byStephen Colly’.Itisacharmingpoem–byRobertHerrick. WhatamItodoaboutStephen?Fathersaysthe desireforself-expressionispathetic,butIreallythink Stephen’smaindesireisjusttopleaseme;heknowsI setstorebypoetry.IoughttotellhimthatIknowhe merelycopiesthepoemsout–hehasbeendoingitall winter,everyweekorso–butIcan’tfindtheheartto hurthim.PerhapswhenthespringcomesIcantake himforawalkandbreakittohiminsomeencouraging way.ThistimeIhavegotoutofsayingmyusual hypocriticalwordsofpraisebysmilingapprovalathim acrossthekitchen.Nowheispumpingwaterupinto thecistern,lookingveryhappy.

Thewellisbelowthekitchenfloorandhasbeen

theresincetheearliestdaysofthecastle;ithasbeen supplyingwaterforsixhundredyearsandissaidnever tohaverundry.Ofcourse,theremusthavebeenmany pumps.ThepresentonearrivedwhentheVictorian hot-watersystem(alleged)wasputin.

Interruptionskeepoccurring.Topazhadjustfilled thekettle,splashingmylegs,andmybrotherThomas hasreturnedfromschoolinournearesttown,King’s Crypt.Heisacumbersomeladoffifteenwithhairthat growsintufts,sothatpartingitisdifficult.Itisthe samemousycolourasmine;butmineismeek.

WhenThomascamein,Isuddenlyremembered myselfcomingbackfromschool,dayafterday,uptoa fewmonthsago.InoneflashIre-livedtheten-mile crawlinthejerkylittletrainandthenthefivemileson abicyclefromScoatneystation–howIusedtohate thatinthewinter!YetinsomewaysIshouldliketobe backatschool;foronething,thedaughterofthe manageratthecinemawentthere,andshegotmeinto thepicturesfreenowandthen.Imissthatgreatly.And Irathermissschoolitself–itwasasurprisinglygood oneforsuchaquietlittlecountrytown.Ihadascholarship,justasThomashasathisschool;wearetolerably bright.

Therainisdrivinghardagainstthewindownow. Mycandlemakesitseemquitedarkoutside.Andthe farsideofthekitchenisdimmernowthatthekettleis ontheroundholeinthetopoftherange.Thegirls aresittingonthefloormakingtoastthroughthebars. Thereisabrightedgetoeachhead,wherethefirelight shinesthroughtheirhair.

Stephenhasfinishedpumpingandisstokingthe copper–itisagreat,old-fashionedbrickonewhich helpstokeepthekitchenwarmandgivesusextrahot water.Withthecopperlitaswellastherange,the

kitchenismuchthewarmestplaceinthehouse;thatis whywesitinitsomuch.Buteveninsummerwehave ourmealshere,becausethedining-roomfurniturewas soldoverayearago.

Goodness,Topazisactuallyputtingoneggstoboil! Noonetoldmethehenshadyieldedtoprayer.Oh, excellenthens!Iwasonlyexpectingbreadand margarinefortea,andIdon’tgetasusedtomargarine asIcouldwish.Ithankheaventhereisnocheaper formofbreadthanbread.

Howodditistorememberthat‘tea’oncemeant afternoonteatous–littlecakesandthinbread-andbutterinthedrawing-room.Nowitisassolidameal aswecanscrapetogether,asithastolastusuntil breakfast.WehaveitafterThomasgetsbackfrom school.

Stephenislightingthelamp.Inasecondnow,the rosyglowwillhavegonefromthekitchen.Butlamplightisbeautiful,too.

Thelampislit.AndasStephencarriedittothe table,myfathercameoutonthestaircase.Hisoldplaid travelling-rugwaswrappedroundhisshoulder–hehad comefromthegatehousealongthetopofthecastle walls.Hemurmured,‘Tea,tea–hasMissMarcycome withthelibrarybooksyet?’(Shehasn’t.)Thenhesaid hishandswerequitenumb;notcomplainingly,morein atoneoffaintsurprise–thoughIfindithardtobelieve thatanyonelivingatthecastleinwintercanbesurprised atanypartofthemselvesbeingnumb.Andashecame downstairsshakingtherainoff hishair,Isuddenlyfelt sofondofhim.IfearIdon’tfeelthatveryoften.

Heisstillasplendid-lookingman,thoughhisfine featuresaregettingabitlostinfatandhiscolouringis fading.ItusedtobeasbrightasRose’s.

NowheischattingtoTopaz.Iregrettonotethat

heisinhisfalselycheerfulmood–thoughIthinkpoor Topazisgratefulforevenfalsecheerfulnessfromhim thesedays.Sheadoreshim,andheseemstotakeso littleinterestinher.

Ishallhavetogetoff thedraining-board–Topaz wantsthetea-cosyandourdog,Heloıse,hascomein anddiscoveredIhaveborrowedherblanket.Sheisa bull-terrier,snowywhiteexceptwhereherfondantpinkskinshowsthroughhershorthair.Allright, Heloı¨sedarling,youshallhaveyourblanket.Shegazes atmewithlove,reproach,confidenceandhumour–howcansheexpresssomuchjustwithtworathersmall slantingeyes?

Ifinishthisentrysittingonthestairs.Ithinkit worthyofnotethatIneverfelthappierinmylife–despitesorrowforFather,pityforRose,embarrassment aboutStephen’spoetryandnojustificationforhopeas regardsourfamily’sgeneraloutlook.Perhapsitis becauseIhavesatisfiedmycreativeurge;oritmaybe duetothethoughtofeggsfortea.

IILater.Writteninbed.

IamreasonablycomfortableasIamwearingmy schoolcoatandhaveahotbrickformyfeet,butIwish itwasn’tmyweekforthelittleironbedstead–Rose andItakeitinturnstosleepinthefour-poster.Sheis sittingupinitreadingalibrarybook.WhenMissMarcy broughtitshesaiditwas‘aprettystory’.Rosesaysit isawful,butshewouldratherreaditthanthinkabout herself.PoorRose!Sheiswearingheroldblueflannel

dressing-gownwiththeskirtpartdoubleduproundher waistforwarmth.Shehashadthatdressing-gownso longthatIdon’tthinksheseesitanymore;ifshewere toputitawayforamonthandthenlookatit,she wouldgetashock.ButwhoamItotalk–whohavenot hadadressing-gownatallfortwoyears?Theremainsof mylastonearewrappedroundmyhotbrick.

Ourroomisspaciousandremarkablyempty.With theexceptionofthefour-poster,whichisinverybad condition,allthegoodfurniturehasgraduallybeensold andreplacedbyminimumrequirementsboughtinjunkshops.Thuswehaveawardrobewithoutadooranda bamboodressing-tablewhichItaketobeararepiece. Ikeepmybedsidecandlestickonabatteredtintrunk thatcostoneshilling;Rosehashersonachestof drawerspaintedtoimitatemarble,butlookingmore likebacon.Theenameljugandbasinonametaltripod ismyownpersonalproperty,thelandladyofTheKeys havinggivenittomeafterIfounditdoingnogood inastable.Itsavescongestioninthebathroom.One rathernicethingisthecarvedwoodenwindow-seat–Iamthankfulthereisnowayofsellingthat.Itisbuilt intothethicknessofthecastlewall,withabigmullionedwindowaboveit.Therearewindowsonthe gardensideoftheroom,too;littlediamond-paned ones.

OnethingIhavenevergrownoutofbeingfascinated byistheroundtowerwhichopensintoacorner.There isacircularstonestaircaseinsideitbywhichyoucan gouptothebattlementedtop,ordowntothedrawingroom;thoughsomeofthestepshavecrumbledbadly.

PerhapsIoughttohavecountedMissBlossomasa pieceoffurniture.Sheisadressmaker’sdummyofmost opulentfigurewithawireskirtroundheroneleg.We areabitsillyaboutMissBlossom–wepretendsheis

real.Weimaginehertobeawomanoftheworld, perhapsabarmaidinheryouth.Shesaysthingslike, ‘Well,dearie,that’swhatmenarelike,’and‘Youhold outforyourmarriagelines.’

TheVictorianvandalswhodidsomanyunnecessary thingstothishousedidn’thavethesensetoputin passages,sowearealwayshavingtogothrougheach other’srooms.Topazhasjustwanderedthroughours–wearinganightgownmadeofplainwhitecalicowith holesforherneckandarms;shethinksmodernunderclothesarevulgar.Shelookedratherlikeavictimgoing toanAutodaFe ´ ,butherdestinationwasmerelythe bathroom.

TopazandFathersleepinthebigroomthatopens ontothekitchenstaircase.Thereisalittleroom betweenthemanduswhichwecall‘BufferState’; Topazusesitasastudio.Thomashastheroomacross thelanding,nexttothebathroom.

IwonderifTopazhasgonetoaskFathertocometo bed–sheisperfectlycapableofstalkingalongthetop ofthecastlewallsinhernightgown.Ihopeshehasn’t, becauseFatherdoessosnubherwhensheburstsinto thegatehouse.Weweretrainedaschildrennevertogo nearhimunlessinvitedandhethinkssheoughtto behaveinthesameway.

No–shedidn’tgo.Shecamebackafewminutes agoandshowedsignsofstayinghere,butwedidn’t encourageher.Nowsheisinbedandisplayingher lute.Iliketheideaofalute,butnotthenoiseitmakes; itisseldomintuneandappearstobeaninstrument thatnevergetsarunatanything.

IfeelratherguiltyatbeingsounsociabletoTopaz, butwedidhavesuchasociableevening.

Roundabouteighto’clock,MissMarcycamewith thebooks.Sheisaboutforty,smallandratherfadedyet

somehowveryyoung.Sheblinkshereyesalotandis apttogiggleandsay:‘Well,reely!’SheisaLondoner buthasbeeninthevillageoverfiveyearsnow.Ibelieve sheteachesverynicely;herspecialitiesarefolksong andwildflowersandcountrylore.Shedidn’tlikeit herewhenfirstshecame(shealwayssaysshe‘missed thebrightlights’),butshesoonmadeherselftakean interestincountrythings,andnowshetriestomake thecountrypeopleinterestedinthemtoo.

Aslibrarian,shecheatsabittogiveusthenewest books;she’dhadadeliverytodayandhadbrought Fatheradetectivenovelthatonlycameouttheyear beforelast–anditwasbyoneofhisfavouriteauthors. Topazsaid:

‘Oh,ImusttakethistoMortmainatonce.’Shecalls Father‘Mortmain’partlybecauseshefanciesourodd surname,andpartlytokeepupthefictionthatheis stillafamouswriter.Hecamebackwithhertothank MissMarcyandforonceheseemedquitegenuinely cheerful.

‘I’llreadanydetectivenovel,good,badorindifferent,’ hetoldher,‘butavintageone’samongtherarest pleasuresoflife.’

Thenhefoundouthewasgettingthisoneaheadof theVicarandwassopleasedthatheblewMissMarcy akiss.Shesaid:‘Oh,thankyou,MrMortmain!That is,Imean–well,reely!’andblushedandblinked.Father thenflunghisrugroundhimlikeatogaandwent backtothegatehouselookingquiteabnormallygoodhumoured.

Assoonashewasoutofearshot,MissMarcysaid: ‘How is he?’inahushedsortofvoicethatimpliedhe wasatdeath’sdoororoff hishead.Rosesaidhewas perfectlywellandperfectlyuseless,asalways.Miss Marcylookedshocked.

‘Roseisdepressedaboutourfinances,’Iexplained. ‘Wemustn’tboreMissMarcywithourworries,’said Topaz,quickly.ShehatesanythingwhichcastsareflectiononFather.

MissMarcysaidthatnothingtodowithourhouseholdcouldpossiblyboreher–Iknowshethinksour lifeatthecastleiswildlyromantic.Thensheasked, verydiffidently,ifshecouldhelpuswithanyadvice–‘Sometimesanoutsidemind...’

IsuddenlyfeltthatIshouldratherliketoconsult her;sheissuchasensiblelittlewoman–itwasshe whothoughtofgettingmethebookonspeed-writing. Mothertrainedusnevertotalkaboutouraff airsinthe village,andIdorespectTopaz’sloyaltytoFather,butI wassureMissMarcymustknowperfectlywellthatwe arebroke.

‘Ifyoucouldsuggestsomewaysofearningmoney,’ Isaid.

‘Orofmakingitgofurther–I’msureyou’reall muchtooartistictobereallypractical.Let’sholda boardmeeting!’

Shesaiditasifshewereenticingchildrentoagame. Shewassoeagerthatitwouldhaveseemedquiterude torefuse;andIthinkRoseandTopazfeltdesperate enoughtotryanything.

‘Now,paperandpencils,’saidMissMarcy,clapping herhands.

Writingpaperisscarceinthishouse,andIhadno intentionoftearingsheetsoutofthisexercisebook, whichisasuperbsixpennyonetheVicargaveme.In theend,MissMarcytookthemiddlepagesoutofher libraryrecord,whichgaveusapleasantfeelingthatwe werestealingfromthegovernment,andthenwesat roundthetableandelectedherchairman.Shesaidshe

mustbesecretary,too,sothatshecouldkeepthe minutes,andwrotedown:

Present:

MissMarcy(chairman)

MrsJamesMortmain

MissRoseMortmain

MissCassandraMortmain

ThomasMortmain

StephenColly

Webeganbydiscussingexpenditure. ‘First,rent,’saidMissMarcy.

Therentisfortypoundsayear,whichseemslittle foracommodiouscastle,butwehaveonlyafewacres ofland,thecountryfolkthinktheruinsareadrawback, andtherearesaidtobeghosts–whichtherearenot. (Therearesomequeerthingsuponthemound,but theynevercomeintothehouse.)Anyway,wehaven’t paidanyrentforthreeyears.Ourlandlord,arichold gentlemanwholivedatScoatneyHall,fivemilesaway, alwayssentusahamatChristmaswhetherwepaidthe rentornot.HediedlastNovemberandwehavesadly missedtheham.

‘TheysaytheHall’sgoingtobere-opened,’saidMiss Marcywhenwehadtoldherthepositionaboutthe rent.‘Twoboysfromthevillagehavebeentakenonas extragardeners.Well,wewilljustputtherent down andmarkit‘‘optional’’.Nowwhataboutfood?Can youdoitonfifteenshillingsaweekperhead?Saya

poundperhead,includingcandles,lamp-oiland cleaningmaterials.’

Theideaofourfamilyevercomingbysixpoundsa weekmadeusallhootwithlaughter.

‘IfMissMarcyisreallygoingtoadviseus,’saidTopaz, ‘she’dbetterbetoldwehavenovisibleincomeatall thisyear.’

MissMarcyflushedandsaid:‘Ididknowthingswere difficult.But,dearMrsMortmain,theremustbe some money,surely?’

Wegaveherthefacts.Notonepennyhascomein duringJanuaryorFebruary.LastyearFathergotforty poundsfromAmerica,where JacobWrestling stillsells. TopazposedinLondonforthreemonths,savedeight poundsforusandborrowedfifty;andwesoldatallboy toaKing’sCryptdealerfortwentypounds.Wehave beenlivingonthetallboysinceChristmas.

‘Lastyear’sincomeonehundredandeighteen pounds,’saidMissMarcyandwroteitdown.Butwe hastenedtotellherthatitborenorelationtothisyear’s income,forwehavenomoregoodfurnituretosell, Topazhasrunoutofrichborrowees,andwethinkit unlikelythatFather’sroyaltieswillbesolarge,asthey haddwindledeveryyear.

‘ShouldIleaveschool?’saidThomas.Butofcourse wetoldhimthatwouldbeabsurdashisschoolingcosts usnothingowingtohisscholarship,andtheVicarhas justgivenhimayear’sticketforthetrain.

MissMarcyfiddledwithherpencilabitandthen said:

‘IfIamtobeahelp,Imustbefrank.Couldn’tyou makeasavingonStephen’swages?’

Ifeltmyselfgored.Ofcoursewehaveneverpaid Stephenanything–nevereventhoughtofit.AndI suddenlyrealizedthatweoughttohavedoneso.(Not

thatwe’vehadanymoneytopayhimwithsincehe’s beenoldenoughtoearn.)

‘Idon’twantwages,’saidStephen,quietly.‘Iwouldn’t takethem.EverythingI’veeverhadhasbeengivento mehere.’

‘Yousee,Stephen’slikeasonofthehouse,’Isaid. MissMarcylookedasifshewasn’tsurethatwasavery goodthingtobe,butStephen’sfacequitelitupfora second.Thenhegotembarrassedandsaidhemustsee ifthehenswereallin.Afterhehadgone,MissMarcy said:

‘No–nowagesatall?Justhiskeep?’

‘Wedon’tpayourselvesanywages,’saidRose–whichistrueenough;butthenwedon’tworksohard asStephenorsleepinadarklittleroomoff thekitchen.

‘AndIthinkit’shumiliatingdiscussingourpovertyin frontofMissMarcy,’Rosewenton,angrily.‘Ithought wewerejustgoingtoaskheradviceaboutearning.’

Afterthat,alotoftimewaswastedsoothingRose’s prideandMissMarcy’sfeelings.Thenwegotdownto ourearningcapacities.

Topazsaidshecouldn’tearnmorethanfourpounds aweekinLondonandpossiblynotthat,andshewould needthreepoundstoliveon,andsomeclothes,andthe faretocomedownhereatleasteveryotherweekend.

‘AndIdon’twanttogotoLondon,’sheadded,rather pathetically.‘I’mtiredofbeingamodel.AndImiss Mortmaindreadfully.Andheneedsmehere–I’mthe onlyonewhocancook.’

‘That’shardlyveryimportantwhenwe’venothingto cook,’saidRose.‘CouldIearnmoneyasamodel?’

‘I’mafraidnot,’saidTopaz.‘Yourfigure’stoopretty –thereisn’tenoughdrawinginyourbones.Andyou’d neverhavethepatiencetositstill.Isupposeifnothing

turnsupI’llhavetogotoLondon.Icouldsendabout tenshillingsaweekhome.’

‘Well,that’ssplendid,’saidMissMarcyandwrote down:‘MrsJamesMortmain:apotentialtenshillings weekly.’

‘Notalltheyearround,’saidTopaz,firmly.‘Icouldn’t standitanditwouldleavemenotimeformyown painting.Imightsellsomeofthat,ofcourse.’

MissMarcysaid,‘Ofcourseyoumight,’verypolitely; thenturnedtome.Isaidmyspeed-writingwasgetting quitefast,butofcourseitwasn’tquitelikerealshorthand(orquitelikerealspeed,forthatmatter);andI couldn’ttypeandthechanceofgettinganywherenear atypewriterwasremote.

‘ThenI’mafraid,justuntilyougetgoingwithyour literarywork,we’llhavetocountyouasnil,’saidMiss Marcy.‘Thomas,ofcourse,isboundtobenilforafew yearsyet.Rose,dear?’

Nowifanyoneinthisfamilyisnilasanearner,itis Rose;forthoughsheplaysthepianoabitandsings rathersweetlyandis,ofcourse,alovelyperson,shehas norealtalentsatall.

‘PerhapsIcouldlookafterlittlechildren,’she suggested.

‘Oh, no,’saidMissMarcy,hurriedly,‘Imean,dear–well,Idon’tthinkitwouldsuityouatall.’

‘I’llgotoScoatneyHallasamaid,’saidRose,looking asifshewerealreadyascendingthescaffold.

‘Well,theydohavetobetrained,dear,’saidMiss Marcy,‘andIcan’tfeelyourfatherwouldlikeit. Couldn’tyoudosomeprettysewing?’

‘Whaton?’saidRose.‘Sacking?’

Anyway,Roseishopelessatsewing.

MissMarcywaslookingatherlistratherdepressedly.

‘IfearwemustcalldearRoseniljustforthemoment,’ shesaid.‘ThatonlyleavesMrMortmain.’

Rosesaid:‘IfIrankasnil,Fatheroughttobedouble nil.’

MissMarcyleanedforwardandsaidinahushed voice:‘Mydears,youknowI’mtryingtohelpyouall. What’stherealtroublewithMrMortmain?Isit–isit – drink?’

WelaughedsomuchthatStephencameintosee whatthejokewas.

‘Poor,poorMortmain,’gaspedTopaz,‘asifheever laidhishandsonenoughtobuyabottleofbeer!Drink costsmoney,MissMarcy.’

MissMarcysaiditcouldn’tbedrugseither–andit certainlycouldn’t;hedoesn’tevensmoke,oncehis ChristmascigarsfromtheVicararegone.

‘It’sjustsheerlaziness,’saidRose,‘lazinessandsoftness.AndIdon’tbelievehewaseververygood,really. Iexpect JacobWrestling wasover-estimated.’

TopazlookedsoangrythatIthoughtforasecond shewasgoingtohitRose.Stephencametothetable andstoodbetweenthem.

‘Oh,no,MissRose,’hesaidquietly,‘it’sagreatbook –everyoneknowsthat.Butthingshavehappenedto himsothathecan’twriteanymore.Youcan’twrite justforthewanting.’

IexpectedRosetosnubhim,butbeforeshecould sayawordheturnedtomeandwentonquickly:‘I’ve beenthinking,MissCassandra,thatIshouldgetwork –they’dhavemeatFourStonesFarm.’

‘Butthegarden,Stephen!’Ialmostwailed–forwe justaboutliveonourvegetables.

Hesaidthedayswouldsoondrawoutandthathe’d workforusintheevenings.

‘AndI’musefulinthegarden,aren’tI,Stephen?’said Topaz.

‘Yes,ma’am,veryuseful.Icouldn’tgetajobifyou wenttoLondon,ofcourse–there’dbetoomuchwork forMissCassandra.’

Roseisn’tgoodatthingslikegardeningand housework.

‘Soyoucouldputmedownfortwenty-fiveshillings aweek,MissMarcy,’Stephenwenton,‘becauseMr Stebbinssaidhe’dstartmeatthat.AndI’dgetmy dinneratFourStones.’

Iwasgladtothinkthatwouldmeanhe’dgetone squaremealaday.

MissMarcysaiditwasasplendididea,thoughitwas apityitmeantstrikingoutTopaz’stenshillings.

‘Though,ofcourse,itwasonlypotential.’Whileshe wasputtingStephen’stwenty-fiveshillingsonherlist, Rosesuddenlysaid:

‘Thankyou,Stephen.’

Andbecauseshedoesn’tbotherwithhimmuchasa rule,itsomehowsoundedimportant.Andshesmiled soverysweetly.PoorRosehasbeensomiserablelately thatasmilefromherislikelateafternoonsunshine afteralong,wetday.Idon’tseehowanyonecouldsee Rosesmilewithoutfeelingfondofher.Ithought Stephenwouldbetremendouslypleased,butheonly noddedandswallowedseveraltimes.

Justthen,Fathercameoutonthestaircaseandlooked downonusall.

‘What,aroundgame?’hesaid–andIsupposeit musthavelookedlikeone,withusgroupedroundthe tableinthelamplight.Thenhecamedownstairssaying: ‘Thisbook’sfirst-rate.I’mhavingalittlebreak,trying toguessthemurderer.Ishouldlikeabiscuit,please.’

WheneverFatherishungrybetweenmeals–andhe

eatsverylittleatthem,lessthananyofus–heasksfor abiscuit.Ibelievehethinksitisthesmallestcheapest thinghecanaskfor.Ofcourse,wehaven’thadanyreal shopbiscuitsforagesbutTopazmakesoatcake,which isveryfilling.Sheputsomemargarineonapiecefor him.Isawafractionofdistasteinhiseyesandheasked herifshecouldsprinkleitwithalittlesugar.

‘Itmakesachange,’hesaid,apologetically.‘Can’twe offerMissMarcysomething?Someteaorcocoa,Miss Marcy?’

Shethankedhimbutsaidshemustn’tspoilher appetiteforsupper.

‘Well,don’tletmeinterruptthegame,’saidFather. ‘Whatisit?’AndbeforeIcouldthinkofanywayof distractinghim,hehadleanedoverhershouldertolook atthelistinfrontofher.Asitthenstood,itread:

EarningCapacityforPresentYear

MrsMortmain nil.

CassandraMortmainnil.

ThomasMortmain nil.

RoseMortmain nil.

MrMortmain nil.

StephenColly 25s.aweek.

Father’sexpressiondidn’tchangeasheread,hewent onsmiling;butIcould feel somethinghappeningto him.RosesaysIamalwayscreditingpeoplewith emotionsIshouldexperiencemyselfintheirsituation, butIamsureIhadarealflashofintuitionthen.And Isuddenlysawhisfaceveryclearly,notjustintheway oneusuallyseesthefacesofpeopleoneisveryusedto. IsawhowhehadchangedsinceIwaslittleandI thoughtofRalphHodgson’slineabout‘tamedand shabbytigers’.Howlongittakestowritethethoughts