Chapter 4 #2
The landlord called for last orders. As they finished their drinks and got up to leave, Mrs. Gooch said eagerly, “Is it really all right for me and Jimmy to go to the fireworks?”
“Of course,” Gwen assured her. “People come from the farms roundabout, as well as the villagers.”
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Jack said.
“Why don’t you both come up to the house?
Even with the bonfire, you’ll freeze down in the meadow, coming from a warm part of the world such as Mr. Gooch assures us Perth is.
A couple more won’t throw off your housekeeping, will it, Gwen? It’s a buffet supper.”
Gwen and Babs exchanged a glance of dismay, but Gwen said, “Of course not. There’s always plenty.”
“Well, it’s mighty kind of you,” said Mr. Gooch, “but we wouldn’t want to intrude amongst the flash society folks, would we, Ellie?”
“Oh, Jimmy, do let’s go!” Mrs. Gooch’s lips quivered. “Just for once. What harm can there be?”
The Tyndalls were far too well brought up to rescind an invitation once given.
“You needn’t worry about evening dress,” said Gwen. “People wear their warmest because we watch from the terrace.”
Under their reassurances, Mr. Gooch capitulated. “Good-oh,” he said. “Or’right, I’m off to bring the car round to the door for them that’s in need of a lift. Won’t take two ticks. Starts like a dream, that car.” He went out.
It was decided that the ladies would take advantage of the comfort of the Vauxhall while Jack drove Miller in the Triumph.
They all took their leave of Mrs. Gooch, Jack with especial warmth, as if to banish any suspicion that the Gooches might not be entirely welcome at Edge Manor. She went upstairs, smiling.
Daisy, Miller, and the Tyndalls stepped out into the street.
“Jack, how could you!” Babs exclaimed. “Father will be furious. If you want his blessing to go off and build aeroplanes, inviting a couple he’ll strongly object to isn’t the way to go about it. And tomorrow, of all times, when the cream of two counties will be there to meet them!”
As the Vauxhall touring car pulled up before them, Jack said with youthful exuberance, “Don’t worry, Babs, we won’t tell the parents they’re coming, and we’ll keep them apart. Wait and see, it’ll be all right on the night.”
Having been advised that Lady Tyndall always had breakfast in bed, Daisy decided to follow suit the next morning. When she got up, the sun shone in a pale blue sky without a hint of a cloud. From her bedroom window, she saw three men and two small boys down on the lowest terrace of the gardens.
Several more figures moved about in the meadow beyond, where the bonfire had visibly grown. From their motions, she guessed they were pitchforking faggots on top of the heap.
She put her notebook and a couple of pencils in her handbag and went downstairs. In the hall, servants scurried about, dusting and sweeping in last-minute preparations for the party.
“Do you know where Miss Gwendolyn is?” Daisy asked a housemaid wielding a feather duster.
“In the kitchen, I think, ma’am. Down the passage there, ma’am.” She pointed to a door to the right of the fireplace. “Just across from the dining room.”
An unusually sensible arrangement, Daisy thought, recollecting mansions where the kitchens were separated from the dining room by miles of draughty corridors. Edge Manor, long and narrow, was bisected by a single passageway, its only natural light a large fanlight above the door.
Stepping through, Daisy recognized from a previous visit the dingy watercolours of local landscapes, painted by some long-ago lady of the family. The passage was used mostly by servants and seldom by guests.
To her left were the doors to the drawing room and dining room, and at the end, if she remembered correctly, one to the combined smoking/billiard/gun room, whence a staircase led to Sir Harold’s den.
To her right, a row of baize doors gave access to the usual offices: the butler’s pantry (where Jennings must be polishing his silver—or snoozing), the housekeeper’s room, the servants’ hall, kitchens, sculleries, larders, broom cupboards, back stairs and cellar stairs, and so on.
In fact, she was faced with a positive plethora of baize doors, none exactly opposite the dining room door. She was trying to decide between the two nearest when Gwen came out of one, looking harried.
“Oh, Daisy, were you looking for me? I’m so sorry! I’m being a rotten hostess this morning. The thing is, the aspic didn’t set and the mayonnaise curdled and Cook panicked. She just needed soothing. Everything’s under control now. Mother’s doing the flowers.”
“Judging by the displays I’ve seen, she does a wonderful job. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Good gracious no. You’re a guest. But I can tell you, if Father did the catering instead of setting up the fireworks, he wouldn’t be so keen on his Bonfire Night party!
It’s not just the buffet supper here: We provide sausages and potatoes for the village people to cook in the bonfire embers, and gingerbread and drinks and so on. ”
“You mustn’t feel you need to entertain me. I’m not a guest today, I’m a journalist. I’ll just poke around and try not to get in anyone’s way.”
“Bless you, Daisy!”
“It won’t upset Sir Harold if I go down to watch him setting up, will it?”
“I dare say he’ll be delighted. Jack and Martin are down there, too.”
“I think I saw your nephews.”
“I expect so. I hope Father isn’t letting them mess around with the fireworks . . . and that he’s not snubbing Martin too badly. Yes, Jenny, what is it?”
Leaving Gwen to deal with whatever was making the young maid twist the corner of her apron in nervous fingers, Daisy slipped away.
She went on into the billiard room, which had a door to the outside and was less likely than the dining and drawing rooms to be overrun by hordes of servants with brooms and dusters.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke. Though smoking rooms weren’t necessary these days, now that everyone smoked all over the place, Jack and Sir Harold probably lit up while playing billiards.
At least, she hoped they didn’t indulge while handling the firearms racked on the walls alongside the billiard cues.
A landowner’s daughter, she recognized a couple of rook rifles and half a dozen double-barrelled shotguns of different bores.
Less conventional was a glass-fronted case of pistols.
There were antique duelling and horse pistols, family heirlooms from the days of highwaymen and duels, but also modern, efficient-looking automatics like the one her brother had worn as an army officer.
Apparently, the family’s fascination with fireworks extended to firearms.
The scarred, stained table would be for cleaning and oiling the guns and filling cartridges and such chores. The nearby cabinet must hold ammunition, Daisy assumed. It was as a policeman’s wife, not a landowner’s daughter, that she noted with disapproval the key left in the lock.