Courts of Idleness (13 page)

“O-oh, Boy, there’s Berry,” breathed Jill, catching my arm.

With preternatural solemnity my brother-in-law manipulated the mighty landing-net, in which by time-honoured custom Bills of Indictment are passed from the Grand Jury to the Clerk of Arraigns. Breathlessly we watched, while the net with its precious parchments – a most unwieldy instrument even in sober custody – swayed and danced by way of a Superintendent’s bald head towards the Clerk’s impatient fingers. Twice an officious constable essayed to grasp it. Each time it swayed gracefully out of his reach. The second time the zealot over-balanced and fell over the official shorthand writer, to the unconcealed delight of the public at the back of the Court. The pained look upon Berry’s face as, a moment later, the net won home was indescribable.

I retired once more to the corridor.

“Well?” said my lady.

“About half-past one,” said I. “Shall we go and choose the present? We’ve plenty of time.”

She looked out of the window with a faint smile. Then:

“Goodbye,” she said dreamily, putting out her hand. “Thanks so much for finding out for me. As for the present, if you’ll give me your address, I’ll send you along a pair of gloves. What size d’you take?”

“Send me one of your own. I have a weakness for dainty—”

“You’re four centuries too late, sir,” said the girl, turning to go.

“You wouldn’t think so if you’d been in the Close this morning,” said I. “However, if you must be going, please let me see you off the premises.”

Together we passed through the great dim hall and into the sunlit court outside.

“You spoke of the Close,” she said suddenly. “Tell me the way there. I’d like to see it. I’m a stranger to Brooch,” she added. “I’ve only come for the day to see a friend.”

“Let the glove go,” said I. “That, over there, is my car. Make me a present of your company till the Court rises, though why that—”

“Should affect my life you can’t understand. I’m not surprised. But, then, you see, my friend—”

“Is a friend at Court.”

“Exactly. Yes. You shall drive me down to the Close.”

The High Sheriff’s car was standing close to ours. I knew his chauffeur well, and beckoned to him. As he came up:

“Badger,” said I, “if Mrs Pleydell asks for me or the car, tell her that I have been called away and shall be back at half-past one.”

“Very good, sir.”

We rolled down to the Cathedral and its greensward. She agreed with me that, given the coach and its splendour, the old-time atmosphere must be wonderfully preserved.

“Of course,” said I, “there was no one crying bananas just then.”

The lusty bellow of a hawker was arising from neighbouring streets.

“I dare say they cried their fruit in the seventeenth century.”

“No doubt,” said I. “But not bananas. Pomegranates or medlars, perhaps. But not bananas. The fame of Wolsey’s orange is imperishable. Can you believe that he would have risen to such dizzy heights if he had sported a banana?”

“Perhaps not,” she laughed, “but, all the same, I don’t think oranges are so very romantic.”

“But then he always had the best Denias,” said I. “And they were stuck with cloves.”

When she was tired of the Close, I asked if she would like a run in the country. Was there time? An hour and a half. Very well, please. As we crossed to the gateway, she nodded towards the old red house.

“The Judge’s lodgings, you said. They look very nice and comfortable.”

Rather,” said I. “They do themselves all right, these Judges.”

“Is that so?”

“My dear,” said I, “you may take it from me. Compared with them, fighting cocks eke out a bare existence.”

“I never knew that,” she said simply.

“And the Marshal doesn’t miss much either.”

“No?”

“No. I only once knew a Marshal miss anything really good.”

“When was that?” – curiously.

“This morning,” said I.

She laughed pleasedly. Then:

“Perhaps he won’t miss me next time. I mean at half-past one.”

“Perhaps not. But I shall. All the afternoon. And now for the country. I’ll take her towards White Ladies.”

Some twenty miles from Brooch we struck the tiny village of Maple Brevet. Small wonder that my companion caught at my arm and cried how sweet it was. Set on the slope of a fair hill, its white-walled cottages all shining in the sun, its gardens thick with flowers, the brown thatch of its roofs thick and well cared for. Sleek ducks preened themselves by the edge of the village pond, knee-deep in which a great shire horse stood lazily, wet-nosed, appreciative. The golden-haired child on the animal’s warm broad back turned himself round to see us, and touched his little forehead as the car went by. I returned his salute gravely.

“I say,” said I, as we slid by the old forge, its walls and roof near hidden by wisteria, “are you thirsty? Because, if you are, my dear, the grocer of Maple Brevet is famed for his draught ginger-beer. We always have his at home.”

“I’d love some.”

The shop stood back from the roadway, and in front was an old bench, set under lime trees. I brought the car alongside, and we got out.

“But why is there no one about?” said the girl, taking her seat on the bench.

“The people are in the fields, for the most part, and the others keep house in the heat of the day. You’re right in the old world at Maple Brevet.”

“Putting the clock back again,” she said. “I never met such a man.”

“It’s a hobby of mine,” I explained. “Hitherto, owing to some unfortunate omission, my name has not figured in
Who’s Who
. When it does, ‘Putting the weight,’ I mean ‘clock,’ will appear as one of my recreations.”

“And the others?”

“Smoking, London, and wondering why.”

“I can understand the first.”

I laughed.

“Oh, London’s a wonderful pastime. Like nothing so much in the world as a great big fair, full of booths, and taverns, and peepshows, its ways alive with hucksters, customers, constables, its life made up of laughter, and bickering, and brawls. Its very Courts are Courts of Pypowders. A very healthy recreation, believe me. You ought to try it. And as to wondering why – well, I’ll get your non-intoxicant first.”

I brought her ginger-beer fresh from a cool stone jar. A glass also for myself. She thanked me with a smile.

“Mind you quaff it,” I said, “just to preserve the atmosphere. They always quaff at Maple Brevet.”

“I’ll try. But you mustn’t look, in case I were to drink by mistake. And now, aren’t you going to sit down and smoke a cigarette?”

Gravely I offered her my case. She shook her head.

“Not in Maple Brevet,” she said.

For a little we sat silent. Then a bee came, drank from her glass and flew away. She broke into the old melody:

“Where the bee sucks there suck I;

In a cowslip’s bell I lie…”

She sang charmingly. When it was over:

“Thank you very much,” said I. “Omar Khayyám’s idea of Paradise is the correct one, though what in the world he wanted a book of verse for… You know, were it not for the volume of circumstantial evidence to the contrary, I should be inclined to style the inclusion of the book of verse in his recipe for bliss as ungallant.”

“I expect that was his poet’s licence.”

“Probably.”

“And now tell me about your third recreation?”

“Wondering why?”

She nodded, her glass to her lips.

“I’m always wondering why,” I said. “Always. At the present moment I’m wondering why your lashes are so long. Just now I was wondering why your feet were so small. And ever since I saw them, I’ve been wondering why your ankles are so slender.”

“I’ve been wondering too. Wondering why I let you take me down to the Close, drive me to Maple Brevet, generally do what you’ve done.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is a strange thing, isn’t it? I mean it isn’t as if I wasn’t an obvious blighter. However, if you should think of the reason, you might—”

A little peal of laughter cut short my sentence. The next moment she was on her feet.

“Come along.” she cried. “I’m sure we ought to be going. Somebody else’ll be wondering why, if I’m not back at half-past one.”

I followed her to the car somewhat moodily. I was all against this mysterious friend.

If the tire had not burst, we should have been at Brooch to time. And if the detachable wheel had not refused to come off for twenty-five minutes in the broiling sun, we should only have been five minutes late. As it was, the cathedral clock was striking two as we tore up to the Castle.

“Come,” said my companion, and flung out of the car. She sped up the great hall, making straight for the steps and the corridor that led to the Bench. I followed a little uneasily, putting my faith in Jimmy. Holy ground that corridor, meet to be trodden delicately.

By the time I had gained the passage, my lady was out of sight. She had dashed past the window where I had seen her first, round into the gloom at the back of the Bench itself. Where on earth did the girl think… I peered round the corner to see the passage flooded with light. The door of the Judge’s private room was open. Also, momentarily, the one leading on to the Bench, to admit what I took to be the person of the Judge’s butler. Fortunately he was half way through and did not see me. The door closed behind him. A quick step, and my companion appeared in the other doorway.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said coolly. “You are slow. Come along in. Why didn’t you tell me there was this waiting-room when I was here this morning?”

“Waiting-room!” I gasped. “My dear girl, d’you know where you are?”

She stamped her foot.

“Will you come in?”

I looked at her helplessly, hesitated, and then stepped into the room. On the table were the substantial remains of a handsome lunch.

I looked round apprehensively. Then:

“This is the Judge’s private room,” said I. “It’s not a waiting-room at all. There’ll be the very devil to pay if we’re caught here. Come out of it, I beg you,” I went on desperately. “Any moment the Judge might come back for his handkerchief or – or anything.”

To my horror, she took her seat on the edge of the table, put her head on one side and smiled at me.

“He’d better go, if he’s afraid,” she said provokingly.

“Not at all,” said I. “At least, that is, I only don’t want us to be fired out ignominiously. We may be any minute, you know.”

“They can’t expect a girl to stand and wait in the corridor when there’s a waiting-room—”

“Not ordinarily, I admit,” said I. “But they’re rather exacting behind here. No true democratic spirit in them. On their dignity all the time. Besides, you know, the fact that it isn’t a waiting-room at all is against us. Gives them a sort of handle, as it were.”

She fell into long low laughter, and, putting a slim hand behind her, accidentally pushed a glass off the table. It fell with a crash.

“Oh,” said the girl.

I laughed bitterly.

“That’s right,” I said. “Having thrust into the holy of holies, we will now proceed to sack the place. Where do they keep the axe?”

At this my companion laughed so immoderately that, fearful lest her merriment should penetrate to the Bench, I stepped to the door and closed it. Then I turned to her:

“May I ask,” I said, “how long you propose to stay here and what you’re waiting for?”

“Well, the Marshal’ll probably look in presently, and I must—”

“If it’s only Jimmy,” I said, “I may be able to square him, but if—”

I broke off and began to rehearse nervously.

“My lord, it would not be proper to contend that
primâ
 
facie
this intrusion is anything but unwarrantable. The truth is – er – we thought it was a waiting-room, until we saw your – er – your” – I looked round wildly – “er – unmistakable traces of your lordship. The fourpence on the table is for the broken tumbler.”

Here the door was flung open, there was a quick rustle, and the Red Judge swept into the room.

“Hullo, dad,” said the girl.

Then she put her hands on the great man’s shoulders, stood a-tiptoe and kissed him.

“And now,” said her father, “where—”

She laid a small hand on his lips.

“Listen,” she said imperiously.

Quickly she told him of my kindness (
sic
) and the drive to Brevet and the burst tire.

“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. And we did try.”

The Judge turned to me with a smile and put out his hand.

“Anyone who successfully takes charge of my daughter for more than a quarter of an hour earns both my envy and my gratitude, Mr…”

I told him my name.

“So,” said he, “your father and I were old friends. For years we sat in the House together. He represented Shrewsbury, and I Oxford. Well, well. I must go back to the Bench. I’ll deal with you both later. If cutting a lunch with a Judge isn’t Contempt, I don’t know what is. You may consider yourselves imprisoned until the rising of the Court. I shan’t sit after three today, but that’ll give you plenty of time for lunch.”

When we had finished, I pushed back my chair and held up my cigarette-case.

“Not in Maple Brevet, I know,” I said, “but—”

She nodded.

“Here’s different,” she said.

I came round and stood by her side.

“Not so very,” said I. “I don’t see a book of verse anywhere. Incidentally, I suppose you’re still wondering why, aren’t you? I only ask out of curiosity.”

Slowly she selected a cigarette. I watched the pointed fingers.

“I always discourage curiosity,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips. “But as you’ve been very kind, and as you did say ‘Rabbits’ first, you may give me a—”

She hesitated.

“Yes?” said I.

“A light,” she whispered.

“What about our Contempt of Court?” I said.

“I expect we shall be committed.”

“I don’t think so,” said I. “But we might easily be attached.”

Before we left Port Said, Jonah had sent a wire to Berry, with the result that, when we arrived at Cairo, Daphne and Jill were at the station to meet us.

I think we were much the same. I could still do with plenty of sleep, but the voyage, uncomfortable as it was, had set me up wonderfully, while Jonah was as sound as ever, except for a slight limp – he used to call it “a present from Cambrai” – which he will never lose.

Neither of us had seen the girls for nearly four years. Berry had sailed for Egypt in 1915, and when it appeared that he was likely to stay there, my sister had followed her husband to Cairo. Jill had accompanied her, naturally enough. After a while they had taken a house at Ghezireh, that fair island suburb where the English live, and there with Berry, who was steadily employed at GHQ, the two had made their home ever since.

When the armistice was declared, both Jonah and I happened to be in England – as a matter of fact, I had just left hospital and was on sick leave – and this, together with the fact that neither of us was fit for general service, no doubt contributed largely to our early demobilization. This was actually a
fait accompli
before the New Year. The very next day I had received a letter from my brother-in-law stating that, while he had no desire to appear sanguine, he hoped to be permitted to return to civil life not later than the fall of 1921, and asking me whether I expected to be sent to Russia before the spring. To this I had replied by cable:

Jonah and I demobilized aaa Make arrangements to send girls home forthwith aaa you brother will continue to carry on aaa congratulations on MBE aaa report compliance.

It was Berry’s reply which was responsible for our visit to Cairo.

Dear Brother

As one to whom the contemplation of vice in any shape or form has always been repellent, I have no desire to learn the nature of the filthy and corrupt procedure to which you doubtless resorted to procure your release. This is a matter which I prefer to leave – not, however, without grave misgiving – to your ‘conscience.’ If you do not recognize the word, Jonah will explain what I mean.

Your request for the return of my wife and your cousin is not understood. Since I rescued the former, at the price of my own freedom, from the sphere of your baleful influence, her outlook upon life has not unnaturally changed, and she has no desire to sever her association with a husband for whom she has an irresistible respect. In the same way little Jill proposes to falsify a somewhat indelicate proverb.

Talking of dogs, I may say that the latter’s latest acquisition is an animal of disgusting habits which she insists is a marmoset. We call it ‘Baal.’ Its disregard for certain of the conventions which we, foolishly perhaps, are accustomed to observe is distressing. Only this morning it savaged me with every circumstance of brutality. Need I say that the untoward incident appeared to afford Daphne and Jill the maximum of amusement? The brute remains a prisoner-at-large for the excellent reason that no one is agile enough to put it under close arrest. I am putting up a wound-stripe, and propose to change the creature’s name to ‘Moloch’ by deed-poll.

But I digress.

After considerable hesitation we have decided that you and Jonah should proceed to join us by the first available boat. Before the hot weather begins I hope to have brought this campaign to a close, so that we can all return together.

If you have any trouble at the Passport Office refer them to Scotland Yard, when they will immediately arrange for your deportation.

To avoid attracting attention, I suggest that you should travel ‘steerage.’ I enclose a cheque for five thousand pounds towards your passage. I don’t suppose it will be honoured, but you can try.

The anxiety, which you have consistently omitted to express, for my well-being is, alas, but too well founded. Privation has left its mark. The soda-water at the Turf Club is not what it was in England, and you will find me greatly changed. Indeed, I am so emaciated that, were your instincts less depraved, I should allow two or three pints of your blood to be transfused into my veins. But I dare not imperil that sweet spirit of innocence which is at once my shepherd and my crown.

For your information and necessary action.

BP

PS – You might bring a ‘shaker’ with you. I can’t get one here for love or money.

Upon inquiry I found that a “shaker” is a contrivance in which you mix cocktails, and Jonah and I started for Egypt ten days later.

“My dear,” said Daphne, “you’ve grown a moustache.”

“Neither have you,” said I. “I mean – Is it too hot to kiss you, or ought we to pass right to right? When I’m in Rome, I like to do as Rome does.”

Before she could reply, Jill left her brother and flung her arms round my neck.

“I don’t know what they do in Rome,” she said, “but in Cairo—”

“And now,” said Jonah, “about the luggage.”

It was certainly high time to do something.

We were surrounded by a rapidly increasing crowd of yelling natives of all sizes and shapes. Some sought to bear our baggage away piecemeal, others to dispossess us of the coats and rugs we held; a third school endeavoured to connect several pieces of luggage by means of a long strap. One of the latter had actually succeeded in completing his festoon, and had commenced to stagger away before he became the victim of an organized assault.

“This, I presume, is your Spartacus group,” said I. “You didn’t tell me that you’d got Bolshevism here, or I wouldn’t have come.”

“Choose one or two quickly, for goodness’ sake,” said my sister. “It’s the only way.”

I’ll have the cove with one eye,” I said. “Now, Jonah, your pick.”

Jonah instantly chose a fellow with a physiognomy suggestive of a familiarity with the more brutal forms of assassination.

“Crippen for ever,” he said.

I had quite expected that we should have to maintain our selection by violence, but, to my surprise, the moment we had chosen our porters, the rest of the natives turned nonchalantly away, jabbering excitedly to one another, and laughing and jesting like a rabble of children.

“They don’t seem much disappointed,” said I “A moment ago it might have been a matter of life and death.”

“‘For East is East,’” said Daphne shortly. “And now we’ll have a couple of
arabiyas
.”

“To tell you the truth,” said I, “we had one on the train. Still – All the same, I always thought you were supposed to wait till the sun went down.”

“Idiot!” said my sister. “An
arabiya
is a victoria.”

By this time Crippen and Cyclops had succeeded in concealing themselves beneath our baggage, and we moved off in the direction of the exit. Our appearance upon the steps was the signal for twelve drivers, all of whose animals were feeding, to take immediate action. What followed reminded me irresistibly of a freak event at a gymkhana. Twenty-four nose-bags were torn off, twenty-four ponies were bitted up, the drivers flung themselves upon their seats, twelve whips cracked, and, amid a hurricane of frenzied bellowing, twelve equipages were launched simultaneously towards us. The distance to be covered was only about forty yards, and at least nine of the vehicles arrived together. Collision was averted a score of times as by a miracle. Our two porters regarded the baying avalanche unmoved, merely glancing inquiringly at us, much as stewards might look towards the judge for his decision.

“For Heaven’s sake put the numbers up,” said Jonah. “My nerves aren’t what they used to be.”

I boldly selected two of the nine, when the unsuccessful competitors quietly withdrew with every appearance of satisfaction. There were no appeals – there was no discontent. The judge’s decision was not only accepted – it was apparently approved.

As we drove through the streets, Daphne gave me my bearings.

“There’s Shepheard’s, Boy, on the right – this is the Sharia Kamel, you know – and those are the gardens.”

“Yes,” I said, “I thought they must be. I was going by the grass, you know.”

“Be quiet. And this is the Continental we’re coming to. And over there’s the Opera House, where they’re going to have the masked ball. That’s the way you go to the Muski.”

“I didn’t catch the last word,” said I. “Just as you were speaking a horse coughed.”

“The Muski, dear.”

I looked at her in some alarm.

“What you want,” said I, “is a sea voyage.”

“I’m just living for one,” she smiled. “And now put your hat straight; we’re going to pass GHQ. This is the Sharia Kasr-el-Nil.”

“I never heard such language in all my life,” said I. “How you remember the beastly words, I don’t know.”

“Hush,” said Daphne, laughing and laying a hand on my arm. “There,” she said reverently, nodding to the right, “that’s GHQ – where Berry works.”

“GHQ, perhaps,” said I. “‘Where Berry works, never. That edifice has yet to be erected.”

A few minutes before luncheon Berry strolled on to the verandah, where Jonah and I were lounging in a couple of basket-chairs. His brass hat – he was now a major – was slightly on one side, and in addition to the ordinary staff badges he wore the GHQ armlet. Beneath an excellent pair of breeches his highly polished field-boots and spurs gleamed in the hot sunshine.

With one accord we scrambled to our feet and stood stiffly to attention.

Berry nodded carelessly.

“Sit down, please,” he said easily, “sit down. Let’s have an understanding right away. You need never get up when I come into the room.” And with that he sank into the chair I had vacated.

Hurriedly Jonah resumed his seat. There were only two chairs.

Berry looked at me.

“Where would you like to sit?” he said tenderly.

Jonah turned to me.

“I think he’s fatter,” he said.

“Not a doubt of it,” said I. “And there’s a coarser look about him.”

Jonah nodded.

“See where the camel bit him?” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” said I. “That’s his mouth. What he drinks with.”

My brother-in-law regarded us affectionately.

“It’s like a breath from the slums to see you two again,” he said. “Several of my cockles are already warm to the touch. The muscles of my throat—”

Daphne and Jill floated on to the verandah.

“Well, you three,” said the former, “have you made friends?”

“We have,” said her husband. “I’ve just been forgiving them. Didn’t you hear Jonah crying?”

I slid my arm round Daphne’s waist and drew her close to me.

“You’re older, darling, though no one would know it, and I think you’re more beautiful than ever. Little Jill is actually twenty-two. We’re all older. One of us is older in sin.” Here Berry groaned. “But we’re all alive and well, thank God, and—”

I stooped to kiss her, for her eyes were shining.

“We’re all to-together again,” said Jill shakily. Then she gave an odd little laugh and burst into tears.

“My sweet,” said Daphne, and flew to her.

Berry followed Jonah and me into the house. In the cool hall he seized one arm of each of us in a grip of iron.

“Bless your two ugly hearts,” he said uncertainly. “Did you remember the shaker?”

Six days later we were sitting at tea on the verandah of Shepheard’s Hotel. The Sharia Kamel was flooded with brilliant sunshine, and, though we sat in the shade, the atmosphere was agreeably warm. The famous street below us was full of movement, and the ragged babel of sounds that rose and fell without ceasing made up a din that was not unpleasant.

There is no loitering in the roadways of Cairo. Scurry is in the air. Cars slip through the crowded streets mostly at top speed; its Arab ponies rattle the
arabiya
along at a hand-gallop; even a porter’s barrow is thrust on its way at five miles an hour. But opposite Shepheard’s the way is none too wide, and the traffic is heavy, so that the most impatient driver must needs go gingerly till he is clear of the throng.

It was a remarkable scene.

Arabiyas
, motor-cars, donkey-carts hustled one another for the right of way, and here and there a camel, almost completely hidden under its tremendous load, swayed indifferently along the gutter. There was a mounted orderly of the AIF side by side with a well-horsed brougham from the Sultan’s stables. The sullen chamberlain upon the box-seat and a flutter of black and white at the closed window declared its occupants to be two of the royal harem. A funeral was passing – first the rude coffin, hoist on the shoulders of irreverent bearers, alternately chanting and jesting, as the mood took them; then the relatives, also afoot; afterwards a poor pony dragging a trolley crowded with professional wailers, whose thin song dominated for a moment all other clamour. Wearing the blue-and-white armlet of the Signal Service, a dispatch-rider straddled his motor-cycle in hobby-horse fashion as he sought to thread his way through the press. On the opposite side of the street a native policeman surveyed the stream of traffic with a bored air.

The pavements were swarming.

Here a British officer brushed by two Bedouin that might have stepped out of the pages of Holy Writ; there was a huckster of sticks pressing one or other of his varied collection upon the passers-by; here a man crying cakes, and there again a vendor of silks and stuffs displaying his wares to any that would throw them a glance. Little brown boys darted along selling papers. British soldiers on pass strolled by in pairs, looking about them curiously. White
abbas
, green
abbas, abbas
of all hues, glowed in the bright light. Some of the poorer natives wore theirs looped up and kilted about their thin brown knees. All but the latter were girt with gay-coloured sashes, and wore the inevitable
tarbusch
upon the back of their heads. Only the women gave no colour to the picture; for all that, there seemed to be as many abroad as there were men. Some of them bore loads upon their heads, others perambulated, plainly but taking the air; but all were sombrely dressed in black, wrapped every one in the voluminous
haik
and shrouded close with her heavy
yashmak
. A few went barefoot, with anklets clinking, but for the most part they were wearing stockings, that slipped into rucks and wrinkles as they walked, and shoes that were down at heel.