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Authors: R. F. Delderfield

Tags: #School, #Antiques, #Fiction

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BOOK: The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon
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It was the coach-driver calling from above and Mr. Sermon started and found Olga waiting for him to emerge from his daydream.

"I say, we must be holding everybody up!" he exclaimed. "Here, it's too steep for those heels of yours, take my hand, Miss Boxall!"

She took it gratefully and he hauled her up the uneven steps but

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when they regained the level and were approaching the coach she said, breathlessly, "Look, Mr. Sermon, I don't think we can go on using each other's surnames, it makes us sound like a couple in a Bronte novel. What does your 'S' stand for? I've been peeking, I saw the initial on your knapsack! It isn't 'Sidney' I hope?"

"No," he said chuckling, "it isn't Sidney but to my mind it's worse! It's Sebastian!"

"Oh no, it couldn't be!" she protested.

"I'm afraid it is," he said, not in the least offended by her amused incredulity, "and I'd far sooner you went on calling me 'Mr. Sermon' than 'Sebastian'! I've got another name,' thank God, but nobody's used it since I was a boy. It's 'Martin'. Is that any better?"

"Oh, much!" she said and, suddenly catching sight of the basilisk glare of one of the hill-station women, she added, "Come on, they're getting annoyed with us," and they ran the last twenty yards and regained their seats with a rush.

"Martin," she said half to herself, as the vehicle groaned up the hill, "that suits you far better than mine suits me. I think I hate 'Olga' as much as you hate 'Sebastian'. It's not simply the Russian spy implication, it's an ugly word and I wasn't even given another name."

"What would you have chosen if you'd been given the option?"

"Something French, I think, 'Madeleine', or 'Yvonne' or perhaps not, perhaps something very English like 'Mary' or 'Margaret'. There's a great deal in names, Martin, they have a way of typing people. All the 'Muriels' I've ever met have been saucy women attractive to men, and all the 'Gladyses' hearty and easy-going. Pick me one, pick one that suits your conception of a person like me!"

"Very well," he said and after a moment's thought, " 'Madge'!"

"Did you know a 'Madge' anything like me ?"

"No," he admitted, "I don't think I ever met a 'Madge', but it's you somehow, down-to-earth and straightforward. One can't imagine a 'Madge' being artful or coy. A 'Madge' would speak her mind yet do so with due regard for other people's feelings, I think!"

She was silent for a moment and then, as the driver changed up and the hoarse roar of the engine changed to a persistent whine making conversation less effort, she said:

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"Do you know, Martin, that's one of the most genuine compliments anyone has ever paid me," and she squeezed his hand and then looked quickly away across the dun-coloured moor.

About four-thirty the driver entered the steep, narrow lane that led to an off-the-map beauty spot known as Poppleford Steps, where giant boulders were spaced across a shallow river in the form of stepping stones. It was, thought Mr. Sermon, a foolish place to drive a 23-seater but the season was early and there was very little traffic about, so they made the descent without much difficulty and parked near the water's edge for tea. On the way down the Devon driver explained the origin of the name 'Poppleford'. "Yerabouts a 'popple* is a gurt pebble!" he announced, "and they moormen used popples to get across like, so it become known as the Poppleford!"

Most of the excursionists went into an isolated shack for tea but Mr. Sermon did not like the look of the place and having swallowed what seemed to him a quart of coffee at preceding stops he suggested they should walk along the bank to stretch their legs. Olga agreed but said she would leave her shoes in the coach, take off her stockings and go barefoot. There had been no rain for nearly a month and the turf of the water meadows was dry and springy. She kicked off her elegant but punishing shoes and peeled off her silk stockings without even indicating that he might glance the other way so that he noticed, with satisfaction, what unexpectedly shapely legs she possessed. He would have imagined that they would be thin like the rest of her but they were not, they were long and shapely, like the impersonal legs that advertise stockings in newspapers. They were also, he reflected, essentially young legs. She put her stockings in her handbag and they moved down the valley that ran between hanging woods, Olga dabbling her feet in the stream, Sebastian walking more soberly along the cattle path that followed the river.

The sun was going down over the western edge of the hill and the little valley was flooded with light ranging from yellow to white to mauvish pink, but a hard streak of blue-black showed where the woods met the sky. Wildflowers grew down to the water's edge,

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wild iris and small, wild daffodils, trefoil and periwinkle, and across the meadow under the heavier timber was a haze of bluebells looking, at that distance, like blue powder sprinkled on the grass.

"This is the most enchanting place I've ever seen," said Olga, wriggling her toes in the water. "Why have I never been here before ? How far is it from Kingsbay, do you think? I'm hopeless at distances and measurements."

He said it was probably about twenty-five miles by road and perhaps fifteen as the crow flew, but he answered her absent-mindedly because he was thinking how fresh and young and pretty she looked standing in the stream with her skirt clutched in one hand and her delightfully incongruous town hat in the other. Then, glancing at his watch, he suddenly made up his mind and called to her to paddle along round the sharp bend in the stream to a spot where the meadow narrowed and beeches grew down to the path, and the moment they were out of sight of the shack he took he* by the hand, led her up the back and gently embraced her, kissing the nape of her neck and then her lips, not bothering to explain his conduct but leaving her in no doubt as to how much he appreciated the privilege.

She let him kiss her half a dozen times, conveying the impression that while she did not resent his attentions she found no particular excitement in them either but regarded a kiss or two as his due, like a girl seen home from a dance by a stranger. Ordinarily, he would have found this disappointing, but somehow he did not, for the act of kissing her reversed the age gap between them so that he felt, as his lips touched hers, no more than a youth to whom a mature woman was showing kindness and tolerance. Then, as he drew back from her, an owl hooted in a tree less than ten feet away and at the same moment there was an urgent rustle in the undergrowth behind them as a rabbit scrambled to safety and although he was visibly startled she only smiled, leaning against the grey bole of the beech and saying, very gently: "You see ? Somebody was watching after all, Martin!" and they both laughed and turned towards the shack where passengers were beginning to straggle back to the coach.

As they walked along the valley the sky began to cloud over and all the warmth went out of the sun. The blue-black streak above

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the woods lengthened and deepened, so that it was obvious that of the sudden storms characteristic of this area in early summer was about to break over the western edge of the moor. It was astonishing how rapidly the mood of the day changed. One moment it was early summer, the next spring and the next almost midwinter, with a strong wind, great scudding clouds shutting out the sun and a rain-screen almost veiling the further bank.

They regained the coach without getting very wet, however, and the Kingsbay matrons exchanged a disapproving glance when they noticed that Olga had shed her shoes and stockings. Mr. Sermon loaned her a handkerchief to dry her feet and secretly hoped that she would put her stockings on in the confined space between the seats, but she did not, contenting herself with shoes and determinedly setting about the task of repairing her make-up.

Then it happened. The driver, reversing over a patch of stones near the river, misjudged his distance and ran the rear wheels on to a patch of soft ground where the big vehicle stuck, its wheels revolving madly as he wrestled and wrestled with the steering column.

Mr. Sermon could see that he was concerned and got up to offer help. Together, he and the driver descended and went round behind to study the situation, standing in the pelting rain and churned up mud. The driver said; "Christ Maister, we're in a praper ole fix! Us'll have to give they wheels something to bite on!"

"How about that old fencing over there?" suggested Mr. Sermon. "Unless you can get something better from the shack!"

"Us'll get no help from him," said the driver. "Crusty old customer he is and I don't stand well with him seeing as I give this place a miss all last season. Carrying on something dreadful about it he was but the truth is, Mister, I don't like bringing a coach down here. I don't know what made me do it today but there 'er be, us is stuck, ain't us? And no bliddy telephone neither!"

Well at least we can try and move her!" said Olga, and Mr. Sermon saw with surprise that she had slipped off her shoes again and climbed out barefoot to offer assistance. She was the only passenger who had emerged, all the others were peering down at them through the misted windows.

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"You'll catch a bad cold, Olga," said Mr. Sermon, "get back inside before you're soaked to the skin!"

"I'm soaked already!" said Olga, cheerfully, and he noticed then that she had left her hat in the coach and the rain was creating havoc with her hair.

They waded through mud to the edge of the river and tugged at a few yards of rotting fence near the stepping-stones. The crumbling posts yielded easily enough but the task of freeing the tangle of rusty wire was a difficult one. Still nobody joined them and the driver said, "Bliddy helpful they be in there! I'm obliged to you mister an' ma'am. Haul her back towards me-half a second, her's snagged up-there, her's free now-back this way and stuff her in the dent us've made in the bliddy ole marsh!"

They backed towards the coach, dragging the tangle of posts and wire with them and the driver made a neat job of packing the debris into the ruts gouged by the wheels.

"Dornee get in for a minute, I'll try her gently while you hold on to that post so as 'er don't skid away," he said and returned to the driving cabin, climbing in and starting up whilst Mr. Sermon and Olga held the posts level immediately under the wheels. The engine roared and the wheels revolved slowly, showering both of them with liquid mud. Glancing up Mr. Sermon saw the gleam of Olga's teeth through a black film and realised that she was laughing. "My word," he said to himself, "what a sport she is! Most women would be in a fearful temper if they got in a mess like that. I'll make this up to her somehow, I'll . . . I'll buy her a new outfit by God!" for he found himself thinking that somehow this was his fault.

Then he heard her shout with triumph as the tyres bit into the wire and timber and the coach came out like a tooth, with a final flurry of mud that covered them from head to foot. The driving door flew open and the driver tumbled out, beaming with relief and shouting through the pelting rain, "Us've made it, Mister!" as he ran back towards them. He should have moderated his pace for the wheels had dragged the wire well beyond the mud patch and strewn it between the loose stones of the valley. He caught his large feet in a trailing end and fell headlong and very heavily indeed, landing almost at Sebastian's feet and yelping with pain.

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"I say, are you hurt?" exclaimed Mr. Sermon, stooping over him but it was clear from first glance that he was, for he sat up grasping his injured shoulder, rocking himself to and fro and gasping with

shock.

"It's his collar-bone," said Olga, "look, a clean break!" and she pulled aside his dripping overall to reveal a splinter of bone showing through the flesh.

"Christ ha' mercy!" grunted the driver and then fainted into Mr. Sermon's arms, so that they remained for a moment in a huddle some ten yards behind the coach, open to the tumbling skies and dripping with black Exmoor mud.

"Look after him a moment, Olga," said Mr. Sermon. "I'm going inside to tell the others!" and he slopped towards the coach, climbing up the steps and addressing the passengers as though from a platform.

"The driver has just broken his collar-bone," he announced, "and we shall have to get him to a doctor at once! Is there anyone here who feels capable of driving as far as the nearest town?"

There was no immediate response. They regarded him sullenly so that he was reminded of a class of boys being ordered to perform something outside the usual curriculum. At length the honey-mooner sat up and licked his lips and the two tradesmen nearer the back half-raised themselves but continued to stare at him almost accusingly. Suddenly he felt unreasonably irritated by their hostility and helplessness.

"There's no telephone at the tea-cabin and the man obviously isn't fit to drive," he snapped. Then, looking hard at the bridegroom, "You're a young chap, couldn't you drive the coach back to Kingsbay?"

BOOK: The Spring Madness of Mr Sermon
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