lawns and flower beds led down to a big artificial lake, with an island in the middle joined to each bank by two little trellis-work bridges; and in the mornings, when the dew was still on the grass and a faint mist hung in the air, you could see two or three cock pheasants and half a dozen waterhens on the lawns.
Now you can hardly see that there were ever any lawns or flower beds. Grass grows, knee high in summer, from the house to the water’s edge, and only a stone sundial, and a Grecian statue, rising above the wilderness, show that once it might have been something different. Across the lake, you can still find traces of tall poles and sagging, rusting wire netting, where the young pheasants were reared, and where the keepers hung the vermin which they shot. The head keeper is dead, and I believe the second keeper is living in two rooms in Bristol, earning his livelihood as a none too expert mechanic in a garage. The horse boxes are in ruins, the glasshouses shattered, and the vegetable garden choked with weeds.
But when I went there during those last school holidays, for what was to prove my last visit, though I could not suspect it, the place was still in its heyday. My aunt had inherited the estate from her father, because she was the eldest daughter. She had had a short matrimonial life of about ten years, which had given her the right to call herself Lady Bankhurst. I never knew her husband. He was an impoverished Oxfordshire baronet, a man who was happier in a town than in the country, and who was generally considered by the locals to be a pretty poor fish. Certainly my Aunt Nell dominated him as she dominated everybody else; and when death separated them, possibly with feelings of slight relief on both sides, she took over once again the undivided ordering of the place with her accustomed vigour.
She was on the steps to greet me when I arrived.
“Well, young man, how are you? Got your rugger cap yet?”
“No. I play for the House, though.”
“Not good enough!” she boomed. “Not good enough by a long chalk! What’s the trouble? Afraid to tackle ’em low, or something?”
I saw the chauffeur and butler smiling discreetly.
“No,” I replied lamely, “not really.”
“Going to get into the cricket eleven?”
“Well, no. My eyes are not good enough, really. About the rugger: I’m not heavy enough for the school pack, and not fast enough for a three-quarter.”
“Oh,” she said without much interest, and led the way into the drawing room, followed by two cocker spaniels, a fox terrier and me.
“Well, are you in the Sixth?” she asked, as she sat down at the teatable.
“No,” I said again, blushing crimson. She gave one of her loud, healthy laughs.
“God bless my soul, Michael, what are you good at?”
“Well, nothing really. I mean, I am not particularly good at anything.”
She handed me a dish of scones and began to pour out the tea. She seemed to be trying to think of something upon which to congratulate me. At last she looked up and asked, “Well, are you a prefect?”
I shook my head. She said nothing. She seemed to be bored with the whole conversation, and I don’t blame her.
“Unless you get your colours,” I said after a pause, “you only become a prefect in order of seniority. If I stayed on after the summer term, I would probably be a prefect in the autumn. Lots of chaps leave in the summer.”
But she was trying to make one of the spaniels beg for a bit of scone and made no answer. I felt my toes curling up in my shoes; I felt hot and uncomfortable. I wanted very much to stand well in her eyes, and I never seemed to be able to. I guessed that, with my pale town complexion, short-sighted eyes and inability to ride a horse with much skill, I cut a poor figure in her opinion. The footman came softly into the room and stood by me.
“May I have the keys to your trunk, sir,” he said. I handed them to him, and he went out.
I could imagine the snooty look he would
Now you can hardly see that there were ever any lawns or flower beds. Grass grows, knee high in summer, from the house to the water’s edge, and only a stone sundial, and a Grecian statue, rising above the wilderness, show that once it might have been something different. Across the lake, you can still find traces of tall poles and sagging, rusting wire netting, where the young pheasants were reared, and where the keepers hung the vermin which they shot. The head keeper is dead, and I believe the second keeper is living in two rooms in Bristol, earning his livelihood as a none too expert mechanic in a garage. The horse boxes are in ruins, the glasshouses shattered, and the vegetable garden choked with weeds.
But when I went there during those last school holidays, for what was to prove my last visit, though I could not suspect it, the place was still in its heyday. My aunt had inherited the estate from her father, because she was the eldest daughter. She had had a short matrimonial life of about ten years, which had given her the right to call herself Lady Bankhurst. I never knew her husband. He was an impoverished Oxfordshire baronet, a man who was happier in a town than in the country, and who was generally considered by the locals to be a pretty poor fish. Certainly my Aunt Nell dominated him as she dominated everybody else; and when death separated them, possibly with feelings of slight relief on both sides, she took over once again the undivided ordering of the place with her accustomed vigour.
She was on the steps to greet me when I arrived.
“Well, young man, how are you? Got your rugger cap yet?”
“No. I play for the House, though.”
“Not good enough!” she boomed. “Not good enough by a long chalk! What’s the trouble? Afraid to tackle ’em low, or something?”
I saw the chauffeur and butler smiling discreetly.
“No,” I replied lamely, “not really.”
“Going to get into the cricket eleven?”
“Well, no. My eyes are not good enough, really. About the rugger: I’m not heavy enough for the school pack, and not fast enough for a three-quarter.”
“Oh,” she said without much interest, and led the way into the drawing room, followed by two cocker spaniels, a fox terrier and me.
“Well, are you in the Sixth?” she asked, as she sat down at the teatable.
“No,” I said again, blushing crimson. She gave one of her loud, healthy laughs.
“God bless my soul, Michael, what are you good at?”
“Well, nothing really. I mean, I am not particularly good at anything.”
She handed me a dish of scones and began to pour out the tea. She seemed to be trying to think of something upon which to congratulate me. At last she looked up and asked, “Well, are you a prefect?”
I shook my head. She said nothing. She seemed to be bored with the whole conversation, and I don’t blame her.
“Unless you get your colours,” I said after a pause, “you only become a prefect in order of seniority. If I stayed on after the summer term, I would probably be a prefect in the autumn. Lots of chaps leave in the summer.”
But she was trying to make one of the spaniels beg for a bit of scone and made no answer. I felt my toes curling up in my shoes; I felt hot and uncomfortable. I wanted very much to stand well in her eyes, and I never seemed to be able to. I guessed that, with my pale town complexion, short-sighted eyes and inability to ride a horse with much skill, I cut a poor figure in her opinion. The footman came softly into the room and stood by me.
“May I have the keys to your trunk, sir,” he said. I handed them to him, and he went out.
I could imagine the snooty look he would
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