cocked on one side. ‘Like I said, a bit rum, isn’t it?’
I agreed that it was indeed rum. Why should Top-Ho leave his house in the dead of night in the pouring rain, and peddle off to make a call from a public telephone box when presumably he had a perfectly good instrument at home? Peculiar really; but then, of course, humans are apt to do things like that. Still, as all cats know, curiosity is an invaluable tool in divining, or frustrating, human intention, so I instructed Bouncer to keep on the qui vive .
‘On what?’ he grunted gormlessly.
I flicked my tail impatiently. ‘Prick up your ears!’
He leered. ‘Your language, Maurice!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charles Penlow’s Journal
Six weeks of non-stop sun and rum is certainly to be recommended. But after a time you begin to experience a sense of unreality and an itch to return to something more abrasive. Not that one can call Lewes abrasive, unless you count the internecine furies of the Plantswomen’s Guild and the rivalries enjoyed by the town’s countless historical societies, but it has a parochial busyness, a sort of brisk, needling vitality, which after weeks of lolling in the lavish arms of the Caribbean I begin to hanker for. And a Sussex sea is different from a Tobago sea; and beautiful though that island is, it has nothing on Mount Caburn in the moonlight or Chanctonbury Ring at dawn. Agnes being less of a sentimentalist and more of a sybarite than myself is only too happy to cling to Tobago for another month before facing the harsher realities of Podmore Place and our project for its retrieval from ruin.
It is, I fear, a ridiculously rash undertaking – though some have kindly called it bold – for the scale of restoration is huge, the work immense and the cost appalling. My younger brother, Jack, has advised me to stick to draughts and jigsaw puzzles, but since on principle one never listens to a younger brother I push on regardless. Why? Because to quote George Mallory, ‘Because it’s there’; but perhaps more pertinently because it has belonged to a branch of our family for generations. Its previous owner was an ancient cousin, and being the last of his line and with no one better to hand it on to, he left it to me. ‘White elephant,’ Agnes had protested.
But, as it happens, I am rather partial to elephants, and as a boy living in India, had once rescued a baby jumbo from a swamp. So I suppose I thought I could do the same again. However, this is no Indian jumbo: British, white, and certainly no baby! But then that’s the problem with sentimentality: it lands you with things, e.g. marriage and collapsing houses.
So I am back now, having rented out our house at Firle and installed myself at Podmore in the small east wing which we have made moderately habitable while the renovation progresses … or not, as the case may be. At least the grounds are taking shape and I have dreams for a small orangery, though God knows where. Meanwhile, I must make a date to see our friend Primrose Oughterard: Agnes has been receiving some rather strange reports from Emily Bartlett (why that woman chose to be secretary at the boys’ school after the dreary husband died beats me. She should have gone round the world and had a good time … well, as good a time as Emily is ever likely to have. Still, she seems to enjoy it which is the main thing. Horses for courses I suppose).
Anyway, according to Emily’s reports, I gather Primrose has recently taken possession of her late brother’s dog and cat, but is also pursuing some sort of grudge against one of the school’s masters. Emily says she is becoming quite unhinged over it. I have to say that being pursued by Primrose, with or without a grudge, is not something one would take lightly! But I rather like the woman: she is refreshingly frank and, despite certain oddities, no fool. She keeps a good class of whisky too – which cannot be said of the sherry: dry as a bone in the desert. I remember the
I agreed that it was indeed rum. Why should Top-Ho leave his house in the dead of night in the pouring rain, and peddle off to make a call from a public telephone box when presumably he had a perfectly good instrument at home? Peculiar really; but then, of course, humans are apt to do things like that. Still, as all cats know, curiosity is an invaluable tool in divining, or frustrating, human intention, so I instructed Bouncer to keep on the qui vive .
‘On what?’ he grunted gormlessly.
I flicked my tail impatiently. ‘Prick up your ears!’
He leered. ‘Your language, Maurice!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charles Penlow’s Journal
Six weeks of non-stop sun and rum is certainly to be recommended. But after a time you begin to experience a sense of unreality and an itch to return to something more abrasive. Not that one can call Lewes abrasive, unless you count the internecine furies of the Plantswomen’s Guild and the rivalries enjoyed by the town’s countless historical societies, but it has a parochial busyness, a sort of brisk, needling vitality, which after weeks of lolling in the lavish arms of the Caribbean I begin to hanker for. And a Sussex sea is different from a Tobago sea; and beautiful though that island is, it has nothing on Mount Caburn in the moonlight or Chanctonbury Ring at dawn. Agnes being less of a sentimentalist and more of a sybarite than myself is only too happy to cling to Tobago for another month before facing the harsher realities of Podmore Place and our project for its retrieval from ruin.
It is, I fear, a ridiculously rash undertaking – though some have kindly called it bold – for the scale of restoration is huge, the work immense and the cost appalling. My younger brother, Jack, has advised me to stick to draughts and jigsaw puzzles, but since on principle one never listens to a younger brother I push on regardless. Why? Because to quote George Mallory, ‘Because it’s there’; but perhaps more pertinently because it has belonged to a branch of our family for generations. Its previous owner was an ancient cousin, and being the last of his line and with no one better to hand it on to, he left it to me. ‘White elephant,’ Agnes had protested.
But, as it happens, I am rather partial to elephants, and as a boy living in India, had once rescued a baby jumbo from a swamp. So I suppose I thought I could do the same again. However, this is no Indian jumbo: British, white, and certainly no baby! But then that’s the problem with sentimentality: it lands you with things, e.g. marriage and collapsing houses.
So I am back now, having rented out our house at Firle and installed myself at Podmore in the small east wing which we have made moderately habitable while the renovation progresses … or not, as the case may be. At least the grounds are taking shape and I have dreams for a small orangery, though God knows where. Meanwhile, I must make a date to see our friend Primrose Oughterard: Agnes has been receiving some rather strange reports from Emily Bartlett (why that woman chose to be secretary at the boys’ school after the dreary husband died beats me. She should have gone round the world and had a good time … well, as good a time as Emily is ever likely to have. Still, she seems to enjoy it which is the main thing. Horses for courses I suppose).
Anyway, according to Emily’s reports, I gather Primrose has recently taken possession of her late brother’s dog and cat, but is also pursuing some sort of grudge against one of the school’s masters. Emily says she is becoming quite unhinged over it. I have to say that being pursued by Primrose, with or without a grudge, is not something one would take lightly! But I rather like the woman: she is refreshingly frank and, despite certain oddities, no fool. She keeps a good class of whisky too – which cannot be said of the sherry: dry as a bone in the desert. I remember the
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