I
It began, that awful week, before they reached Tewborough. It began‚ÅÝ‚Äîat least for eight of them‚ÅÝ‚Äîon the Sunday night at Middleford. The week at Middleford was a steady plodding affair, but it could boast one exciting event. This was the visit of a rich and eccentric old lady, Mrs.¬ÝHodney. She had driven in by car to the town to see her solicitors on Wednesday, had stayed to see the show, and after it was over had insisted upon being introduced by the local manager, who knew her as a ‚Äúcharacter,‚Äù to Miss Trant, to Jimmy, to everybody. She was so delighted with them all, she said, that she wanted them to do a queer old woman a favour. Would they all go out to her house, Custon Hall, twenty miles away, on the edge of the moors, and give a performance on Sunday there for her, her maids, and any of the villagers who were not too stupid to enjoy themselves for once on a Sunday night in November? They must not think of it as a matter of business‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough she was rich enough to pay for her whims, and if twenty pounds would compensate them for their trouble, there it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut they must think of it as a matter of cheering up a lonely old woman who found it difficult to be pleased with anything and who would not be staying long in this world. Thus Mrs.¬ÝHodney, a very staccato but vehement old lady, who patted all the younger players on the back as she talked.
So it was arranged that all the actual performers should stay in Middleford on Sunday night, catching a cross-country train on Monday morning to Tewborough, and give a special show (in evening dress) at Custon Hall, which would have waiting for them, they were assured, a very large drawing-room; a grand piano, and a good supper. ‚ÄúAnd mind you,‚Äù said the local manager, ‚Äúthe old lady‚Äôll do you well. She‚Äôs a queer old stick‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve heard all sorts of tales about her‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut she‚Äôs taken a fancy to you and she‚Äôll see that you‚Äôre all right, I give you my word.‚Äù This visit was the great topic during the latter part of the week. Miss Trant had waived any claim to part of the fee, so that it meant they would receive two pounds ten shillings each, and there were many exciting discussions, between Joe and Mrs.¬ÝJoe, Elsie and Susie, as to what might be done with this windfall. Then again the command performance‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it came to be called‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas both a compliment and an adventure. Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were pitied because they would not be there. Had they been going anywhere else, these two might have stayed on too, but Tewborough was no ordinary date and there was much to be done on the Monday. At Tewborough they were playing at the Theatre Royal, a real theatre, not a mere Pavilion or Assembly Room or anything of that kind. Miss Trant knew nothing about Tewborough and, curiously enough, neither did any of the others, but she had seen an advertisement in The Stage, offering this theatre at a fairly moderate rent, and for once she had acted on her own responsibility and had taken it for a week, in spite of Jimmy‚Äôs advice. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs buying a pig in a poke,‚Äù he said darkly, but Miss Trant, who could be both venturesome and obstinate on occasion, refused to be warned, and was encouraged by most of the others, who were anxious to see themselves on the stage of a real theatre again. Having thus committed herself to Tewborough, Miss Trant considered it the great date of the year, their grand opportunity, and it was necessary that she and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd should travel by car as usual on Sunday so that they could get to work at once on Monday. And they refused to be pitied because they were missing the command performance, for to them would fall the pleasure of first seeing Tewborough and its Theatre Royal.
There had been some difficulty at first in finding anybody or anything to take them out to Custon Hall, which could not be reached by train. The garage proprietors of Middleford seemed curiously reluctant to send one of their larger vehicles to Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs remote village. At last, however, a man was found. His name was Dickenson; he owned a bus, he said, that could seat twelve and had taken eighteen in its time; and he would drive them there and back for two pounds. Under that, he told them, he would not budge; and they found they could not make him budge. Nevertheless, they were all relieved when they heard about Mr.¬ÝDickenson and his bus.
The rendezvous was Jimmy‚Äôs lodgings, and by half past six, the appointed time, all eight were there, in evening clothes and carrying instruments and portfolios of music and an astonishing assortment of cloaks, overcoats, shawls, and scarves. They were all in high spirits. This was a break in the routine, an adventure. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, looking gigantic and very impressive in the Silver King and a long green scarf, said once again that it was quite like old times, and Mrs.¬ÝJoe, struggling with her two woolly coats, an imitation Spanish shawl, and a very worn opera cloak, once more agreed with him. All they wanted now was Mr.¬ÝDickenson and his bus. After another five minutes, these two arrived and brought with them a flat-faced youth, one Arthur, who blew on his hands a good deal and appeared to have no roof to his mouth.
“You’re a bit late,” said Jimmy, pleasantly.
‚ÄúLate!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson bitterly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm early to what I thowt I was going to be. Bother I‚Äôve ‚Äôad with ‚Äôer, haven‚Äôt I, Arthur?‚Äù
“Ee oo ah,” replied Arthur, and then blew on his hands. Having done that, he went on: “Ee oh oo ee oo ah.”
‚ÄúThat is so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúAnd now if we‚Äôre going to start, let‚Äôs start. Though I‚Äôd as lief go back hoam and call it off, I would that.‚Äù
‚ÄúNow what sort of night is it going to be, driver?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe inquired graciously, in her best Duchess of Dorking style.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs going to be a mucky cold neet, Missis,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúTickle ‚Äôer up, Arthur. And get in, all on yer, and let‚Äôs get off.‚Äù
‚ÄúThese rugged North-country characters,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe was heard to murmur. ‚ÄúRough perhaps but staunch as oak.‚Äù
“I wish his bus was a bit less rugged,” said Susie, looking inside.
It was certainly not a very luxurious vehicle. To begin with, it was obviously very old, and when the engine started everything else started too, jumping and rattling in sympathy with it. The seats were very narrow and hard, and it had not a proper enclosed body but was merely roofed in with some sort of canvas. And though it may have held twelve persons, the fact remains that when the eight of them, with their instruments and music and wraps, were all inside, there was not an inch of room to spare. Once they were on the road, the jolting was very unpleasant, but nobody grumbled much. It was all part of the adventure of the command performance.
‚ÄúThis to me,‚Äù gasped Mrs.¬ÝJoe in the darkness, ‚Äúis Romance and a great change. A drive out into remote places, the show in a different setting, against the background of one of our stately old mansions, an appreciative audience, a pleasant repast to follow.‚Äù
“Not so much of the ‘follow,’ ” said Elsie. “I vote we have the supper as soon as we get there. I thought that was the idea, and I’ve had nothing but a cup of tea and a bun since half past twelve, and I’m peckish now.”
‚ÄúNow you settle that between you,‚Äù said Jimmy Nunn. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt expect that to interest me. A drink of something, a piece o‚Äô dry toast, and perhaps a bit o‚Äô chicken‚ÅÝ‚Äîbreast‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs quite enough for me. I dare say there‚Äôll be chicken.‚Äù
‚ÄúSure to be.‚Äù This was the deep grave voice of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. ‚ÄúThey always do you well on these occasions‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my experience, ladies and gentlemen. Everything of the best‚ÅÝ‚Äîchampagne too, with luck, though being a woman she may be a bit slack about the drinks. You ought to have seen some of the spreads the old colonial governors‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSir Elkin Pondberry and one or two more‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to give us, after command performances. Sumptuous is the only word‚ÅÝ‚Äîsumptuous!‚Äù
“Well, I’m for splitting it like,” said Joe, rather apologetically. “A bit o’ supper before we start, and a good bite after we finish. One’ll put heart into us before we begin.”
‚ÄúAnd completely ruin your upper register,‚Äù said his wife coldly. ‚ÄúI know what happens to you. You‚Äôll fill your stomach, and then you‚Äôll stand in front of Mrs.¬ÝHodney, trying to sing, with your upper register in rags.‚Äù
“I can’t sing at all empty,” he pleaded, “and you know you said yourself at teatime. ‘Save your appetite for tonight.’ So I say a bit before and then a good bite to come home on.”
‚ÄúIf Mrs.¬ÝHodney, obviously a lady, refined if a trifle eccentric, heard you at this moment, she‚Äôd ask for your name to be crossed off the programme,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúAnd I shouldn‚Äôt blame her, Joe. I should say at once, husband or no husband and as good a baritone as you‚Äôll find in concert-party work, it serves him right and teaches him a lesson.‚Äù
This mention of the programme immediately set them all talking at once. They wondered if they had really chosen the best numbers. Would Mrs.¬ÝHodney like this item and that? They were still talking about the programme when the bus suddenly came to a stop. As it was impossible to see anything inside, Inigo looked out of the flap at the back.
“Are we there?” somebody called out to him.
“We don’t seem to be anywhere,” he replied, and got out, to find himself in a cold and drizzling blackness.
‚ÄúWe‚Äôre eight mile off,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, who was now examining the engine. ‚ÄúGive ‚Äôer another turn, Arthur. It‚Äôll be teeming down in a minute. That‚Äôll do, Arthur. Let ‚Äôer alone.‚Äù
“Eh oh oo ah oh ee,” said Arthur mournfully.
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll ‚Äôave to get ruddy mag out, that‚Äôs all,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, who did not seem to be in a very good temper. ‚ÄúI thowt she was bitching ‚Äôerself up all along. ‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôold this. Now then, we‚Äôll try that. Give ‚Äôer another turn, lad.‚Äù The engine began spluttering noisily. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôll do. It‚Äôll be pouring down in five minutes and ‚Äôere to Custon‚Äôs one o‚Äô the foulest roads you ever set eyes on. I ought to ‚Äôad more sense than to come on this daft trip.‚Äù
“Never mind, you chaps,” said Jimmy, who had joined Inigo outside. “We’ll soon be there, and then you can put some beef and beer away and make yourselves cosy by a big fire.”
“Ee oh oo ah oo,” said Arthur, and blew on his hands very despondently.
‚ÄúThis expedition would be gayer, I think, without Arthur,‚Äù said Inigo, as he and Jimmy climbed in again. ‚ÄúThere is something about Arthur that depresses me‚ÅÝ‚Äîa sort of ‚ÄòQuoth the Raven‚Äô sound about him.‚Äù
The bus went very slowly now but rattled more fiercely than ever. Apparently the roads were narrow, winding, and steep, and it was clear that Mr.¬ÝDickenson was not enjoying himself. The drizzle was steadily turning itself into a downpour, and very soon the passengers too found it difficult to enjoy themselves. Not only were they bumped about most unpleasantly but they also began to feel odd drops and trickles of rain. Evidently the canvas top was by no means watertight. They pulled their wraps and scarves about them, held on grimly to the backs of seats or whatever else there was to hold on to, and assured one another that it would not be long before they were there. But never had any of them known eight longer miles.
At last, however, they stopped, and Inigo, looking out again, reported that they had arrived at a large gateway leading to a drive.
‚ÄúThis is it,‚Äù yelled Mr.¬ÝDickenson. ‚ÄúCuston ‚ÄôAll, this is. Shall I take it right in if I can get in?‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, yes!‚Äù they cried happily, in chorus, he must take it up to the very door if he could. Already they saw the triumphant arrival, the great front door of the Hall wide open, the lights shining out, the stir of excitement among the crowd of retainers and villagers. As they went curving round the drive and everybody was trying to collect instruments and music and wraps, it was instantly decided that they should have something to eat and drink before beginning the show, for it was eight o‚Äôclock now, half an hour later than the very last moment they had expected to arrive at, and they all admitted they were hungry‚ÅÝ‚Äîall, that is, except Jimmy Nunn, who said he was dying of thirst. Out they tumbled, cold and rather damp and a little battered, hollow inside perhaps, but still in good spirits, delighted to be there, and ready to give old Mrs.¬ÝHodney the show of her life. They emerged into a downpour of that slashing cold rain of the moorland, but that did not matter when they were at the very door of the Hall.
That door, however, was closed, and there were no lights at all in the lower rooms, and nothing anywhere but a faint glimmer in one or two of the bedrooms. The house looked an inhospitable black mass.
‚ÄúI thought you said they were expecting you,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson, giving a most unpleasant short laugh.
“So they are,” said Jimmy uneasily, as he pulled at the bell handle.
‚ÄúThis part of the mansion,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe observed hopefully, ‚Äúis little used, no doubt. Everybody is busy with various preparations at the back. Come under the porch, my dears, until the door is opened.‚Äù
Jimmy tugged away at the bell and at last a flicker of light was seen below. The door was opened a few inches, then another few inches. “What d’you want?” asked a voice.
“Come along, please,” cried Jimmy impatiently. “We’re the concert party, the Good Companions, come to give the show.”
The door was opened wide now but only in order that an elderly and weary-looking manservant could stare at them in amazement. “What is it you want?”
Jimmy explained again.
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” the man told him.
‚ÄúNay, they‚Äôve not,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson, ‚Äúthis is Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs, I do know.‚Äù
“Of course it is,” said the man.
But when Jimmy explained at greater length, the man still stared in amazement. ‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs no use your coming here tonight, or any other night as far as I can see. Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs poorly, right bad. She had a stroke o‚Äô Thursday and she‚Äôs in a bad way. Doctor‚Äôs here now and he‚Äôs sent for a nurse. That‚Äôs how it is.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll be‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Jimmy gasped.
“Just hold on a minute,” said the man. He let the door swing to, and they heard him walking away.
Then the voice of Arthur prophesying woe was heard above all others. “Ee ee ah oo oo oh, oo ee eh, oo.”
‚ÄúBy gow! Arthur,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson bitterly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre right an‚Äô all.‚Äù
“If Arthur makes another sound,” said Susie in a low tense whisper, “I shall scream and scream. I can’t bear it.”
Now the door was flung wide open and they found a pocket electric torch shining on them. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt understand this,‚Äù said a very testy voice from behind the torch, ‚Äúand I don‚Äôt want to understand it. I haven‚Äôt the time to spare. Mrs.¬ÝHodney‚Äôs very ill indeed, very ill. I doubt if she‚Äôll recover but we‚Äôre doing our best. Now kindly go away and make as little noise as you can. Good night to you.‚Äù The torch vanished; the door was swiftly but quietly closed, locked, bolted.
“Good night to you,” cried Jimmy softly. “With love and many happy returns of the day. Creep away, boys and girls. It’s all off.”
“My God!” This was from Elsie, and for once she spoke for them all.
‚ÄúDo yer meantersay‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson began, but was cut short by Jimmy.
“I meantersay,” said Jimmy, “that we’re going back to Middleford as sharp as we can, and the sooner you get that bus started the better.”
‚ÄúBeef and beer!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝDickenson, in a very ecstasy of savage irony. ‚ÄúCosy by a big fire! Gorrr! You‚Äôre mugs yerselves and you‚Äôve made me into one.‚Äù
“Ee oh oo oo ur oo oo,” said Arthur indignantly.
This last remark enraged Mr.¬ÝJerningham, of all people. ‚ÄúOh, you shet erp,‚Äù he screamed.
‚ÄúHo, ho! And what‚Äôs Arthur want to shut up for, eh?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson sounded very menacing. ‚ÄúNar, for two blurry pins‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúKindly start your car, driver,‚Äù said a forlorn and dripping object, with astonishing dignity. ‚ÄúAnd don‚Äôt talk about pins in that way when ladies are present.‚Äù And having delivered this reproof, Mrs.¬ÝJoe climbed into the bus, removed her sodden opera cloak, sneezed twice, and burst into tears.
‚ÄúLadies!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝDickenson sneered. ‚ÄúGorrr!‚Äù He was then tapped upon the shoulder. After that he was taken to one side.
“Now you see me, don’t you,” said Joe, speaking very softly. “I’m a quiet sort of chap, I am. But I’m feeling sorry for that old lady in there. And I’m very disappointed because there’s no show. I’m also very hungry and I’m wet. And that’s my wife who’s just spoken to you. Now, another word, just one more word, from you, and I shall have the great pleasure of relieving my feelings by knocking your silly ugly head right off.” And as he spoke, Joe came nearer and nearer, a most formidable figure even in the darkness. “Just say some more, that’s all,” he added, almost persuasively.
‚ÄúBe ready to give ‚Äôer a turn, Arthur,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝDickenson despondently, and he sought his seat in front.
The return journey was horrible. It seemed to go on and on for hours and hours. Three times the bus had to stop, twice for engine trouble, and once because Mr.¬ÝDickenson had missed the way. On the other hand, the rain never stopped at all, and the canvas cover merely acted as a distributor. There had not appeared to be any room to spare on the way up, but now everybody was in everybody else‚Äôs way, and everybody was very wet and cold and hungry and so snapped at everybody else, and everybody else, being also very wet and cold and hungry, promptly snapped back again. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, attempting a reminiscence of a similar experience, was told at once that nobody was interested. When Mr.¬ÝJerningham complained that he was wet through, he was informed that a drop of water would do him good. Elsie announced that this time she really was through with the rotten Stage. Mrs.¬ÝJoe pointed out, between sobs, that she had always been one to take the Bad with the Good, but that having ordered a complete outfit for little George, boots and all, on the strength of this extra engagement, she was now at the End of her Tether. Susie told Inigo how depressed she was at the thought of Mrs.¬ÝHodney, the queer little old woman who had been so lively the other night and was now dying perhaps in that lonely dismal house; but when, in sympathy, he put his hand on hers, she pushed it away, said it was like a fish, so cold and wet, and asked him not to be a fool. Jimmy Nunn groaned from time to time, but only uttered three words during all the journey. ‚ÄúThe Good Companions!‚Äù he cried, with a ghastly chuckle, and after that nobody spoke for quite a long time.
Middleford was going to bed when they finally arrived there. They considered desperately, miserably, their chances of obtaining food and drink and hot baths at that late hour on Sunday. They heard already the outraged tones of landladies preparing to retire. Shivering, their best clothes so much sodden pulp, they crawled out of the bus, and it seemed the last straw when Jimmy plaintively announced that he would have to collect five shillings each from them to pay for it. While they were fumbling for their money, however, Inigo, who had disappeared for a moment, came back and said quietly: “It’s all right. I’ve paid him. You can settle up some other time. Let’s get away.”
It was a miserable party that met next morning to catch the eleven o‚Äôclock train to Tewborough. They stared at one another‚Äôs pale faces and reddened noses; they listened to one another sniffling and sneezing; they talked gloomily of aspirin and quinine; they yawned and shivered and groaned. Mrs.¬ÝJoe and Elsie had colds in the head; Susie said she felt feverish; Jerry Jemingham was watery about the eyes; Inigo‚Äôs voice was rather hoarse; Joe moved stiffly and talked of ‚Äúrheumatics‚Äù; and as for Morton Mitcham and Jimmy, both of whom looked queer enough at any time, they were now a sad spectacle indeed, Mitcham being nothing but a gaunt yellow ruin, and Jimmy, who really looked ill, a stricken gargoyle. It was just their luck, they told one another, that they should be in such a state when Tewborough and its Theatre Royal were awaiting them. They admitted, however, that a packed and enthusiastic house on the first night might pull them through. ‚ÄúIll as I ab,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, between sniffs, ‚ÄúI cad respod to the publig. That‚Äôs my tebremend. Tewborough‚Äôs a big dade and we‚Äôll blay ub to id.‚Äù This was the only topic that could rouse them out of their staring and shivering apathy.
It was teatime when they arrived there, and too dark to see anything of the town as the train crawled into it. Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were there on the platform. Inigo seized hold of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at once. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got to save our lives,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúWe had a hell of a time last night.‚Äù Briefly he described the great fiasco. ‚ÄúYou were lucky to be out of it, I can tell you,‚Äù he concluded. ‚ÄúNow then, what about Tewborough? How are you getting on? What‚Äôs it like?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd drew him to one side. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve nobbut been i‚Äô t‚Äôplace a day, as you knaw,‚Äù he said cautiously. ‚ÄúBut you‚Äôve got to talk of a place as you find it.‚Äù
“Well,” said Inigo impatiently, “and how do you find it?”
‚ÄúHere,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, bending forward and curving a hand round his mouth. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs bloody awful.‚Äù
Having delivered this verdict, he looked solemnly at Inigo, shook his head, then stumped away to find the baggage, with the air of a man who would continue to do his duty whatever it cost.