Brother Dusty-Feet Page 11
‘We are Players who have lost the Rye road in the mist,’ said Master Pennifeather, doffing his bonnet with very nearly his usual flourish. ‘And chancing upon this house, we make so bold as to beg the shelter of your barn for the night, knowing that the dwellers in the marsh are – er – famous for their hospitality.’
The goaty old man began to say something, but they never knew what, because the fat man let out a roar that shook the rafters. ‘Players, is it? Splendid! Barn, is it? Not to be thought of! Come in with you! Players, by the Lord Harry, and just in time for supper! Never was there such good luck! Come in and shut the plaguy door!’
They explained that there were three more of them outside on the road, and a horse and cart as well, and before they knew what was happening a shock-headed boy, who seemed to be called Silly-Billie, had been summoned from the kitchen by another roar from the fat man, and sent off to collect the rest of the Company and see about stabling Saffronilla; and Jonathan and Master Pennifeather had been gathered to the fire by a wave of the fat man’s enormous arm. But Hugh hung back a little, with his hands still twisted in Argos’s collar, and an eye on the two mastiffs who had got up and were advancing on him slowly, just in case there was going to be a fight.
‘Hi! Boy!’ shouted the fat man. ‘Is that dog a fighter?’
Hugh shook his head. ‘No, sir, not often.’
‘Neither are Roland and Oliver, so you can let him go. Let him go, my good lad, before you strangle his eyes clean out of his head; and come to the fire a’mercy’s sake!’
So Hugh let Argos go, and came thankfully to the fire, and squatted down, holding out his wet, frozen hands to the crackling flames. The three dogs walked round each other on very stiff legs for a few moments; then Roland sneezed, and Oliver sneezed, and they both went and sat under the table, while Argos simply folded up where he was, and went to sleep. So that was all right. But the little white cat was not at all sure that she liked Argos, and she stood up on her master’s shoulder, arching her back and watching him with wide, amber eyes; and the strange blue-and-gold bird seemed quite sure that he did not like Argos at all, and flapped his wings and crooked his neck to peer at him balefully out of one eye. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Bring me that man’s liver!’ said the blue-and-gold bird.
The Players jumped and looked round; and the fat man flung back his head with a roar of laughter that made the little white cat almost lose her balance. ‘That’s Arthur!’ he said. ‘That’s Lord Grey de Wilton! Folks mostly jump when they hear him for the first time. Did myself, for that matter, never having met one of his sort before.’
‘If you please, sir,’ said Hugh when he had got over his surprise, ‘do they all talk like that – his sort?’
‘Couldn’t say, I’m sure; never having met another one. Very rare in England, these painted foreign birds,’ said the fat man, holding up a finger at which the bird nibbled. ‘My boy Ned brought him home for me from foreign parts. Had some outlandish foreign name, by the Lord Harry! And couldn’t speak a word of English. But we soon changed that, and he talks the Queen’s English like a Christian now!’
‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ said the foreign bird, still peering at Argos.
Everybody laughed, and Jonathan said: ‘And certainly he bears a famous English name’ – for Lord Grey de Wilton was a renowned soldier, and the Queen’s deputy in Ireland.
‘My oldest friend,’ nodded the fat man. ‘And I named the bird after him because they’re uncommonly alike; both got hooked noses, both got vile tempers – Ah, but I remember Arthur Grey as a lad, when he was as mild and obligin’ as – as I am myself! We served together at St Quintin; that was before he got his wound. Made a worse hole in his temper than it did in his leg, that wound!’ He swung round on the goaty old man, who had been scuffling in and out all this while setting the long trestle table for supper, and raised his voice in a bellow that made a log fall out of the fire. ‘Plague and pestilence, Timothy, where’s the cold beef? Am I to wait all night before my orders are attended to? Am I, or am I not master in my own house? By the Lord Harry, I said cold beef, and I mean cold beef!’
Timothy brought the cold beef, a huge round of it, which he set on the table with a sigh and a clatter; and almost at the same moment the rest of the Players arrived, shaking the mist-drops from their bonnets and blinking in the sudden light; and the fat man gathered them all in with shouts of welcome.
Soon after that, without knowing quite how it happened, they were all sitting down to supper off the cold beef and crusty bread, herb cheese and apple pasties, and brown ale foaming in leather jacks. They had found out by that time that the fat man’s name was Mr Thomas Trumpington, and his little cat’s name was Nimminy-Pimminy; and they had told him theirs in exchange, and it was all very friendly and comfortable.
Mr Trumpington sat in his great chair at the head of the table, with Nimminy-Pimminy on one shoulder and Lord Grey de Wilton on the other, and pressed more and more food on his guests, and ate enormous slices of beef, and talked and talked with his mouth full – mostly about his boy Ned who was serving under the real Lord Grey in Ireland just then, but also about navigation and the price of wool and the habits of barnacle geese. And the Players sat and ate their supper, and did not talk much, partly because they were so very tired and hungry, and partly because they were a little dazed at finding themselves honoured guests so unexpectedly, and partly because Mr Trumpington never stopped, and they could not have got a word in edgeways if they had wanted to.
Hugh, sitting beside Jonathan, with Argos’s head on his knee under the table, still felt as though it was all a dream. But if it was a dream, he hoped he would not wake up yet a while, because it was such a nice one. As the darkness deepened beyond the one high window, the long hall glowed more and more warmly in the red light of the fire and the smoky yellow light of the torches that never reached the great roof-beams and the thatch high overhead. And somehow it seemed all the more sheltering and friendly because of knowing that the wreathing mist and the silence and the loneliness of the marsh were still outside. It was like being safe inside a golden shell; and the apple pasties had cloves and cinnamon in them and were the nicest that Hugh had ever tasted.
Then quite suddenly Mr Trumpington leaned forward, beaming at them so that his round face looked more than ever like a crimson sun. ‘When will you be ready to begin?’
‘Begin?’ they said.
‘The play! The play, by the Lord Harry!’ said Mr Trumpington.
They had not really expected to put on a play that night, but they couldn’t disappoint Mr Trumpington after eating his beef and apple pasties. So Master Pennifeather said they could be ready in an hour. (There was a big brass lantern clock in the corner.) And Mr Trumpington said, ‘An hour? An hour it is by the Lord Harry! And you’ll be wanting an audience; oh, yes, I know; and an audience you shall have!’ He began counting on his fingers. ‘There’s myself, Roland and Oliver, Arthur and Nimminy-Pimminy; that makes five. There’s Timothy and Araminta; that makes seven. And the four farm lads; that makes eleven if you count Silly-Billie – he’s not quite right in the head, but no matter, he’ll be perfectly happy as long as he can bring his ferret.’ He let out a sudden bellow which brought a surprised spider tumbling out of the thatch on to the table, and Timothy scuttling from the kitchen with a ‘What is it now?’ expression on his face.
‘Timothy, we’re going to have a play here in the hall. We’re going to have it at eight o’clock, and everybody is to come and watch it. Everybody, mind!’
‘Me too?’ said Timothy dolefully.
‘Plague and pestilence! Did I, or did I not, say everybody?’ demanded Mr Trumpington. ‘Send one of the lads down to the village to fetch me Parson Treadgold as well.’
Timothy shook his head. ‘I’ll send, but I doubts if Parson Treadgold’ll come; not in this mist, not to watch Players. ’Tisn’t as if ’twas a game of chess.’
Mr Trumpington banged both fists on the table until the pots and platters hopped. ‘Brin
g me Parson Treadgold!’ he roared. ‘By the Lord Harry! Am I, or am I not, master in my own corner of the marsh? Show me the man who dares to contradict, and I’ll have that man’s liver! Bring me that man’s liver, I say, and bring me Parson Treadgold, or I’ll have your liver too!’
Everybody sat up joyfully and waited for more; and Lord Grey de Wilton got very excited and began sidling up and down his master’s shoulder with his wings half spread. ‘St George for Merry England and the Dons to the Devil! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Bring me that man’s liver, I’ve got the gout coming on again Ned!’ squawked Lord Grey de Wilton.
So Timothy went off, sighing, to collect the household and see about fetching Parson Treadgold, and Mr Trumpington helped himself to another apple pastie and said: ‘That’s all right, then. But I wish my boy Ned was here; it’s little enough junketing he’ll be getting, sitting in an Irish bog.’
The next hour was a very busy one. The Players unpacked the costumes by the light of a stable lantern – the St George costumes, because Mr Trumpington had chosen the True and Noble History when they asked him which play he would like – and brought them in in glistening armfuls to the closet that had been given them for a dressing-room. They shifted the great trestle table with Mr Trumpington’s help, and cleared a space before the closet door to be their stage. Then they started to change; and while they were changing, with the closet door ajar so that they should know what was going on, Parson Treadgold arrived. A tall, thin old man, with a stoop and a long, gentle face, who looked rather pained when Mr Trumpington thumped him on the back, bellowing, ‘No chess tonight! Something better than chess, tonight, by the Lord Harry!’ and pushed him violently into a great chair beside the hearth.
Hugh watching him with interest through the crack of the closet door, saw that his stoop was just the same sort as his own father had had; the scholar’s stoop that comes from poring for a life-time over books. And suddenly he remembered Oxford again: all the towers and spires of Oxford framed in the splendour of the rainbow. Just for a moment he saw it quite clearly; and then he found that Nicky was thumping him violently on his behind, and telling him to get on with his changing, and stop mistaking himself for Peeping Tom. So he thumped back, and finished pulling on the green stockings he was wearing as the Populace.
Then the rest of the audience that Mr Trumpington had promised came trooping in, and pulled their forelocks and settled themselves on stools in the fire-glow, Timothy looking more doleful than ever, and Araminta, who was fat and cheery, wiping her red arms on her apron; and the four farm lads with their faces shining from being washed at the well. Silly-Billie’s ferret was sticking its head out of the breast of his shirt and looking about with its bright ruby eyes. Mr Trumpington sat in their midst, with Roland and Oliver at his feet, and Nimminy-Pimminy and Lord Grey de Wilton on his shoulders. The torches had been put out, and the hall was full of crowding shadows between the fire-glow at one end, where the audience sat, and the taper-light at the other, where candles of fine Italian wax had been set to light the makeshift stage. And everybody drew a deep breath, and waited.
Then Jonathan pushed open the closet door, stepped out into the glimmering radiance of the candles, and raised the long golden trumpet that reflected back the candle-flames in dancing stars of light. The notes of the fanfare sang and echoed through the long hall, humming among the roof-beams as the note of a struck bell hums in its belfry, long after Jonathan had stepped back, and the King of Egypt in his mantle of French rose-scarlet had come forward to speak his opening lines.
From Jasper as St George, to Hugh as the Populace, the Players gave their very best that night, to please Mr Trumpington, because he had treated them as honoured guests instead of rogues and vagabonds. And the play was a very special success in consequence, even though Silly-Billie’s ferret escaped in the middle and they had to break off for a little while to help catch it. When they got to the great fight between St George and the Dragon, there was a positive uproar! Mr Trumpington leaned forward in his chair, beating his fists on his knees and cheering them both on to victory, while Araminta shrieked joyfully and the farm lads shouted and whistled; Roland and Oliver barked and Lord Grey de Wilton pranced up and down, squawking, ‘The Dons to the Devil! Hurrah! I’ve got the gout coming on again Ned!’ Even Parson Treadgold said, ‘Very nice. Very nice, I’m sure,’ as though he really meant it. Only Timothy looked as dismal as ever; and Nimminy-Pimminy carefully licked her paw and washed behind one delicate ear, as though such vulgar junketings were quite beneath her notice.
When it was all over, and the Company had lined up to bow, Mr Trumpington began to roar again. ‘The hat! The hat! I know how these things are done! This is my affair, my party! Bring me the plaguy hat!’
So Jasper brought him Ben Bunsell’s hat with its broken peacock’s feather gleaming like a jewel in the firelight, and Mr Trumpington felt in all his pockets, puffing a great deal, and then put something into it. It was only one coin, but it gleamed yellow in the bottom of Ben’s hat. A half-angel! More than they could have got in pence if they had been playing to a packed inn courtyard!
‘Because the audience is small, by the Lord Harry, that’s no reason why you should go with empty pockets,’ said Mr Trumpington, waving aside their thanks so violently that he hit Parson Treadgold on the nose by mistake, and made the poor man’s eyes water. If my boy Ned had been home, the audience would have been one larger, anyway.’
Soon after that the gathering broke up. Mr Trumpington offered Parson Treadgold a bed for the night, but he said he preferred his own, and went off to it, through the mist, with Silly-Billie and his ferret for escort, to see he got there safely. Then their host said good night, and went away with Nimminy-Pimminy and Lord Grey de Wilton still riding on his shoulders; and the Players settled down for the night, wrapped in their old cloaks in the warm rushes before the fire, with Roland and Oliver to keep them company.
Next morning the mist was gone, and the marsh lay clear once more, green and grey and silver, with little glints and gleams of gold where the February sunshine caught the ripples of the creeks and tidal pools. And after saying good-bye to Mr Trumpington the Players set out again for Rye, with the halfangel clinking against the few silver pence in Master Pennifeather’s pouch.
‘Well, we did find gold in the marsh mist, in spite of the shepherd’s warning, my lords, even if it wasn’t in the bottom of a dyke,’ said Master Pennifeather, jingling the pouch triumphantly.
‘I do hope his boy Ned comes home soon,’ said Hugh.
9
The Fine Gentleman
After a while the little Company turned westward along the coast and the Downs, where the turf was thyme-scented underfoot and the fat clouds sailed like stately galleons overhead. Presently they came into Southampton. They did not do at all well in Southampton because the citizens had not the sense to know good acting when they saw it, and did not appreciate Jonathan’s tumbling either; so the Players started out again after two days, instead of staying three, as they had meant to do.
When they came to pack up the tilt-cart, Master Pennifeather served out drum and sackbut, as usual, for they always marched out of a town to music, just as they marched in: a good exit being just as important as a good entrance, as every Player knows. Jasper Nye said he didn’t see no point in making a noise about their going, when they hadn’t anything to make a noise about. But Master Pennifeather said, ‘What? Sneak out like thieves in the night, and allow this – this city of the Philistines to think we care a snap of the fingers for its scurvy treatment? No, my lords! Not while we have wind to blow with!’ And so they marched out through the great Westgate, between Windwhistle Tower and Catchcold Tower, and away for the New Forest, to the brave music of drum and sackbut playing ‘Mary Ambree’, with their legs straight and their heads up, though their belts were pulled uncomfortably tight because they had not been able to afford breakfast and would probably not be able to afford supper either. Saffronilla was the best off, really, because she
could eat grass.
They did manage supper, after all, because they found a village on the forest verge, and acted the Martyrdom of St Cecilia on the grass plot before the ale-house, afterwards passing round Benjamin’s feathered bonnet.
It was early spring by that time, and the forest was flushing deeper every day with the lovely bloomy purple that comes when the sap is rising. There were golden catkins dancing on the hazel sprays, and the goat-willows tufted with silver; the blackthorn was breaking into a froth of starry white all along the woodshore, and the buds were thickening on the great forest trees – oak and ash and thorn trees that looked as though they had been old when William Rufus hunted the red deer through the woodland ways.
The Company spent a long time in the forest, wandering from village to village, for there were many hamlets tucked away in clearings and on the edge of open commons, and the people in them were glad of the chance to see a play. So the Players always had an audience of some sort, though often enough it was a very little one. Besides, the forest was a nice place to be in, in the spring.
One morning a great gale arose; the wind roared and sobbed through the trees, and the branches lashed together, and all the forest seemed full of the noise of a wild sea, racing cloud-shadows and flying bursts of sunshine; and now and then huge branches came crashing down into the road, so that really it was not safe to be abroad. Saffronilla did not seem to mind at all, but just plodded on comfortably through the hurly-burly, with the tilt-cart lurching at her heels. She never minded anything, except people sneezing, which she minded very much indeed. But Argos was dreadfully frightened, and insisted on walking between Hugh and Jonathan, and being talked to all the time.