The Gypsy in the Parlour Read online

  This morning Fanny Davis did not accompany her. She was too fatigued to stir, even at Charlotte’s reminder that it was probably their first-and-last chance. Charlotte set out for Regent Street leaving Fanny Davis still in bed. (“I trust ’ee don’t aim to play the same game twice,” said Charlotte. “If ’ee can’t accompany I to the train tomorrow morning, Fanny Davis, in London ’ee’ll have to bide.” Fanny murmured, for once sincerely, all she needed was a single day’s rest.) Charlotte therefore set out alone, passed a most enjoyable morning, returned to the Flower in Hand for the only food she trusted, and there, to set the crown on her pleasure, and make her feel a proper Londoner indeed, found a note from Clara Blow.

  Clara invited her specially to Jackson’s that afternoon, because it was then Mr. Isaacs came in for his weekly review of the takings. Clara thought Mrs. Sylvester and Mr. Isaacs ought to meet. The urchin who bore this missive still lurked about the entry; Charlotte rewarded him with a slice of fruitcake, and cabbed round to Jackson’s as usual.

  The gist of what passed between her and Mr. Isaacs was of course known to all of us later; Clara Blow’s own, more general report was that they got together straight off. They got together on chickens, and pigs; my Aunt Charlotte at once expanding Clara’s original thought of chicken-dinners, (which both she and Mr. Isaacs saw as idealistic), to embrace such more workaday viands as sausages, trotters, and Bath chaps. Whatever she said, Mr. Isaacs listened to. (“Him ’course not half her size,” related Clara Blow, “and your Auntie, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, kind of naturally behaving like as if wherever she is belongs to her.”) For whatever reason, my Aunt Charlotte rapidly established over Mr. Isaacs such an empire, he readily agreed to accept, in London, whatever comestibles she could dispatch to him; which commercial treaty happily agreed, Charlotte retired to the kitchen with Clara Blow, took two-three minutes to settle two-three small matters of business with her, and cabbed it, (as usual), back to the Flower in Hand.

  Her parting remark to Clara was that she’d had a very nice time.

  Back at the Flower in Hand, she found Fanny Davis still prostrate. A whole last evening in London offered possibilities only to Charlotte. We never knew, we never knew for certain; but we think she went to a Music Hall.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  1

  Thus when on the Saturday my Aunt Charlotte returned, she bore none but good news. Fanny Davis, shed on the way, at Frampton, at Miss Jones’, was already paying her entertainment in scandal. What mattered it to us, at the farm? We had Charlotte’s heartening tale to hear, we had the parlour to show Charlotte, I recall my Aunt Rachel and myself playing ‘Chopsticks’ so late as seven o’clock. Even my uncles appeared pleased, by Charlotte’s return: and she had all arguments out at once, publicly, over the supper-table, the moment she reassumed her place there. “Tobias,” said she, “your son Charlie have made the greatest fool of he alive, but what’s past’s to be let go by.” She paused; Tobias didn’t speak. His side of the argument was conducted as usual in silence.—And indeed hardly existed: Charlotte, thoroughly back to her old form, rejuvenated by her London exploits, was in fettle to tame all my uncles put together, and in their prime, and the old man to boot, just as she’d tamed them thirty years earlier. “Howsoever,” continued Charlotte, “him being protected by what us may only call the natural Sylvester thick-headedness, all may yet turn for the best; so I’ll just tell ’ee now all ’ee needs to know. Firstly, ’ee owes Stephen twenty pound. Secondly, Fanny Davis bides at Frampton, trimming bonnets wi’ Miss Jones. Third and lastly, Charlie’s to wed, and such a wife as him scarce deserves. Now let one of ’ee great images speak grace.”

  It was my Uncle Stephen who rose. Charlotte had had her private word with him earlier, and his long, sad face was already set in lines of resignation and composure.—He alone of the Sylvester men had at that moment a distinct personality: he looked already the lay-preacher he was soon to become.

  “Oh Lord, if ’Ee’ve been trying we somewhat, past year or two,” prayed my Uncle Stephen—at once pitching on a tone of such intimacy, the rest of us were a little disconcerted—“mayn’t ’Ee take Charlotte’s London journey into consideration? Which her undertook for naught save Fanny’s good?” (Though our heads were all properly bowed, I caught a glance between Grace and Rachel which possibly referred to Charlotte, cabs and shops. However, we could all pray along our own lines.) “Wherefore, Oh Lord,” continued my Uncle Stephen, “seeing us have done all in our power for one so specially afflicted by Thee—since without doubt ’twas Thy will even London doctoring but half succeeded; and seeing my brother’s son Charlie about to return home at last, with us do hope a most suitable female, Thy blessing, Oh Lord, be most particularly requested; also upon this food.”

  Then we all fell to.

  2

  In the heat of a blazing September noon, in a parlour brilliant at every point—lustre-ware shining in the cabinet, andirons bright about the hearth—the three famous Sylvester women waited to receive and make welcome the fourth.

  Themselves matched the day. Layered chin to toe in flannel, cambric, and silk at a guinea a yard, their broad cheeks crimson, their temples beaded with sweat, my aunts stood big and florid and jocund as three big suns. I, on this occasion rather prominent, hovered at the parlour’s threshold; so, looking back, observed and enjoyed the splendid sight. My Aunt Charlotte stood a pace in advance, but my Aunts Grace and Rachel flanked her closely. From time to time they exchanged some probably ribald jest—by me scarcely caught, not at all understood, nonetheless heightening the general mood of strong hilarity. There was naturally no male Sylvester present, they were all afield. My uncles saw no reason in the world to come in, from harvesting, to greet someone they would see daily for the rest of their lives.

  Charlie entered first—but only by an instant. Clara bounded immediately upon his heels. She bounded straight past him into my Aunt Charlotte’s embrace—just dealing me, en passant, a loving wallop. The tumult broke out, indeed, before Charles himself got fairly in; he must have known at once he’d brought home another Sylvester woman.

  “Chrissake!” shouted Clara Blow. “Chrissake, ain’t it all lovely?”—and my Aunt Charlotte immediately boxed her ears.

  3

  So one saw at once it was going to be all right. Because in the first place Clara wasn’t knocked down, which spoke volumes for her solid weight, and in the second, she wasn’t affronted. She was startled, for a moment; glanced sideways at me, instantly perceived that I wasn’t the cause for so explicit a rebuke, and apologised.

  “I’ve got into a coarse way of talking,” said Clara Blow frankly. “Don’t hold it against me, just bash me when I forget. I’ll be grateful.”

  “To speak so, I see ’ee’ll make me a very good daughter indeed,” returned Charlotte placidly. “In such a place as Jackson’s, where no doubt all example was against ’ee, ’ee might be excused; but in my house never utter such blasphemous words again, Clara Blow—and in the meantime, let I show ’ee your chamber.”

  They streamed out, the four big women, on such an impetus of energy and good-will that Charlie backed before them from the door. I might have followed. Clara was my friend, in a sense my discovery, I might have run officiously before to open doors, point out beauties, listen to her (censored) cries of admiration. But I didn’t. I stayed in the parlour by myself. The big, glowing room persuaded me: the clock persuaded me, whose tick, after so long a silence, seemed to beat more strongly than ever. It was like the renewed, steady heart-beat of the house. There was plenty of time. I promised myself long, leisurely explorations with Clara Blow, when I had her undivided attention. The little busybody in me already astir again, I determined to take particular pains with her language. In the meantime, I stayed in the parlour.

  What I now best remember is the sunlight: refracted from brass about the hearth, prisms over the mantel, the glass of the lustre-ware cabinet. It was the sunniest room, my aunts’ parlour, I have ever kn
own. I, idly tinkling out ‘Bluebells,’ sat with the sun on the nape of my neck. It was so warm, I have never felt sun so warm since.

  I felt more deeply happy than ever since. It all happened, this whole story, a long time ago.

  About the Author

  Margery Sharp (1905–1991) is renowned for her sparkling wit and insight into human nature, which are liberally displayed in her critically acclaimed social comedies of class and manners. Born in Yorkshire, England, she wrote pieces for Punch magazine after attending college and art school. In 1930, she published her first novel, Rhododendron Pie, and in 1938, she married Maj. Geoffrey Castle. Sharp wrote twenty-six novels, three of which, Britannia Mews, Cluny Brown, and The Nutmeg Tree, were made into feature films, and fourteen children’s books, including The Rescuers, which was adapted into two Disney animated films.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1953 by Margery Sharp

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3430-2

  This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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