Camp Hospitality
The brief visit at the camp was vanishing with almost incredible
rapidity; the week would finish on Saturday, but Miss Gibbs had
decided to stay till Monday morning, so as to put in the full period
of work on Saturday afternoon. Sunday was of course a holiday, and the
pickers enjoyed a well-earned rest. Those who liked went to the little
church in Shipley village, the clergyman of which also held an outdoor
service in the stackyard at the farm for all whom he could persuade to
come.
In the afternoon the members of the camp gave themselves up to
hospitality. They had small and select private tea-parties, and
invited each other, the hostesses generally being "at home" in some
cosy spot beneath a tree, or under the shelter of a hedge, where the
alfresco repast was spread forth, each guest bringing her own mug and
plate. Raymonde, Morvyth, Katherine, and Aveline were the recipients
of a very special invitation, and Miss Gibbs assenting, they accepted
it with glee. Miss Lowe, the artist with whom they had struck up a
friendship, had removed on Friday from the camp to lodgings at an old
farm near the village, and she had asked her four school-girl
acquaintances to come for early dinner and tea, so that they might
spend the afternoon with her.
Miss Lowe was an interesting personality. She sketched beautifully,
and had shown the girls a few charming specimens of her work. She had
been painting in the neighbourhood for some weeks before the
strawberry picking began, and had many quaint accounts to give of her
experiences. Her quarters in the village had been decidedly
uncomfortable, and it seemed very uncertain whether the rooms she had
engaged at the farm would turn out to be any improvement.
"You'll have to take pot-luck if you come to dinner with me," she
announced to her guests. "I don't believe my landlady has even the
most elementary notions of cooking. The meal will probably be a
surprise."
"We shan't mind that!" the girls assured her.
Miss Lowe had chosen her lodgings more for the sake of the picturesque
than for creature comforts. The farm-house was an extremely ancient
building, and its very dilapidation rendered it a more suitable
subject for her brush. It consisted of a front later-date portion, and
a much older part at the back, the two being really separate blocks,
connected by a large central hall. This hall, which measured about
twenty feet square and thirty feet in height, must at one time have
belonged to a family of some pretensions. The walls to a height of
fifteen feet were covered with splendid oak panelling, grey with
neglect, and above that were ornamented with plaster designs in
bas-relief--lions, unicorns, wild boars, stags, and other heraldic
devices, a form of decoration which was also continued over the
ceiling. The back part of the house was evidently the older; the same
beautiful plaster-work was to be seen, both in the bedrooms and
kitchen, together with fine black oak beams. There was a winding stair
to the upper story, with narrow windows that suggested a castle, and
that dull, dim, soft yellow-brown light about everything which only
seems reflected from ancient walls. The front portion consisted of two
great sitting-rooms, one of which was empty, while the other had been
arranged for the accommodation of visitors. Neither walls nor
window-sills had been touched with paint for half a century, and they
were sadly in need of attention. The house was the property of an old
miser, who refused to spend a penny on repairs, and every year things
went on from bad to worse. The woodwork of the wide old staircase was
rotting away, most of the doors were off their hinges, and the rain
came through several spots in the roof. Like many another fine
mansion, it had descended from hall to farm-house, and showed now but
faded relics of its former grandeur.
The farmer and his family lived entirely in the back premises, and the
whole of the front was given up to their lodgers.
"I shouldn't like to sleep here alone," said Morvyth, as Miss Lowe
acted cicerone and showed them through the house. "These long, gloomy,
eerie corridors give me the shivers!"
"I felt the same," admitted their friend, "so I persuaded Miss Barton
to join me. She's as mad on the antique as I am, and together we enjoy
ourselves immensely, though we should each feel spooky alone. Our
first business last night was to turn five bats out of our bedroom.
There's an open trap-door in the ceiling of the landing, and a whole
colony of them seem to be established up there; they flit up and down
the stairs at dusk! One has to sacrifice comfort to the picturesque. I
think I begin to have just a glimmer of an understanding why some
people prefer new houses to old!"
Both Miss Lowe and Miss Barton certainly found their romantic
proclivities came into collision with their preconceived ideas of the
fitness of things. Mrs. Marsden, their landlady, was a kind soul who
did her best; but she had all her farm work and a large family of
children to cope with, so it was small wonder that cobwebs hung in the
passages and the dust lay thick and untouched. It is sometimes wiser
not to see behind the scenes in country rooms. Miss Barton had set up
her easel in the great hall, and absolutely revelled in painting the
grey oak and plaster-work, nevertheless she had a tale of woe to
unfold.
"They use the place as a dairy," she explained, "and they keep the
milk in large, uncovered earthenware pots. First I found the cat was
lapping away at it, and I jumped up and scared it off; and then the
dog strayed in and began to help itself, and I had to rush again and
chase it away. Then the unwashed baby, still in its dirty little
night-gown, brought a mug and kept dipping it into the pot to get
drinks. We're going to take a jug into the field at milking-time this
afternoon, and ensure our particular portion straight from the cow."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Morvyth, looking considerably relieved.
"Perhaps it's as well we don't see most foodstuffs in the making,"
moralized Aveline.
"Decidedly! Isn't there a story of a barrel of treacle, and a little
nigger baby being found at the bottom?"
"And an attendant who fell by mistake into the sausage machine," added
Miss Lowe, laughing. "I suppose one ought to be judiciously blind if
one is to preserve one's peace of mind."
"One may shut one's eyes, but one can't do away with one's nose!"
persisted Miss Barton. "There was the most horrible and peculiar and
objectionable odour in the hall yesterday morning, all the time I was
painting. I came to the conclusion that a rat must have died recently
behind the panelling. Then Mrs. Marsden came in with some milk-cans,
and she raised a lid from a big pot close to where I was sitting. What
do you think was inside? Twelve pounds of beef that she had put down
to pickle! I hinted that it was rather high, but she didn't seem to
perceive it in the least. She can't have the slightest vestige of a
nose!"
"Perhaps, like some tribes of Africans, she prefers her meat gamey.
Don't look so alarmed, you poor girls, it's not going to appear on our
table for dinner! I ordered a fowl."
"Which was alive only a couple of hours ago, for I saw the children
assisting to chase it wildly round the yard and catch it!" put in Miss
Barton. "We warned you, when we invited you, not to expect too much!"
Mrs. Marsden's training in the domestic arts had evidently been
defective, and her cooking was decidedly eccentric. The fowl turned up
at table plucked, certainly, but looking very pale and anaemic with
its long untrussed legs sticking helplessly out before it. It was such
an absurd object that as soon as the landlady had departed from the
room the company exploded.
"How am I to carve the wretched thing?" shrieked Miss Lowe. "I hardly
know where its wings are! I've never before seen a chicken served
absolutely _au naturel_!"
"I expect it to rise up and walk!" hinnied Miss Barton. "It seems
hardly decent to have left its claws on! Look at the sauce! It's
simply bread and milk! Oh, for the fleshpots of Egypt!"
A ground-rice pudding which followed proved equally astonishing. Miss
Lowe had suggested that an egg would be an improvement in its
composition, and behold! when it made its appearance there was an egg
neatly poached in the middle. The giggling guests rather enjoyed the
episode than otherwise. They had come to be entertained, and they
certainly found plenty to amuse them, especially in the humorous
attitude with which their hostesses viewed all the little
inconveniences.
"Perhaps we shall do better at tea-time," said Miss Barton hopefully.
"Mrs. Marsden surely can't go very wrong there. We're going to walk to
the woods this afternoon. I've bespoken Jenny, the fourth child, as a
guide. She's the most quaintly fascinating person. I hope she won't be
long; we're waiting for her now."
The girls were all impatience to start for the woods, so, as their
little guide was already late, Miss Barton went to the kitchen in
search of her, and found her concluding a somewhat lengthy toilet
with the assistance of her family. The choicest possessions of several
members, in assorted sizes, seemed to have been commandeered, and she
was finally turned out in a red serge dress, a black jacket much too
large, a feather boa, and a pair of woollen gloves, which, considering
that it was quite a hot day, was rank cruelty, though--true daughter
of Eve as she was--she seemed so pleased with her appearance that
nothing would induce her to pull off her suffocating grandeur. She was
not at all shy, and very old-fashioned for her seven years. The girls
found her conversation most entertaining as they walked along.
"She is absolutely refreshing!" giggled Raymonde. "The way she shakes
out her skirts and manoeuvres the sleeves of the big jacket is
perfectly lovely. She ought to be a mannikin when she grows up, and
try on coats and mantles in shops. Wouldn't she just enjoy it?"
To Jenny an expedition with six ladies was apparently the opportunity
of a lifetime, and she was determined to make the most of it. She
volunteered to recite, and wound out a long poem in such a rapid,
breathless monotone that it was hardly possible to distinguish a word.
The party politely expressed gratitude, whereupon she announced: "I'll
say it for you again!" and plunged at once into an encore.
"For pity's sake stop her! I'm getting hysterical!" gurgled Morvyth.
"She's like a gramophone record that's rather blurred and has been set
too fast. Thank goodness, here's the wood! She can't recite while
she's climbing that stile."
Everybody decided that the wood was worth the walk. They spent a
delicious afternoon lying under the tall straight pines, with the
sweet-smelling needles for a bed, watching the delicate and illusive
effects of light filtering among the shimmering leaves of birches.
"I feel as if I ought to be picking something!" laughed Katherine,
throwing pine cones at Raymonde. "If I live to be a hundred, I'll
never forget this strawberry-gathering business. One got to do it
automatically."
"You know the story, don't you, of the old man who described himself
in the census as a picker?" said Miss Barton. "When he was asked to
explain, he said: 'Well, in June I picks strawberries, and then I
picks beans, and then I picks hops, then when them's over I picks
pockets, and then I gets copped and sent to quod, and picks oakum!' I
shouldn't wonder if some of your gipsy friends, Raymonde, could boast
of a similar record."
"I don't care--they're top-hole!" declared Raymonde, sticking up for
the tribe.
"Who wants tea?" said Miss Lowe. "We've asked Miss Nelson and Miss
Porter from the camp, and if we don't hurry back at once, we shall
find them waiting for us when we return, and slanging us for being
rude. Come along!"
Miss Lowe had casually informed Mrs. Marsden that she expected a few
friends to tea, but had not mentioned anything about special
preparation, thinking that they would carry the cups and saucers into
the garden, and have it under the trees. Little did they know the
surprise their enterprising landlady had in store for them. When they
arrived at the farm they found her, dressed in her best attire,
waiting at the door to receive them, and she proudly ushered them into
the sitting-room, where she had spread forth a meal such as might be
set before a particularly hungry assemblage of Sunday School
scholars.
A large ham, not yet quite cold, adorned one end of the table, and a
big apple-pie the other, while down the centre were seven round
jam-tarts, each measuring about seven inches in diameter. The cruets
had been put in the middle of the table instead of Miss Barton's bowl
of flowers, and there were several substantial platefuls of
currant-bread. It was an extremely warm afternoon, and even to
school-girl appetites the sight of such plenty at 4 p.m. was
appalling. Miss Lowe's convulsed apologies sent the visitors into
explosions.
"Look at the tarts!" choked Miss Barton. "They're all made with
black-currant jam! There's one apiece for us, counting the apple-pie.
And the currant-bread is half an inch thick! Who'll take a slice of
lukewarm ham? Oh, it's positively painful to laugh so hard! I never
saw such a bean-feast in my life!"
"We certainly can't consume all these!" echoed Miss Lowe. "The
children must eat up some of them for supper. It will take days to get
through such a larderful! For once they'll be satiated with jam-tarts.
Well, I suppose it's an ill wind that blows nobody good. Still, if the
baby comes to an untimely end through acute dyspepsia, I shan't be in
the least surprised."
Mrs. Marsden seemed determined to entertain her guests, and had yet
another surprise in store for them. She beckoned them into a little
private parlour of her own, and showed them the paintings of her
eldest boy, a youth of eighteen, who, she proudly assured them, had
never had a drawing lesson in his life. It was not difficult to
believe her, for the specimens were so funny that the spectators could
hardly keep their faces straight. Horses with about as much shape as
those in a child's Noah's ark, figures resembling Dutch dolls in
rigidity, flowers daubed on with the crudest colours, and the final
effort, a bird's-eye view of the village, consisting chiefly of tiled
roofs and chimney-pots in lurid red and black.
"No doubt it has afforded him the supremest delight," whispered Miss
Lowe to Miss Barton, "and it's evidently a subject of the utmost
satisfaction to his mother, so I won't make carping criticisms, but
take it as a moral for the necessity of due humility over one's own
productions. Perhaps mine would be as diverting to an Academician as
his are to me."
In the same room Mrs. Marsden showed her visitors a mysterious
oil-painting, black with age and hideous beyond compare, which she
informed them was an original portrait of Nell Gwynn. She supposed it
to be immensely valuable, and was keeping it safe until prices rose a
little higher still, after the war, when she had hopes of launching it
on the auction rooms in London, and realizing a sum that would make
her family's fortune.
"An ambition she'll never realize in this wide world," said Miss
Barton afterwards, "for the thing is absolutely not genuine. It's not
the right period for Nell Gwynn, and it's so atrociously badly painted
that it's obviously the work of some village artist. She's in for a
big disappointment some day, poor woman! I hadn't the heart to squash
her, when she seemed so proud of it--especially as she was still a
little huffy that we hadn't consumed her black-currant tarts!"
Though physically they were rather weary, the girls were sorry when
their week's strawberry picking came to an end. It was found that when
their canteen bills had been paid, and railway fares subtracted, they
had each earned on an average a little over five shillings; some who
were quicker pickers exceeding that amount, and others falling below.
They decided to pool the general proceeds, and present the sum
cleared--L4, 16_s_. 8_d_.--to the Hospital for Disabled Soldiers as
their "bit" towards their country. They went back to school feeling
highly patriotic, and burning to boast of their experiences to those
slackers who had chosen the parental roof for their holidays.
"I'd have loved it!" protested Fauvette, "but I really did have a very
nice time at home. My cousin was back on leave. He's in the Flying
Corps, and he's six feet three in his stockings--and--well--I've got
his photo upstairs, if you'd like to look at it."
"Oh, we're all accustomed to gipsies and poachers now, and don't think
anything of airmen!" returned Morvyth nonchalantly (she was apt to sit
on Fauvette). "You should see my snapshots of the strawberry
pickers!"
"And mine!" broke in Cynthia Greene. "By the by, I wrote my name and
school address on a card, and packed it inside one of my strawberry
baskets. I put on it: 'Will the finder kindly write to a blue-eyed,
fair-haired girl who feels lonely?'"
"Cynthia, you didn't!" exploded the others.
"I did--crystal! Why shouldn't I? Lonely soldiers beg for letters, and
it's as lonely at school as in barracks any day, at least I find it
so!"
"Suppose somebody takes you at your word and sends an answer?"
"I heartily and sincerely hope somebody will. It would be absolutely
topping!"