Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

alcohol works much the same way.

This time I spent my basking in thinking about the family and it is a tribute to hot water that I could think about them and still bask. For surely we are a sorry lot: Father moldering in the gatehouse, Rose

raging at life, Thomas- well, he is a cheerful boy but one cannot but know that he is perpetually underfed. Topaz is certainly the happiest for she still thinks it's romantic to be married to Father and live in a castle; and her painting, her lute and her wild communing with nature are a great comfort to her. I would have taken a bet that she had

nothing whatever on under her oilskins and that she intended to stride up the mound and then fling them off.

After being an artists' model for so many years, she has no particular interest in Nudism for its own sake, but she has a passion for getting into closest contact with the elements. This once caused quite a

little embarrassment with Four Stones Farm so she undertook only to go nude by night. Of course, winter is closed season for nudity, but she is wonderfully impervious to cold and I felt sure the hint of spring in the air would have fetched her. Though it was warmer, it was still far from warm, and the thought of her up on Belmotte made my bath more

comfortable than ever.

I ate half my chocolate and meant to offer the rest to Rose, but

Heloise was lashing her tail so hopefully that I shared with her

instead and her gratitude was so intense that I feared she might get in the bath with me. I calmed her, discouraged her from licking the soap and had just started serious washing when there was a thump on the

door.

I still can't imagine what made me call out: "Come in." I suppose I said it automatically. I had just covered my face with soap, which

always makes one feel rather helpless, and when I rashly opened my

eyes, the soap got into them; I was blindly groping for the towel when I heard the door open. Heloise let forth a volley of barks and hurtled towards it--it was a miracle she didn't knock the clothes horses over.

The next few seconds were pandemonium with Hcl barking her hardest and two men trying to soothe her. I didn't call her off because I know she never bites anyone and I hated the idea of explaining I was in the

bath--particularly as I hadn't even a towel to wrap around me; I had

blinked my eyes open by then and realized I must have left it somewhere in the kitchen.

Mercifully, Heloise quietened down after a minute or so.

"Didn't you hear someone say "Come in" ?" said one of the men, and I realized that he was an American. It was a pleasant voice, like the

nice people in American films, not the gangsters.

He called out:

"Anyone home?" but the other man told him to be quiet, adding:

"I want to look at this place first. It's magnificent."

This voice puzzled me. It didn't sound English but it didn't sound

American either, yet it certainly had no foreign accent. It was a

most unusual voice, very quiet and very interesting.

"Do you realize that wall's part of an old castle?" it said.

This was not a happy moment as I thought he would come to look at the fireplace wall, but just then Thomas came out on the staircase.

The men explained that they had turned down our lane by accident and

their car was stuck in the mud. They wanted help to get it out.

"Or, if we have to leave it there all night, we felt we'd better warn you," said the American voice, "because it's blocking the lane."

Thomas said he would come and have a look and I heard him getting his boots from the wash-house.

"Wonderful old place you have here," said the unusual voice, and I feared they might ask to look round. But the other man began talking

about how stuck the car was and asking if we had horses to pull it out, and in a minute or so Thomas went off with them. I heard the door slam and heaved a sigh of relief.

But I did feel a little flat; it was dull to think I had never even

seen the men and never would. I tried to imagine faces to go with the voices--then suddenly realized that the water was cooling and I had

barely begun washing. I got to work at last, but scrub as I might, I

couldn't make any impression on my green-dyed arms. I am a thorough

washer and by the time I had finished, my mind was completely off the men. I hopped out and got another can hot water from the copper, which is close to the fire, and was just settling down to read when I heard the door open again.

Someone came into the kitchen and I was sure it wasn't any of the

family--they would have called out to me or at least made a lot more

noise. I could feel someone just standing and staring. After a

moment I couldn't bear it any longer so I yelled out:

"Whoever you are, I warn you I'm in the bath here."

"Good heavens, I do beg your pardon," said the man with the quiet voice.

"Were you there when we came in a few minutes ago?"

I told him I had been, and asked if the car was still stuck.

"They've gone for horses to pull it out," he said, "so I sneaked back to have a look round here. I've never seen anything like this

place."

"Just let me get dried and in my right mind and I'll show you round," I said. I had mopped my face and neck on the drying sheets and still

hadn't taken the cold walk to find the towel.

I asked him if he could see it anywhere but he didn't seem able to, so I knelt in the bath, parted the green sheets and put my head through.

He turned towards me. Seldom have I felt more astonished.

He had a black beard.

I have never known anyone with a beard except an old man in the

Scoatney almshouses who looks like Santa Claus. This beard wasn't like that; it was trim and pointed--rather Elizabethan. But it was very

surprising because his voice had sounded quite young.

"How do you do ?" he said, smiling- and I could tell by his tone that he had taken me for a child. He found my towel and started to bring it over; then stopped and said: "There's no need to look so scared. I'll put it down where you can reach it, and go right back to the yard."

"I'm not scared," I said, "but you don't look the way you sound."

He laughed, but it struck me that it had been rather a rude thing to

say, so I added hastily: "There's no need to go, of course. Won't you sit down his I'm sure I've no desire to appear inhospitable"--and that struck me as the most pompous speech of my life.

I began to put one arm through the sheets for the towel.

"There'll be a catastrophe if you do it that way," he said.

"I'll put it round the corner."

As I drew my head in I saw his hand coming round.

I grabbed the towel from it and was just going to ask him to bring my clothes, too, when the door opened again.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, Simon," said the American voice.

"This is the darnedest placeI've just seen a Spook" "Nonsense," said the bearded man.

"Honest, I have--while I was in the lane. I shone my flashlight up at that tower on the hill and a white figure flitted behind it."

"Probably a horse."

"Horse, nothing--it was walking upright. But gosh, maybe I am going crazy- it didn't seem to have any legs."

I guessed Topaz must have kept her black rubber boots on.

"Stop talking about it, anyway," the bearded man whispered.

"There's a child in a bath behind those sheets."

I called out for someone to bring my clothes, and put an arm round for them.

"My God--it's a green child!" said the American.

"What is this place- the House of Usher ?"

"I'm not green all over," I explained.

"It's just that we've all been dyeing."

"Then maybe it was one of your ghosts I saw," said the American.

The bearded man came over with my clothes.

"Don't worry about the ghost," he said.

"Of course he didn't see one."

I said: "Well, he easily might, up on the mound, but it was more likely my stepmother communing with nature." I was out of the bath by then, with the towel draped around me respectably, so I put my head round to speak to him. It came out much higher than when I had been kneeling in the bath and he looked most astonished.

"You're a larger child than I realized," he said.

As I took the clothes, I caught sight of the other man. He had just

the sort of face to go with his voice, a nice, fresh face. The odd

thing was that I felt I knew it. I have since decided this was because there are often young men like him in American pictures--not the hero, but the heroine's brother or men on petrol stations.

He caught my eye and said:

"Hello! Tell me some more about your legless stepmother-and the rest of your family. Have you a sister who plays the harp on horseback, or anything?"

Just then Topaz began to play her lute upstairs -she must have slipped in at the front door. The young man began to laugh.

"There she is," he said delightedly.

"That's not a harp, it's a lute," said the bearded man.

"Now that really is amazing. A castle, a lute- his And then Rose came out on to the staircase. She was wearing the dyed-green tea-gown,

which is mediaeval in shape with long flowing sleeves. She obviously

didn't know that there were strangers in the house for she called

out:

"Look, Cassandra'" Both men turned towards her and she stopped dead at the top of the stairs. For once Topaz had her lute in tune. And she

was, most appropriately, playing "Green Sleeves."

VLaiR. Up on the chaff in the barn again.

I had to leave Rose stranded at the top of the stairs because Topaz was ringing the lunch bell. She had been too busy to cook, so we had cold Brussels sprouts and cold boiled rice -hardly my favorite food but

splendidly filling. We ate in the drawing-room, which has been cleaned within an inch of its life. In spite of a log fire, it was icy in

there; I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra

cold.

Rose and Topaz are now out searching the hedges for something to put in the big Devon pitchers. Topaz says that if they don't find anything

she will get bare branches and tie something amusing to them- if so, I bet it doesn't amuse me;

one would think that a girl who appreciates nudity as Topaz does would let a bare branch stay bare.

None of us is admitting that we expect the Cottons to call very soon, but we are all hoping it like mad. For that is who the two men were,

of course: the Cottons of Scoatney, on their way there for the first

time. I can't think why I didn't guess it at once, for I did know that the estate had passed to an American.

Old Mr. Cotton's youngest son went to the States back in the early

nineteen hundreds- after some big family row, I believe- and later

became an American citizen. Of course, there didn't seem any

likelihood of his inheriting Scoatney then, but two elder brothers were killed in the war and the other, with his only son, died about twelve years ago, in a car smash. After that, the American son tried to make it up with his Father, but the old man wouldn't see him unless he

undertook to become English again, which he wouldn't. He died about a year ago; these two young men are his sons.

Simon--he is the one with the beard--said last night that he had just persuaded his grandfather to receive him when poor lonely old Mr.

Cotton died, which seems very sad indeed.

The younger son's name is Neil, and the reason he sounds so different from his brother is that he was brought up in California where his

Father had a ranch, while Simon lived in Boston and New York with the Mother. (i gather the parents were divorced.