charmingly, led her to Bernard van Zestien and Binnen and then went to the side table to bring her a glass of sherry.
Dame Beatrice had met her host upon arrival, but had had no opportunity to sum him up, since Binnie had almost immediately insisted upon showing her to her room, babbling that Dame Beatrice had had a very long journey and must be very tired. Dame Beatrice, who had had a smooth and comfortable journey from London to Norfolk, had lunched at an hotel in Norwich, and enjoyed an early but leisurely tea in Cromer, and who, in any case, scarcely knew the meaning of the word fatigue, had suffered herself to be led away. Her host, she had been at once aware, found conversation with a stranger somewhat difficult. He was a bald-headed, eagle-beaked old man to whom years of association with Jewish diamond-merchants had given something of an Hebraic appearance and courtly, slightly exaggerated manners. Unlike most of his Jewish friends, however, he was almost tongue-tied, and Dame Beatrice had felt him sigh with relief to see the back of her for an hour or so before dinner.
Now, however, supported by his sister Binnen, his daughter Maarte (Bernardo’s mother) and her handsome Jewish husband, Sigismund, he seemed at ease and contrived to make conversation.
‘We are having this little party,’ he said, ‘to wish well the young people who are to be married, and I take this opportunity, Dame Beatrice, to invite you to the wedding. This shall be in Holland, my country, and in a Protestant Church. The date I will let you know when it is fixed. There are many arrangements for a marriage.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ said Bernardo’s father. ‘It is so. You will be most welcome, Dame Beatrice —
‘And now,’ said Binnen, ‘we must find Florian a girl. It is high time for all our young people to be married.’
Florian, who was standing near at hand with his sister Binnie and their mother and father, heard his name and turned round, glass in hand.
‘What was that?’ he asked. Old Bernard chuckled.
‘Your grandmother is arranging for your wedding,
‘May the gods bless it!’ he retorted; and very deliberately he poured his wine on to the carpet. There was a wail of reproach from Rebekah.
‘Such wicked!’ she screeched. ‘Waste of the wine! Mess of the carpet! Aubusson?’ she added keenly, addressing Bernard. He smiled and nodded. Binnie rang the bell for a maid and a cloth to mop up the sherry. Rebekah seized the cloth from the maid, knelt down and, while mopping up, subjected the carpet to a keen and knowledgeable scrutiny. ‘You have been done,’ she announced. ‘Made in Brussels. Modern. Not bad. Not Aubusson. I will offer two hundred pounds.’
‘So it is Aubusson,’ muttered Bernardo to Binnie, who giggled wildly. She caught her brother’s hostile eye and began to choke. Bernardo patted her gently on the back. Giggling and choking at one and the same time, she changed suddenly to tears and ran out of the room. Rebekah looked at the door through which Binnie had just passed. Then she turned to Bernardo.
‘So she is pregnant, no?’ she demanded. The situation was saved by the butler, who announced that dinner was served. The company, shepherded by Binnen, were shown to their seats in the dining-room. There was a name-card opposite each place. Evidently the dinner was to be a formal occasion of a kind, although not entirely so, as was evident from some of the seating arrangements.
Bernard took the head of the table and Binnen the foot. On Bernard’s right was his daughter Maarte, Bernardo’s mother, on his left was Binnie and next to her Bernardo had been placed. Rebekah sat next to her sparring-partner and Derde was on her left. He was flanked by Dame Beatrice herself, who was upheld also by his brother Sweyn. Flora, the mother of Florian and Binnie, sat on Binnen’s right, and that concluded one side of the table.
On the opposite side, Sigismund sat next to his wife, then came Opal, partnered by Florian, who separated her from her sister Ruby. Frank, Binnen’s son, who was also Flora’s husband and the father of Florian and Binnie, sat between Ruby and the quiet,
‘Be prepared for my father to say grace,’ murmured Sweyn, as he drew out Dame Beatrice’s chair. Grateful for the hint, Dame Beatrice was fully prepared for the spate of Dutch which preceded the serving of the meal.
‘In the Netherlands, my country,’ announced Bernard van Zestien, raising his head, ‘I serve and eat according to our customs. In England, things are different. I am now following Parson Woodforde’s diary.’
‘Not
‘What a compliment!’ muttered Bernardo. Aloud he added, ‘If I remember my Parson Woodforde, darling, there will be so much choice that you can eat nothing but fish, if that is what you want. But don’t be such a hypocrite, sweetheart. You haven’t bothered about
‘No!’ shrieked his relative. ‘I was drunk. It was bad champagne. You are not to say!’
‘All right. I don’t let down my nearest and dearest in public.’
Rebekah stared resentfully at the plate of soup which was placed before her. Then she sniffed at it disdainfully.
‘Out of season,’ she said. ‘Is a wintry dish, no? Inherits pork fat, bacon — who knows what?’ She pushed her plate aside.
‘Never mind, dearest,’ said Bernardo. ‘You can have a nice raw herring instead.’
‘Is to make up to me for losing on mine proteins?’ yelled Rebekah. ‘I fall for soup!’ She seized her plate and hurriedly caught up with the other diners. ‘Now perhaps I have your raw herring, isn’t it? So eat the nuns in Belgian convents,’ she added, with deep resentment.
‘Tasty, nourishing and cheap,’ said Bernardo. ‘Ever eaten rollmops, by any chance, dearest?’
His relative picked up a piece of bread and smacked it into his ear, and, apart from this, the meal proceeded according to plan.
‘We have from Parson Woodforde,’ announced Bernard van Zestien, ‘the account of a meal for the year 1788. We did not take fish with oyster sauce, but, apart from that, the menu stands just as he made it.’
‘Impossible!’ moaned Rebekah. ‘Is all pork!’
