into doing a series of six radio plays based on his story ideas. She wrote four of these plays herself during 1976-77, and adapted two of these for publication in 1978 in the venerable
It is a matter agreed upon among all right-thinking persons that Christmas should be spent in the bosom of the family; the picture conjured up by Mr. Charles Dickens has entered into the catalogue of English myths, a vision compounded of log fires, merry laughter and snow-bound countryside—all this despite the fact that the log fire may smoke, the snow prove nonexistent, and the company be rendered speechless by indigestion. Moreover, it will rain.
“It will rain,” said Mr. George Markham.
“What a dismal fellow you arc, George!” His companion jerked on the bridle; they were riding in a light trap down the empty Sussex road. “My uncle is the only living relative I possess and I must, I positively must, call on him at Christmas.”
“Why? The shops have a capital collection of greeting cards. Just send the old boy a robin. Or a picture of Santa Claus, signed Your Affectionate Nephew.”
“That’s ungenerous!” Paul Bernays laughed; they both laughed, for they were young men up at Cambridge in this year of 1896 and confident of their position. “He’s got no money and no prospects, he lives with some dreary cleric of his own age.”
“Worse and worse! My dear Paul, what are we going to say to a couple of elderly country bores?”
“Happy Christmas!” For some reason this struck both of them as an excellent joke; the barren hedgerows shook to their mirth, they slapped each other on the back and chortled with glee while the horse slowed to a walk and, yes, it began to rain. To either side the sepia downs curved against a wintry sky; a single bird rose above their heads and vanished over the hill.
“Confound it. Oh, let’s go back!”
They might well have been tempted; the shower looked like developing into a steady downpour; but at that moment (seeking a place to maneuver the trap) Bernays turned his head and saw a most curious apparition approaching across the fields. A man of more than average height dressed in a flapping black cloak, he held a large umbrella high above his head and jumped over the furrows in a series of odd little skips; with each jump the umbrella jerked in the air while the rising wind tugged at his cloak, giving him the semblance of an old and agitated bat. He wore no headgear—and indeed would have found some difficulty in keeping anything upon his head by reason of the wind and the fact that both his hands were occupied in an attempt to restrain the umbrella handle. So, struggling against the malice of the elements, he contrived to gain the road where he stood peering at the travelers from under dark eyebrows; strangely hairy eyebrows which almost met over the bridge of his nose.
“Mr. Bernays?”
The words were swept away on a gust of rain. The young men stared at him; then Paul recovered sufficiently to shout:
“Hullo! Are you from the rectory?” And this was more than simple guesswork: at that distance the clerical collar could be plainly observed under the sodden cloak.
“My name is Alaric Halsey. You are welcome, sir, you are most welcome. Dear, dear, dear, what singularly inclement weather!” He smiled, a long grin which etched deep lines around his mouth and displayed a set of rather good teeth. He could have been some fifty years old, the hair still black and worn en brosse, the eyes luminous under those really very peculiar eyebrows. More might have ensued only at that moment there occurred a most unfortunate accident. Whether the wind, the rain, the flapping garments or a combination of all three alarmed the horse, suffice it to say that the animal bolted. It reared abruptly, backed—nearly upsetting the cart—and then set off at a tolerable gallop, causing the Reverend Alaric Halsey to leap into the ditch. His voice echoed thinly after them, the one distinguishable word being “uncle.” It took Paul Bernays the better part of two miles to bring the horse under control. The creature then evinced a marked desire to go straight home, a point of view with which neither young man felt inclined to argue.
As they sat warming themselves before an excellent fire George Markham said: “So much for the clerical friend! We’ve shown seasonal good will, my dear chap. Do we really have to call on your uncle again?”
“Yes.” Paul stretched his legs and reached for the decanter. “I’m sorry for the man, upon my word, he’s been most shabbily treated.”
“How?”
Rain spat against the window, the firelight made little amber gleams in the port. Bernays poured himself another glass before replying.
“Ancient history. He should have inherited this house. But he quarreled with his father over certain companions, a pretty scandalous affair—don’t ask me what!—and the whole West Farthing estate came to me. Uncle Nicholas went abroad; and didn’t return to England till, oh, some time in 1895, I believe.”
“Good Lord. Didn’t he contest the will?”
“No.”
“Lucky for you. Is the estate worth much…?” Markham drained his wine.
“I couldn’t say. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve got the house and about two hundred acres of land. Mostly mixed farming, we passed the farm on the way up.” Paul spoke with a genuine unconcern; he had a young man’s easy contempt for money, a common attribute in those who have never had to do without it. They passed to other more congenial subjects such as women and horses, then went into dinner and gave the unlucky Mr. Nicholas Bernays only a passing thought and his friend the Reverend Alaric Halsey no thought at all.
It was therefore with a certain surprise on the following morning that—caught in the midst of his shaving— the owner of West Farthing looked out of the window and exclaimed:
“Good heavens. My uncle!”
A gentleman could be seen approaching the front door, a man below average height with thinning red hair and a faintly harassed expression. He glanced both right and left; seemingly troubled by something immediately behind him. Precisely what became apparent when a mongrel dog came round the corner of the outbuildings to join his master on the doorstep. Before Mr. Bernays senior could announce his arrival by the conventional rat-a-tat his nephew threw up the window and shouted:
“Uncle Nicholas! I’m delighted to see you, sir! We’re spending Christmas here, I had intended to call on you —Come in, come in!”
Now it is entirely possible that the sight of a young man, his face covered in soap and one hand brandishing a cut-throat razor, startled the visitor; certainly he sprang backwards with an oath while the dog barked, leaping in the air and snapping with some display of viciousness. Both dog and master recovered their composure, however, and entered the house with haste. For the best part of an hour uncle and nephew exchanged the usual aimless remarks which pass for conversation amongst people who meet but seldom and have nothing in common when they do. If Mr. Nicholas Bernays bore any grudge against his relation he gave no sign of it. He was quite frankly a nondescript kind of fellow, he spoke in disconnected spasms and kept his eyes fixed on the carpet. The gaps in his speech grew more frequent, the undergraduates began to wonder how long he intended to stay and whether they should invite him to lunch—Paul being on the point of suggesting it when his uncle suddenly jerked round and cried, “Bless my soul! It’s raining. And I—I—I have no raincoat!”
Well, that omission could speedily be remedied; he really was an odd uncomfortable kind of guest, and they would far rather lend him a raincoat than endure his company throughout a meal—besides, he had the strangest notions. George Markham’s mackintosh fitted him tolerably neatly whereas Paul’s was manifestly too big; yet Mr. Bernays showed a marked preference for the latter and departed with surprising haste, clutching the garment round him and babbling quite excessive gratitude. As they watched him hustle away through the drizzling rain, a curious point struck both young men simultaneously.
“Look!” exclaimed Markham. “What’s the matter with the dog?”
