‘Perhaps your man?’
‘Cronin’s days as Hermes are over. You must see that surely for yourself?’
‘In that case there’s nothing for it but a tramp.’
This conclusion of Dankers’ was received in silence.
‘Walk, Mr Dankers,’ Lady Marston said eventually, and added to her husband’s dismay, ‘and return for lunch. Afterwards you can leave us at your leisure.’
‘How kind of you,’ the Dankerses said together. They smiled in unison too. They rose and left the room.
Cronin watched and listened to everything. ‘Prepare two beds,’ his master had said, and from that same moment Cronin had been on his guard. He had given them breakfast in the morning, and had hoped that once they had consumed it they would be on their way. He took them to be commercial travellers, since they had the air of people who were used to moving about and spending nights in places. ‘You have a fine place here,’ Mrs Dankers had said to the Marstons, and Cronin had narrowed his eyes, wondering why she had said it, wondering why she was sitting there, smoking a cigarette while the Marstons breakfasted. He had examined their motor-car and had thought it somehow typical of the people. They were people, thought Cronin, who would know what to do with all the knobs and gadgets on the motor-car’s dashboard; they would take to that dashboard like ducks to water.
For forty-eight years Cronin had lived in the house, serving the Marstons. Once, there had been other servants, and in his time he had watched over them and over the house itself. Now he contented himself with watching over the Marstons. ‘Some outhouse maybe,’ Dankers had said, and Cronin had thought that Dankers was not a man who knew much about outhouses. He saw Dankers and Mrs Dankers sitting together in a cafe connected with a cinema, a place such as he had himself visited twenty-odd years ago and had not cared for. He heard Dankers asking the woman what she would take to eat, adding that he himself would have a mixed grill with chips, and a pot of strong tea, and sliced bread and butter. Cronin observed these people closely and memorized much of what they said.
‘Clearly,’ Dankers remarked at lunch, ‘we’re not in training. Or perhaps it was the fascination of your magnificent orchard.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t walk to the village?’ Sir Giles inquired, a trifle impatiently.
‘Forgive these city folk,’ cried Dankers loudly. ‘Quite frankly, we got no distance at all.’
‘What are you to do then? Shall you try again this afternoon? There are, of course, various houses on the route. One of them may have a telephone.’
‘Your orchard has greatly excited us. I’ve never seen such trees.’
‘They’re the finest in England.’
‘A pity,’ said Mrs Dankers, nibbling at fish on a fork, ‘to see it in such rack and ruin.’
Dankers blew upwards into his moustache and ended the activity with a smile. ‘It is worth some money, that orchard,’ he said.
Sir Giles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes, sir; it is worth some money. But time is passing and we are wasting it in conversation. You must see to the affair of your motor-car.’
The storm had brought the apples down. They lay in their thousands in the long grass, damp and glistening, like immense, unusual jewels in the afternoon sun. The Dankerses examined them closely, strolling through the orchard, noting the various trees and assessing their yield. For the purpose they had fetched Wellington boots from their car and had covered themselves in waterproof coats of an opaque plastic material. They did not speak, but occasionally, coming across a tree that pleased them, they nodded.
‘A lot could be done, you know,’ Dankers explained at dinner. ‘It is a great orchard and in a mere matter of weeks it could be set on the road to profit and glory.’
‘It has had its glory,’ replied Sir Giles, ‘and probably its profit too. Now it must accept its fate. I cannot keep it up.’
‘Oh, it’s a shame! A terrible shame to see it as it is. Why, you could make a fortune, Sir Giles.’
‘You didn’t get to the village?’ Lady Marston asked.
‘We could not pass the orchard!’
‘Which means,’ Sir Giles said, ‘that you’ll be with us for another night.’
‘Could you bear it?’ Mrs Dankers smiled a thin smile. ‘Could you bear to have us all over again?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Lady Marston. ‘Perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel a little stronger. I understand your lethargy. It’s natural after an unpleasant experience.’
‘They have been through neither flood nor fire,’ her husband reminded her. ‘And the village will be no nearer tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps,’ Dankers began gently, ‘the postman will call in the morning –’
‘We have no living relatives,’ Sir Giles cut in, ‘and most of our friends are gone. The circulars come once a month or so.’
‘The groceries then?’
‘I have inquired of Cronin about the groceries. They came yesterday. They will come again next week.’
‘The daily milk is left at the foot of the avenue. Cronin walks to fetch it. You could leave a message there,’ Lady Marston suggested. ‘It is the arrangement we have for emergencies, such as summoning the doctor.’
‘The doctor? But surely by the time he got here –?’
‘In greater emergency one of the three of us would walk to the nearest house. We do not,’ Sir Giles added, ‘find it so difficult to pass one leg before the other. Senior though we may be.’
‘Perhaps the milk is an idea,’ Lady Marston said.
