A Mixture of Frailties tst-3 Page 4

  It was clear to him also that Mr Matthew Snelgrove would have to be dealt with, for the lawyer took the line that the three executors needed guidance, and he was their obvious guide. When he had at last been made to realize that he could not in any way call in the information which The Bellman had given out, he warned the executors strictly against revealing any further terms of the will.

  “I must tell you,” said Solly, “that Veronica and I have already had a talk with Ethel Colman and Doris Black. They have both been with the family a long time, and had a right to expect legacies. You know that there are legacies for them—when I have a son. We thought it right that they should know.”

  “But that is exceedingly irregular,” said Snelgrove. “I am charged with the very difficult task of settling this large estate in a year; how am I to do so if my prerogatives are taken from me and information revealed and expectations raised before I have even had time to settle to the work?”

  “The whole thing is irregular,” said Solly, “and Veronica and I feel that Ethel and Doris deserve any consideration we can give them. They have a right to know where they stand. We can’t possibly keep them both, or even one of them, on my salary. They must be free to take other jobs. And you might as well know that I offered to raise the money for their legacies myself, so that they could have them now. Otherwise we don’t know how long they may have to wait.”

  “But if you have told them the conditions of the will, they are certain to talk,” said Snelgrove. “You know how things get around—even when nobody runs to the newspapers.”

  “I know that you read my mother’s will on Christmas Eve to the four of us and that on Christmas Day quite a few people knew that I had been cut out of it,” said Solly. To his astonishment, and triumph, the other three all blushed in their various ways. “Certainly I didn’t tell anyone in that time.”

  “If irresponsible talk is permitted, your Mother’s reputation may suffer,” said Miss Puss. “That ought to mean a great deal to you.”

  “And so it does,” said Solly, “but I think that you will agree that my Mother has made it somewhat difficult to prevent hard things being said. People at Waverley have not stuck at saying she tricked them—led them to think they were to get a substantial sum, and then didn’t come through with it. You ought to know, Auntie Puss, that she didn’t care what anybody said, when she wanted things her own way.”

  Miss Puss changed her tack. “I suppose it is inevitable, but I wish that you did not involve Veronica so much in these affairs. I suppose she sympathized with the servants without any regard for the reflection on dear Louisa.”

  “Veronica is my wife, Miss Puss,” said Solly. “Mother often seemed to forget that, but there is no reason why anyone else should do so. She is in this as much as I am. I’ll tell her whatever I think proper—and that is everything.”

  A fight seemed imminent, and Snelgrove intervened, choosing his point of pressure badly. “You have offered to pay Ethel and Doris legacies; what will you do for money? Have you insurance? Or savings?” He knew very well that Solly had neither.

  “I have talked to my bank,” said Solly, with a smile. “They are very friendly, and are ready to lend me money on my expectations.”

  “Be careful of borrowing on that security,” said Snelgrove. “You may involve yourself irretrievably. What if you never inherit?”

  “You’ll excuse me if I am more optimistic about that than an older man might be,” said Solly. “I offered to get the banker a doctor’s certificate that I am—in good health; he very decently said I needn’t bother. I have a young and healthy wife. I assure you, Miss Puss and gentlemen, that I mean to inherit just as fast as I can.”

  “Of course; of course,” said the Dean, and then blushed, realizing that his encouragement might be misinterpreted. He was extremely uncomfortable.

  “My chief concern is that a proper regard be shown for dear Louisa’s wishes,” said Miss Puss, who had an ill-understood but powerful feeling that Solly was outraging his mother’s memory with indecent talk.

  “Apparently she wished for a grandson,” said Solly, “and I am going to do everything in my power to gratify her.”

  It was in this uncomfortable strain that the executors’ meetings continued. Solly called them whenever he thought it necessary. He summoned the Dean, Miss Puss and Snelgrove to tell them that Doris Black had decided to leave his employ, and that Ethel Colman meant to continue to live in the house as cook, on a reduced salary. She was already in receipt of the Old Age pension and meant to retire in another two or three years anyhow. She did not want to take another position at her time of life. Both the women had accepted his offer of a cash settlement of their legacies, and both were ready to sign a paper waiving any future claim on the estate. Snelgrove, groaning and protesting, was instructed to prepare such a paper and see it properly signed.

  As he gained the commanding position among the executors, Solly developed quite a taste for meetings and schemes. He urged that they should lose no time in seeking out the beneficiary of Mrs Bridgetower’s trust. He overrode the objections of Snelgrove and Miss Puss, pointing out that the choice might be a difficult and time-taking one. After one meeting, which filled three and a half rancorous hours, he insisted that a vote be taken, giving vast offence to Snelgrove, who had a tongue but no vote. The Dean voted with Solly, and within a week a discreet notice appeared in the Bellman explaining what the trust would be empowered to do, and asking those who were interested to make application in writing to Matthew Snelgrove, solicitor to the Bridgetower Trust.

  It was a major victory, but it was not achieved quickly. Three months of the precious year of grace had elapsed, and it was the beginning of April when the advertisement appeared.

  2

  Considering the care which the executors took in wording their advertisement, it was misinterpreted in a remarkable number of ways. It was clearly stated that the recipient of Mrs Bridgetower’s bounty must be female, not over twenty-one or under that age in December of the current year, and a resident of the city of Salterton. Nevertheless four young men proposed themselves; thirty-two applicants were over-age, one of them confessing to forty-six; they hailed from everywhere within the range of The Bellman’s circulation. It was made plain that the beneficiary must be a student of the fine arts, and these were defined as painting, sculpture, music, literature and architecture, and reasonable branches thereof. The applicants, who reached a total of eighty-seven, interpreted the word “reasonable” in a large and generous sense.

  There were potters who wanted to study in England, and weavers who wanted to study in Sweden. There was a jeweller who did not want to be a goldsmith or a silversmith, but said she was “very hot on design”. The nearest thing to a sculptor was a young man who had done some interesting things in soap and saw no reason to go beyond this convenient medium. There were some genuine painters, and one real etcher. There were a few musicians, but all were over-age. The writers supplied depressing, ill-spelled and dirty manuscripts of their work, all of which seemed to be intended for poetry. There was one girl who wanted to be a recreation director and felt that a few years among the folk-schools of Europe would be good both for her and Europe. There were five girls who, representing themselves as writers, were in fact scholars who wanted to use the money for projects of research. There were dancers, one of them specializing in what she called “modern ballroom and tap”. There was a girl who wanted to perfect herself in the use of the piano-accordion and the electric guitar. All expressed themselves in terms of inordinate ambition unfettered by modesty, and promised great achievement if they should be chosen.

  It took the executors three weeks’ work to reduce the applications to a short list. Solly could have done it in a night, but the others disapproved of his frivolous way of howling with delight or despair as he read the letters. They insisted that, in fairness to everybody and in keeping with the solemnity of their position, each letter should be read aloud and seriously discussed. This gave
Miss Puss great opportunities to reflect on the quality of the young people of today, and to compare them, much to their disfavour, with the young people she had known at the turn of the century. Mr Snelgrove also felt it necessary to say his say on this congenial theme; although he complained tirelessly about the amount of time the proceeding took, he could not keep away from it. Solly explained to him that, as he was not an executor, it was not necessary for him to attend all of these sorting meetings, but the lawyer did not choose to understand the hint. It was clear that he loved it, for it fed his sense of importance. It began to appear, also, that he was proving to the ghost of Mrs Bridgetower that as she had chosen to oppress him, he could suffer with the best of them. He was also ticking up the legal expenses involved in settling her will.

  When at last the short list was agreed upon, it was very short indeed. It contained only two names—Nicole John, who wanted to be an architect, and Birgitta Hetmansen, who was a painter.

  Miss John exploded within a week. In reply to Snelgrove’s letter, asking her to meet the executors for a preliminary talk, there came a reply from her father saying that his daughter’s health would make the acceptance of any such benefaction entirely out of the question; he expressed huffy surprise that the executors had not thought of consulting him before entering into a plan to take his daughter from her home. Nothing further was seen or heard of Miss John.

  Miss Hetmansen was a different matter. She appeared with a large portfolio of her work, and photographs of pictures which she had sold. She had some newspaper clippings in which her drawings and paintings were given favourable criticism. She had a very good letter from her teacher. She was a dark, personable, quiet girl and she pleased Miss Puss by comporting herself like a lady—not a lady of Miss Puss’s own era, but the nearest thing that could be expected in these dark days.

  She knew what she wanted. Her desire was to go to Paris, and she could name the teachers with whom she wanted to study, and knew where they were to be found. In all, the executors had three meetings with Miss Hetmansen, and at the last of these her teacher appeared, and spoke of her in high terms. The executors were delighted. It looked as though they had found their swan.

  But one day Solly was called to the telephone to speak to Miss Puss. “We must have a meeting at once,” said she; “I have terrible news.” When the executors had gathered a few nights later, she brought out this news with a great show of reluctance. She had it on good authority that Miss Hetmansen was not a virgin.

  “Does it matter?” said Solly.

  “Let us never forget that the Louisa Hansen Bridgetower Trust is the creation and memorial of a woman who stood for everything that was finest in Canadian life,” said Miss Puss. “We are certainly not going to spend one cent of her money on a hussy.”

  “She’s not a hussy,” said Solly. “She’s very nice. You said so yourself.”

  “Any girl of whom it is possible to say what I have just said, when she is a mere twenty years old, is a hussy,” said Miss Puss. She then fixed the Dean with a bloodshot green eye, and continued, with menace. “And if this is brought to a vote, don’t suppose that you men can overrule me. I’ll take it to the courts for a decision, if need be. Perhaps you care nothing for these things, but I knew Louisa’s mind as none of you ever did.” She was ready for war. “If you are afraid to tell this girl that she is not acceptable, and why, I am quite ready to take that duty on myself.”

  But it was agreed that this would be unnecessary. Miss Hetmansen’s letters and pictures were returned to her by mail, with a note saying that if she heard nothing further from the executors within seven days, it would mean that her application had been unsuccessful. Miss Hetmansen was not a fool. She knew why she had been refused. She had succumbed to the importunities of her teacher coolly, and almost absent-mindedly, with a vague feeling that an affair might do something for her colour sense. Apparently all it had done was to lose her a lot of money, and make her teacher untrustworthy as a critic of her work. She did not really care. She had great faith in her talent and she would get to Paris anyway. She was not the gossipy sort, but she remarked to a few people that the Bridgetower Trust, as it had now begun to be called, was primarily a good conduct prize, and strictly for amateurs.

  And thus the trustees were left without a candidate, and it was June.

  3

  A superstitious belief persists in Canada that nothing of importance can be done in the summer. The sun, which exacts the uttermost from Nature, seems to have a numbing effect upon the works of man. Thus Matthew Snelgrove, while assuring Solly that he was going ahead at full speed in settling Mrs Bridgetower’s estate, went to his office later in the morning, and left it earlier in the afternoon, and was quite unavailable at night. During the whole of August he went with his wife to visit her girlhood home in Nova Scotia, where he gave himself up to disapproving contemplation of the sadly unruly behaviour of the sea. Miss Puss Pottinger, according to her custom, went to Preston Springs for two weeks in June, to drink the waters and then, greatly refreshed, she went to a severely Anglican lakeside resort in Muskoka, and there hobnobbed with some Sisters of St John who had a mission nearby. Solly and Veronica went on a leisurely, cheap motor trip, hoping that a change of air might hasten the conception which had, so far, eluded them. They needed a holiday from the obtrusive benevolence of their cook Ethel, who had stayed with them at a reduced salary, and never allowed them for a moment to forget it; they were learning that a faithful family retainer is a two-edged sword. The Dean went to his summer cottage, removed his clerical collar and settled himself to fish by day and read detective stories by night. They were all glad to forget about the Bridgetower Trust.

  But early in September Solly woke up one morning with a painful sense that only three months remained in which to make a choice. “We must get to work at once,” said he to Veronica.

  “Is there really such a hurry?” said she. Their holiday had greatly improved her health, and she looked dark, beautiful and serious as she lay by him in the large, old-fashioned bed. “Would a few months make such a difference?”

  The will says, “Within a calendar year of the date of my death”. Nobody would object if we stretched it a little, I suppose, but I am determined that it shall be carried out to the letter. Besides, I want to make old Snelgrove jump. He has a very poor opinion of me, and so has Puss. I’ll show them. We’ll send an accordion-player or a soap sculptor abroad to study, if need be, but we’ll do it in the prescribed way and in the prescribed time.”

  “You’ve become very determined.”

  “I have indeed.”

  4

  “If you’re absolutely stuck for somebody to squander your Mum’s money on, why don’t you have a look at Monny Gall?” said Cobbler to Solly. It would be wrong to say that Solly had confided the growing embarrassment of the Trustees to his friend; Cobbler had been insatiably curious about everything connected with the Bridgetower Trust since he heard of it on Christmas Day, and he wormed information out of Solly and Veronica at every opportunity. It fascinated him, he explained, to think of so much lovely money looking for somebody to spend it.

  “Who’s Monny Gall?”

  “If you ever listened to your local radio station you would know. She is the soprano of the Heart and Hope Gospel Quartet, who broadcast on behalf of the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle five mornings of the week, from nine-thirty to nine forty-five. I breakfast a bit later than you proletarians, and I never miss the H. & H.”

  “Do you mean that it is good?”

  “It is very good in its way. That’s to say, it primes the pump of sweet self-pity, mingled with tremulous self-reproach and a strong sense of never having had a square deal from life, which passes for religion with a lot of people—housewives mostly. It is run by an unctuous gorilla who calls himself Pastor Sidney Beamis; he dishes out the Hope in a short, moderately disgusting prayer in which he tells God that we’re all pretty awful but that the Thirteenth Apostles are having a bash at sainthood. The
Heart is supplied by the Quartet, which is composed of his own family and Monny Gall. Pastor Beamis supplies a hollow, gutty bass; his son Wesley weighs in with a capon tenor—all headvoice and tremolo; Ma Beamis has a contralto tone like a cow mooing in a railway tunnel; and Monny Gall has a very nice soprano indeed—sweet, pure, and very naturally produced. You should hear them in Eden Must Have Been Like Granny’s Garden, or Ten Baby Fingers and Ten Baby Toes, That Was My Mother’s Rosary.”

  “It sounds perfectly filthy.”

  “It is. It fills me with perverse glee. But Monny is worth redeeming from this musical hell. She has positively the most promising voice I have ever heard in an untrained singer.”

  “Then what is she doing with the H. & H.?”

  “Why shouldn’t she be with it? Her Ma, who is an extremely formidable old party, is a pillar of the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle. She tells Monny to sing for Beamis, and Monny sings. For nothing, what’s more. For the greater glory of Beamis.”

  “But if she’s musical, why does she sing Granny’s Toes, and so forth?”

  “I didn’t say she was musical; I said she had a lovely voice. You make the common error of assuming that singers are necessarily musicians. There are people, my dear Bridgetower, who sing because God has made them singers; very often they have no taste at all; they will sing anything, so long as they can open their mouths and give. That’s Monny. Caught young, and taught well, I don’t know what she mightn’t rise to.”