Dornford Yates - Berry And Co.

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_My maw reminds me that it is the hour of grape-nuts, so I must go._

_BERRY._

_P.S.--If you can't raise one, I shouldn't come back. Just go to some
high place and quietly push yourself off. It will be simpler and avoid a
scene which would be painful to us both._

"That's rather worse than the advertisement," said Daphne. "But, as
Jonah is accustomed to your Interpretation of the art of letter-writing,
I suppose it doesn't much matter."

"When," said Berry, "you are making yourself sick upon _tete de veau en
tortue_ and _crepes Suzette_, I shall remind you of those idle words."

* * * * *

The advertisement appeared for the first time on Thursday morning.

As I entered the dining-room at half-past nine--

"It's in," said Jill. "On the front page."

"Yes," said Berry, "it's most arresting. Applicants will arrive from all
over the kingdom. It's inevitable. Nothing can stop them. Old and
trusted retainers will become unsettled. The domestic upheaval will be
unparalleled."

I read the advertisement through. In cold print my handiwork certainly
looked terribly alluring. Then I laid down the paper and strolled to the
window. It had been raining, but now the sun was out, and the cool fresh
air of the June morning was sweet and winsome. As I looked into the
glistening street--

"It's a bit early yet," continued Berry. "Give 'em a chance. I should
think they'll start about ten. I wonder how far the queue will reach,"
he added reflectively. "I hope the police take it past The Albert
Memorial. Then they can sit on the steps."

"Nonsense," said I a little uneasily. "We may get an answer or two
to-morrow. I think we shall. But cooks are few and far between."

"They won't be few and they'll be anything but far between by twelve
o'clock." He tapped the provocative paragraph with an accusing finger.
"This is a direct incitement to repair to 7, Cholmondeley Street, or as
near thereto as possible----"

"I wish to goodness we hadn't put it in," said Daphne.

"It's done now," said her husband, "and we'd better get ready. I'll turn
them down in the library, you can stand behind the what-not in the
drawing-room and fire them from there, and Boy'd better go down the
queue with some oranges and a megaphone, and keep on saying we're suited
right up to the last."

In silence I turned to the sideboard. It was with something of an effort
that I helped myself to a thick slab of bacon which was obviously but
half-cooked. From the bottom of a second dish a black and white egg,
with a pale green yoke, eyed me with a cold stare. With a shudder I
covered it up again.... After all, we did want a cook, and if we were
bombarded with applications for the post, the probability of getting a
good one was the more certain.

As I took my seat--

"Is Katharine's advertisement in?" I asked.

My sister nodded.

"She's put her telephone number, too."

"Has she? She will be mad when she sees we've had the same idea."

"Ah," said Berry. "I'd forgotten the telephone. That's another
vulnerable spot. I shouldn't wonder if----"

The sentence was never finished.

The hurried stammer of the telephone bell made a dramatic irruption, and
Jill, who was in the act of drinking, choked with excitement.

In silence we listened, to be quite sure. A second prolonged vibration
left no room for doubt.

"They're off," said Berry.

"I--I feel quite nervous," said Daphne. "Let Falcon answer it."

But Jill was already at the door....

Breathlessly we awaited her return.

Nobby, apparently affected by the electricity with which the air was
charged, started to relieve his feelings by barking stormily. The
nervous outburst of reproof which greeted his eloquence was so
unexpectedly menacing that he retired precipitately beneath the table,
his small white tail clapped incontinently between his legs.

The next moment Jill tore into the room.

"It's a cook!" she cried in a tempestuous whisper. "It's a cook! She
wants to speak to Daphne. It's a trunk call. She's rung up from
Torquay."

"Torquay!" I cried aghast. "Good Heavens!"

"What did I say?" said Berry. My sister rose in some trepidation. "Two
hundred miles is nothing. Have another hunk of toast. It was only made
on Sunday, so I can recommend it."

Daphne hastened from the room, with Jill twittering at her heels, and in
some dudgeon I cut myself a slice of bread.

Berry turned his attention to the Sealyham.

"Nobby, my lad, come here."

Signifying his delight at this restoration to favour by an unusually
elaborate rotatory movement of his tail, the terrier emerged from his
cover and humbled himself at his patron's feet. The latter picked him up
and set him upon his knee.

"My lad," he said, "this is going to be a momentous day. Cooks, meet to
be bitten, are due to arrive in myriads. Be ruthless. Spare neither the
matron nor the maid. What did Mr. Henry say in 1415?--

This day is call'd the feast of Sealyham:
She that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will sit with caution when this day is named.
And shudder at the name of Sealyham.
She that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the razzle feast her neighbours,
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Sealyham':
Then will she strip her hose and show her scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Nobby's day.'
Old cooks forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But she'll remember with a flood of talk
What feats you did that day."

Nobby licked his face enthusiastically.

Then came a swift rush across the hall, and Daphne and Jill pelted into
the room.

"She's coming up for an interview to-morrow," panted the latter. "Six
years in her last place, but the people are going abroad. If we engage
her, she can come on Monday. Sixty pounds a year."

Daphne was beaming.

"I must say I liked the sound of her. Very respectful she seemed. Her
name's rather unusual, but that isn't her fault. Pauline Roper. I fancy
she's by way of being an expert. She's got a certificate from some
institute of cookery, and her sister's a trained nurse in Welbeck
Street. That's why she wants to be in London. What's the return fare
from Torquay?" she added. "I said I'd pay it, if I took up her
reference."

"Oh, something under five pounds," said Berry.

"What!"

"My dear," said her husband, "if the expenditure of that sum were to
ensure me a breakfast the very sight of which did not make my gorge
rise, I should regard it as a trustee investment."

Reference to a time-table showed that the price of Pauline Roper's
ticket would be two pounds nine shillings and fourpence halfpenny.

Somewhat to our surprise and greatly to our relief, the day passed
without another application for the post of cook, personal or otherwise.

To celebrate the solitary but promising response to our S.O.S. signal,
and the prospect which it afforded of an early deliverance from our
state, we dined at the _Berkeley_ and went to the play.

On returning home we found a telegram in the hall. It had been handed in
at Paris, and ran as follows:

_Cook called Camille Francois leaving for Cholmondeley Street to-morrow
aaa can speak no English so must be met at Dover aaa boat due 4.15 aaa
Jonah._

* * * * *

The train roared through Ashford, and Berry looked at his watch. Then he
sighed profoundly and began to commune with himself in a low tone.

"_Mille pardons, madame. Mais vous etes Camille Francois? Non? Quel
dommage! Dix mille pardons. Adieu._ ... Deuce of a lot of 'milles,'
aren't there? I wonder if there'll be many passengers. And will she come
first-class, or before the mast? You know, this is a wild mare's chest,
and that's all there is to it. We shall insult several hundred women,
miss the cook, and probably lose Pauline into the bargain. What did I
come for?"

"Nonsense," said Jill stoutly. "Jonah's told her to look out for us."

"I'll bet he never thought I should be fool enough to roll up, so she
won't expect me. As a matter of fact, if he's described any one, he's
probably drawn a lifelike word-picture of Daphne."

"It's no good worrying," said I. "The only thing to do is to address
every woman who looks in the least like a cook as she steps off the
gangway. When we do strike her, Jill can carry on."

"It's all very well," said Berry, "but what does a cook look like, or
look least like, or least look like? I suppose you know what you mean."
Jill began to shake with laughter. "She'll probably be all dressed up to
give us a treat, and, for all we know, she may have a child with her,
and, if she's pretty, it's a hundred to one some fellow will be seeing
her off the boat. You can't rule out any one. And to accost strange
women indiscriminately is simply asking for trouble. Understand this:
when I've been knocked down twice, you can count me out."

This was too much for Jill, who made no further efforts to restrain her
merriment. Fixing her with a sorrowful look, my brother-in-law sank back
in his corner with a resigned air.

Jonah's telegram had certainly complicated matters.

We had received it too late to prevent the dispatch of the cook whose
services he had apparently enlisted. After a prolonged discussion we had
decided that, while Daphne must stay and interview Pauline Roper, the
rest of us had better proceed to Dover with the object of meeting the
boat. It was obvious that Jill must go to deal with the immigrant when
the latter had been identified, but she could not be expected to effect
the identification. I was unanimously chosen for this responsible task,
but I refused point-blank to make the attempt single-handed. I argued
with reason that it was more than one man could do, and that the
performance of what was, after all, a highly delicate operation must be
shared by Berry. After a titanic struggle the latter gave in, with the
result that Jill and he and I had left London by the eleven o'clock
train. This was due to arrive at Dover at two minutes to one, so that we
should have time for lunch and to spare before the boat came in.

But that was not all.

The coming of Jonah's _protegee_ made it impossible for my sister to
engage Pauline Roper out of hand. Of course the latter might prove
impossible, which, in a way, would simplify the position. If, as was
more probable, she seemed desirable, the only thing to do was to pay her
fare and promise to let her know within twenty-four hours whether we
would engage her or not. That would give us time to discover whether
Camille Francois was the more promising of the two.

Whatever happened, it was painfully clear that our engagement of a cook
was going to prove one of the most costly adventures of its kind upon
which we had ever embarked.

The train steamed into Dover one minute before its scheduled time, and
we immediately repaired to the Lord Warden Hotel.

Lunch was followed by a comfortable half-hour in the lounge, after which
we decided to take the air until the arrival of the packet.

Perhaps the most famous of the gates of England, Dover has always worn a
warlike mien. Less formidable than renowned Gibraltar, there is a look
of grim efficiency about her heights, an air of masked authority about
the windy galleries hung in her cold grey chalk, something of Roman
competence about the proud old gatehouse on the Castle Hill. Never in
mufti, never in gaudy uniform, Dover is always clad in "service" dress.
A thousand threats have made her porterage a downright office, bluntly
performed. And so those four lean years, that whipped the smile from
many an English hundred, seem to have passed over the grizzled Gate like
the east wind, leaving it scatheless. About herself no change was
visible. As we leaned easily upon the giant parapet of the Admiralty
Pier, watching the tireless waves dance to the _cappriccio_ of wind and
sun, there was but little evidence to show that the portcullis, recently
hoist, had for four years been down. Under the shadow of the Shakespeare
Cliff the busy traffic of impatient Peace fretted as heretofore. The
bristling sentinels were gone: no craft sang through the empty air: no
desperate call for labour wearied tired eyes, clawed at strained nerves,
hastened the scurrying feet: no longer from across the Straits came
flickering the ceaseless grunt and grumble of the guns. The wondrous
tales of nets, of passages of arms, of sallies made at dawn--mortal
immortal exploits--seemed to be chronicles of another age. The ways and
means of War, so lately paramount, were out of sight. As in the days
before, the march of Trade and caravan of Pleasure jostled each other in
the Gate's mouth. Only the soldierly aspect of the place remained--Might
in a faded surcoat, her shabby scabbard hiding a loose bright blade....

The steamer was up to time.

When four o'clock came she was well in sight, and at fourteen minutes
past the hour the rattle of the donkey-engine came to a sudden stop, and
a moment later the gangways were thrust and hauled into their respective
positions.

Berry and I stood as close to the actual points of disembarkation as
convenience and discretion allowed, while Jill hovered excitedly in the
background.

As the passengers began to descend--

"Now for it," said my brother-in-law, settling his hat upon his head. "I
feel extremely nervous and more ill at ease than I can ever remember. My
mind is a seething blank, and I think my left sock-suspender is coming
down. However ... Of course, it is beginning to be forcibly what they
call 'borne in upon' me that we ought to have brought some barbed wire
and a turnstile. As it is, we shall miss about two-thirds of them.
Here's your chance," he added, nodding at a stout lady with a green
suit-case and a defiant glare. "I'll take the jug and bottle
department."

I had just time to see that the object of his irreverence was an angular
female with a brown paper parcel and a tumbler, when my quarry gained
_terra firma_ and started in the direction of the train.

I raised my hat.

"_Pardon, madame. Mais vous etes Camille_----"

"Reeang," was the discomfiting reply. "Par de baggarge."

I realized that an offer which I had not made had been rejected, and
that the speaker was not of French descent.

The sting of the rebuff was greatly tempered by the reception with which
Berry's advances were met.

I was too late to hear what he had said, but the resentment which his
attempt had provoked was disconcertingly obvious.

After fixing my brother-in-law with a freezing stare, his addressee
turned as from an offensive odour and invested the one word she thought
fit to employ with an essence of loathing which was terrible to hear.

"Disgusting!"

Berry shook his head.

"The right word," he said, "was 'monstrous.'"

He turned to accost a quiet-looking girl wearing an oil-silk gaberdine
and very clearly born upon the opposite side of the Channel.

With a sigh, I addressed myself to a widow with a small boy clad in a
_pelerine_. To my embarrassment she proved to be deaf, but when I had
stumblingly repeated my absurd interrogation, she denied the impeachment
with a charming smile. During our exchange of courtesies the child stood
staring at me with a finger deep in his mouth. At their conclusion he
withdrew this and pointed it directly at my chin.

"_Pourquoi s'est-il coupe, maman?_" he demanded in a piercing treble.

The question was appropriate, but unanswerable.

His mother lugged him incontinently away.

Berry was confronting one of the largest ladies I have ever seen. As he
began to speak, she interrupted him.

"_Vous etes Meestair Baxtair, n'est-ce pas? Ah, c'est bien ca. J'avais
si peur de ne pas vous trouver. Mais maintenant je suis tranquille. Mon
mari me suit. Ah, le voila!_" She turned about, the better to beckon to
a huge man with two bags and a hold-all. "_Pierre! Pierre_!"

Beneath the avalanche of good-will Berry stood paralysed.

Recognizing that something must be done, I sought to interfere.

"Leave me alone," said Berry weakly. "I've--I've got off."

It took all my energy and most of my French to convince his _vis-a-vis_
that she was mistaken.

During the interlude about fifteen "possibles" escaped us.

I threw a despairing glance in Jill's direction, wiped the sweat from my
brow, and returned to the attack.

After four more failures my nerve began to go. Miserably I turned to my
brother-in-law.

He was in the act of addressing a smart-looking girl in black, bearing a
brand-new valise and some wilting roses.

Before she had had time to appreciate his inquiry there was a choking
yell from the gangway, and a very dark gentleman, with an Italian cast
of countenance, thrust his explosive way on to the pier.

My knowledge of his native tongue was limited to _carissimo, spaghetti_,
and one or two musical directions, but from the vehemence of his tone
and the violence of his dramatic gestures it was plain that the torrent
which foamed from his lips was both menacing and abusive. From the shape
of the case which he was clutching beneath his left arm, I judged him to
be an exponent of the guitar.

Advancing his nose to within an inch and a half of Berry's chin he
blared and raved like a maniac, alternately pointing to his shrinking
_protegee_ and indicating the blue vault of heaven with frightful
emphasis.

Berry regarded him unperturbed. As he paused for breath--

"In answer to your observations," he said, "I can only say that I am not
a Mormon and have absolutely no connection with Salt Lake City. I may
add that, if you are partial to garlic, it is a taste which I have never
acquired. In conclusion, I hope that, before you reach the platform for
which you are apparently making, you will stumble over one of the
ridiculously large rings with which the quay is so generously provided,
and will not only suffer the most hideous agony, but remain permanently
lame as a result of your carelessness."

The calm dignity with which he delivered this speech had an almost
magical effect upon the jealous Latin. His bluster sank suddenly and
died. Muttering to himself and staring at Berry as at a wizard, he
seized the girl by the arm and started to move rapidly away, wide-eyed
and ill at ease.... With suppressed excitement and the tail of my eye, I
watched him bear down upon one of the stumbling-blocks to which Berry
had referred. The accuracy with which he approached it was almost
uncanny. I found myself standing upon one leg.... The screech of anguish
with which he hailed the collision, no less than the precipitancy with
which he dropped the guitar, sat down and began to rock himself to and
fro, was irresistibly gratifying.

The muscles about Berry's mouth twitched.

"So perish all traitors," he said. "And now I don't know how you feel,
but I've had about enough of this. My nerves aren't what they were.
Something may snap any minute."

With one accord we proceeded to rejoin Jill, who had been witnessing our
humiliations from a safe distance, and was dabbing her grey eyes with a
ridiculous handkerchief.

As we came up, she started forward and pointed a trembling finger in the
direction of the boat. Berry and I swung on our heels.

Looking very well, Jonah was descending the gangway with a bored air.

My brother-in-law and I stared at him as at one risen from the dead.
Almost at once he saw us and waved airily.... A moment later he limped
to where we were standing and kissed his sister.

"I had an idea some of you'd turn up," he said coolly.

Berry turned to me.

"You hear?" he said grimly. "He had an idea some of us'd turn up. An
idea ... I suppose a little bird told him. Oh, take me away, somebody,
and let me die. Let me have one last imitation meal, and die. Where do
they sell wild oats?"

Jonah disregarded the interruption.

"At the last moment," he said calmly, "I felt there might be some
mix-up, so I came along too." He turned and nodded at a nervous little
man who was standing self-consciously a few paces away and, as I now
observed for the first time, carrying my cousin's dressing-case. "That,"
he added, "is Camille."

His momentous announcement rendered us speechless. At length--

"You--you mean to say," I gasped, "that--that it's a man?"

Jonah shrugged his shoulders.

"Look at his trousers," he said.

"But--but of course we expected a woman," cried Jill in a choking voice.
"We can't have a _chef_."

"Nothing," said Jonah, "was said about sex."

Berry spoke in a voice shaken with emotion.

"A man," he said. "A he-cook, called 'Camille.' And it actually occurred
to you that 'there might be some mix-up.' You know, your intuition is
positively supernatural. And it is for this," he added bitterly, "that I
have dissipated in ten crowded minutes a reputation which it has taken
years to amass. It is for this that I have deliberately insulted several
respectable ladies, jeopardized the _Entente Cordiale_, and invited
personal violence of a most unpleasant character. To do this I shall
have travelled about a hundred and fifty miles, with the shade
temperature at ninety, and lost what would have been an undoubtedly
pleasant and possibly extremely fruitful day at Sandown Park. Don't be
afraid. I wouldn't touch you for worlds. You're being reserved for some
very special form of dissolution, you are. She-bears, or something. I
should avoid woods, any way. And now I'm going home. To-morrow I shall
start on a walking tour, with a spare sock and some milk chocolate, and
try to forget. If that fails, I shall take the snail--I mean the veil."

He turned on his heel and stalked haughtily in the direction of the boat
train.

Gurgling with merriment, Jill laid a hand on my arm.

"Daphne will simply scream," she said.

"If this little stunt has cost us Pauline," said I, "she won't leave it
at that."

We turned to follow my brother-in-law.

Jonah beckoned to Camille.

"_Venez. Restez pres de moi,_" he said.

On arriving at Charing Cross we left Jonah and the cook to weather the
Customs, and drove straight to Cholmondeley Street.

As we entered the hall, my sister came flying out of the library.

"Hello," she cried, "where's the cook? Don't say----"

Berry uncovered.

"_Pardon, madame,_" he said, "_mais vous etes Camille Franc_----That's
your cue. Now you say 'Serwine!' Just like that. 'Serwine!' Put all the
loathing you can into it--you'll find it can hold quite a lot--and fix
me with a glassy eye. Then I blench and break out Into a cold sweat. Oh,
it's a great game."

"Poor old chap," said Daphne. "It must have been awful. But haven't you
got her?"

"It's a he!" cried Jill, squeaking with excitement. "It's a he. Jonah's
bringing him----"

"A _what_?" said my sister, taking a pace backward.

"A male," said I. "You know. Like Nobby. Separate legs, and shaves on
Thursdays."

"Do you mean to say that it's a _chef_?"

I nodded.

My sister collapsed into a convenient chair and closed her eyes.
Presently she began to shake with laughter.

"It is droll, isn't it?" said Berry. "People wouldn't believe it. Fancy
travelling a hundred and fifty miles to molest a lot of strange women,
and then finding that for all the good you've done you might as well
have spent the day advertising for 'The Lost Chord.'"

My sister pulled herself together.

"Thank goodness, I had the sense to engage Pauline," she announced.
"Something told me I'd better. But I waited before taking up her
reference, on the off-chance of this one being a marvel. Where is the
wretched man?"

"Jonah fetched up with him. He's stayed behind because of the Customs.
They ought to be here any minute."

"Well, there's no place for him to sleep here," said Daphne. "Fitch will
have to look after him for tonight, and to-morrow he'll have to go
back."

Berry looked at his watch.

"Five past seven," he said. "As the blighter's here, why not let him
sub-edit the dinner to-night? It'll shorten his life, but it may save
ours. You never know."

My sister hesitated. Then--

"He'll never do it," she said. "I can suggest it, but, if he's anything
of a cook, he'll go off the deep end at once."

"And give notice," said I. "Well, that's exactly what we want. Then we
shan't have to fire him. He can just push off quietly to-morrow, Pauline
will roll up on Monday, and everything will be lovely in the garden."

"That's it," said Berry. "If he consents, well and good. If he declines,
so much the better. It's a blinkin' certainty. Whichever happens, we
can't lose."

"All right," said Daphne. "I shall make Jonah tell him."

It took Jonah and M. Francois longer to satisfy the officers of His
Majesty's Customs and Excise than we had anticipated, and I had consumed
a much-needed whisky and soda and was on the way to the bathroom when I
heard them arrive.

Before I had completed a leisurely toilet, it was all over.

As we waited in the lounge of the _Carlton_ Grill for a table, which we
had been too late to reserve, my sister related the circumstances which
had led to the _debacle_.

"The wretched little man didn't seem to take to the idea of starting in
right away, but I explained that he needn't do any more than just run
his eye over the _menu_, and that, as they were going to have the same
dinner in the servants' hall, it really only amounted to looking after
his own food.

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