A Surfeit of Lampreys. Ngaio Marsh
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‘Well,’ said Roberta helplessly, ‘what would you like?’
‘I’m sick at the sight of blood so I couldn’t be a doctor. I lose my temper when I argue, so I couldn’t be a lawyer, and I hate the poor, so I couldn’t be a parson.’
‘Wasn’t there some idea of your managing Deepacres?’
‘A sheep farmer?’
‘Well – a run-holder. Deepacres is a biggish run, isn’t it?’
‘Too big for the Lampreys. Poor Daddy! When we first got here he became so excessively New Zealand. I believe he used sheep-dip on his hair and shall I ever forget him with the dogs! He bought four, I think they cost twenty pounds each. He used to sit on his horse and whistle so unsuccessfully that even the horse couldn’t have heard him and the dogs all lay down and went to sleep and the sheep stood in serried ranks and gazed at him in mild surprise. Then he tried swearing and screaming but he lost his voice in less than no time. We should never have come out here.’
‘I can’t understand why you did.’
‘In a vague sort of way I fancy we were shooting the moon. I was at Eton and really didn’t know anything about it, until they whizzed me away to the ship.’
‘I suppose you’ll all go back to England,’ said Roberta unhappily.
‘When Uncle Gabriel dies. Unless, of course, Aunt G. has any young.’
‘But isn’t she past it?’
‘You’d think so, but it would be just like the Gabriels. I wish I could work that Chinese Mandarin trick and say in my head, “Uncle G. has left us!” and be sure that he would instantly fall down dead.’
‘Henry!’
‘Well, my dear, if you knew him. He’s the most revolting old gentleman. How Daddy ever came to have such a brother! He’s mean and hideous and spiteful and ought to have been dead ages ago. There were two uncles between him and Daddy but they were both killed in the Great War. I understand that they were rather nice, and at any rate they had no sons, which is the great thing in their favour.’
‘Henry, I get so muddled. What is your Uncle Gabriel’s name?’
‘Gabriel.’
‘No, I mean his title and everything.’
‘Oh. Well, he’s the Marquis of Wutherwood and Rune. While my grandfather was alive Uncle G. was Lord Rune, the Earl of Rune. That’s the eldest son’s title, you see. Daddy is just a younger son.’
‘And when your Uncle G. dies your father will be Lord Wutherwood and you’ll be Lord Rune?’
‘Yes, I shall, if the old pig ever does die.’
‘Well, then there’d be a job for you. You could go into the House of Lords.’
‘No; I couldn’t. Poor Daddy would do that. He could bring in a bill about sheep-dip if peers are allowed to bring in bills. I rather think they only squash them, but I’m not sure.’
‘You wouldn’t care about being a politician, I suppose?’
‘No,’ said Henry sadly, ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t.’ He looked thoughtfully at Roberta and shook his head. ‘The only thing I seem to have any inclination for is writing nonsense-rhymes and playing cricket and I’m terribly bad at both. I adore dressing-up, of course, but only in funny noses and false beards, and we all like doing that, even Daddy, so I don’t imagine it indicates the stage as a career. I suppose I shall have to try and win the heart of an ugly heiress. I can’t hope to fascinate a pretty one.’
‘Oh,’ cried Roberta in a fury, ‘don’t pretend to be so feeble!’
‘I’m not pretending, alas.’
‘And don’t be so affected. Alas!’
‘But it’s true, Robin. We are feeble. We’re museum pieces. Carryovers from another age. Two generations ago we didn’t bother about what we would do when we grew up. We went into regiments, or politics, and lived on large estates. The younger sons had younger sons’ compartments and either fitted them nicely, or else went raffishly to the dogs and were hauled back by the head of the family. Everything was all ready for us from the moment we were born.’
Henry paused, wagged his head sadly and continued:
‘Now look at us! My papa is really an amiable dilettante. So, I suppose, would I be if I could go back into the setting, but you can’t do that without money. Our trouble is that we go on behaving in the grand leisured manner without the necessary backing. It’s very dishonest of us, but we’re conditioned to it. We’re the victims of inherited behaviourism.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Nor do I but didn’t it sound grand?’
‘I think that perhaps you got it a bit wrong.’
‘Do you?’ asked Henry anxiously. ‘Anyway, Robin, we shan’t last long at this rate. A dreadful time is coming when we shall be obliged to do something to justify our existence. Make money or speeches or something. When the last of the money goes we’ll be for it. The ones with brains and energy may survive but they’ll be starting from a long way behind scratch. They say that if you want a job in the city it’s wise to speak with an accent and pretend you’ve been to a board school. A hollow mockery, because you’ve found out the moment you have to do sums or write letters.’
‘But,’ said Robin, ‘your sort of education –’
‘Suits me. It’s an admirable preparation for almost everything except an honest job of work.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
‘Don’t you? Perhaps you’re right and it’s just our family that’s mad of itself without any excuse.’
‘You’re a nice family. I love every one of you.’
‘Darling Robin.’ Henry reached out a hand and patted her. ‘Don’t be too fond of us.’
‘My mother,’ said Robin, ‘says you’ve all got such a tremendous amount of charm.’
‘Does she?’ To Robin’s surprise Henry’s face became faintly pink. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps if your mother is right, that may tide us over until Uncle G. pops off. Something has got to do it. Are there bums in New Zealand?’
‘What do you mean? Don’t be common.’
‘My innocent old Robin Grey! A bum is a gentleman in a bowler hat who comes to stay until you pay your bills.’
‘Henry! How awful!’
‘Frightful,’ agreed Henry who was watching a hawk.
‘I mean how shaming.’
‘You soon get used to them. I remember one who made me a catapult when I was home for the holidays. That was the time Uncle G. paid up.’
‘But aren’t you ever – ever –’
Roberta felt herself go scarlet and was silent.
‘Ashamed of ourselves?’
‘Well –’
‘Listen,’ said Henry. ‘I can hear voices.’
It was Frid and the twins. They were coming up the bush track and seemed to be in a state of excitement. In a moment they began shouting:
‘Henry! Where are you-oou? Henry!’
‘Hallo!’ Henry shouted.
The manuka scrub on the edge of the bush was agitated and presently three Lampreys scrambled out into the open.