The Burden

The question was highly pertinent. The library into which Laura had been shown was a room lined with bookshelves to the ceiling. All the shelves were wedged tight with books, but there still existed large numbers of books which could find no places in the shelves, and these were piled in great heaps on the floor and on tables, and also occupied the chairs.

Mr Baldock looked vexed.

‘I suppose we’ll have to do something about it,’ he said grudgingly.

He selected an arm-chair that was slightly less encumbered than the others and, with many grunts and puffs, lowered two armfuls of dusty tomes to the floor.

‘There you are,’ he said, beating his hands together to rid them of dust. As a result, he sneezed violently.

‘Doesn’t anyone ever dust in here?’ Laura asked, as she sat down sedately.

‘Not if they value their lives!’ said Mr Baldock. ‘But mind you, it’s a hard fight. Nothing a woman likes better than to come barging in flicking a great yellow duster, and armed with tins of greasy stuff smelling of turpentine or worse. Picking up all my books, and arranging them in piles, by size as likely as not, no concern for the subject matter! Then she starts an evil-looking machine, that wheezes and hums, and out she goes finally, as pleased as Punch, having left the place in such a state that you can’t put your hand on a thing you want for at least a month. Women! What the Lord God thought He was doing when He created woman, I can’t imagine. I dare say He thought Adam was looking a little too cocky and pleased with himself; Lord of the Universe, and naming the animals and all that. Thought he needed taking down a peg or two. Daresay that was true enough. But creating woman was going a bit far. Look where it landed the poor chap! Slap in the middle of Original Sin.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Laura apologetically.

‘What do you mean, sorry?’

‘That you feel like that about women, because I suppose I’m a woman.’

‘Not yet you’re not, thank goodness,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Not for a long while yet. It’s got to come, of course, but no point in looking ahead towards unpleasant things. And by the way, I hadn’t forgotten that you were coming to tea today. Not for a moment! I just pretended that I had for a reason of my own.’

‘What reason?’

‘Well—’ Mr Baldock rubbed his nose again. ‘For one thing I wanted to see what you’d say.’ He nodded his head. ‘You came through that one very well. Very well indeed …’

Laura stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘I had another reason. If you and I are going to be friends, and it rather looks as though things are tending that way, then you’ve got to accept me as I am—a rude, ungracious old curmudgeon. See? No good expecting pretty speeches. “Dear child—so pleased to see you—been looking forward to your coming.”’

Mr Baldock repeated these last phrases in a high falsetto tone of unmitigated contempt. A ripple passed over Laura’s grave face. She laughed.

‘That would be funny,’ she said.

‘It would indeed. Very funny.’

Laura’s gravity returned. She looked at him speculatively.

‘Do you think we are going to be friends?’ she inquired.

‘It’s a matter for mutual agreement. Do you care for the idea?’

Laura considered.

‘It seems—a little odd,’ she said dubiously. ‘I mean, friends are usually children who come and play games with you.’

‘You won’t find me playing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, and don’t you think it!’

‘That’s only for babies,’ said Laura reprovingly.

‘Our friendship would be definitely on an intellectual plane,’ said Mr Baldock.

Laura looked pleased.

‘I don’t really know quite what that means,’ she said, ‘but I think I like the sound of it.’

‘It means,’ said Mr Baldock, ‘that when we meet we discuss subjects which are of interest to both of us.’

‘What kind of subjects?’

‘Well—food, for instance. I’m fond of food. I expect you are, too. But as I’m sixty-odd, and you’re—what is it, ten? I’ve no doubt that our ideas on the matter will differ. That’s interesting. Then there will be other things—colours—flowers—animals—English history.’

‘You mean things like Henry the Eighth’s wives?’

‘Exactly. Mention Henry the Eighth to nine people out of ten, and they’ll come back at you with his wives. It’s an insult to a man who was called the Fairest Prince in Christendom, and who was a statesman of the first order of craftiness, to remember him only by his matrimonial efforts to get a legitimate male heir. His wretched wives are of no importance whatever historically.’

‘Well, I think his wives were very important.’

‘There you are!’ said Mr Baldock. ‘Discussion.’

‘I should like to have been Jane Seymour.’

‘Now why her?’

‘She died,’ said Laura ecstatically.

‘So did Nan Bullen and Katherine Howard.’

‘They were executed. Jane was only married to him for a year, and she had a baby and died, and everyone must have been terribly sorry.’

‘Well—that’s a point of view. Come in the other room and see if we’ve got anything for tea.’

‘It’s a wonderful tea,’ said Laura ecstatically.

Her eyes roamed over currant buns, jam roll, éclairs, cucumber sandwiches, chocolate biscuits and a large indigestible-looking rich black plum cake.

She gave a sudden little giggle.

‘You did expect me,’ she said. ‘Unless—do you have a tea like this every day?’

‘God forbid,’ said Mr Baldock.

They sat down companionably. Mr Baldock had six cucumber sandwiches, and Laura had four éclairs, and a selection of everything else.

‘Got a good appetite, I’m glad to see, young Laura,’ said Mr Baldock appreciatively as they finished.

‘I’m always hungry,’ said Laura, ‘and I’m hardly ever sick. Charles used to be sick.’

‘Hm … Charles. I suppose you miss Charles a lot?’