Free Something Light by Margery Sharp Page A

garden exhibited the same characteristics: in the house agent’s term mature, it was also unkempt without being overgrown. (No head-high berceaux of Gloire de Dijon roses, no mysterious gloom of ancient trees; the flower beds just needed weeding, an elm lopping.) Wherever the eye rested, in fact, the need for a bit of money spent was so obvious, what on earth induced the Meares to buy a couple of plaster dwarfs Louisa couldn’t for the life of her imagine.
    But there the dwarfs were, one on each side of the gate, and there the Meares were too. On the head of each dwarf was a scarlet cap; the Meares wore Panama hats—Mrs. Meare’s with a Liberty scarf round it, her husband’s with a plain black band; both equally recognizable, from the tint of the yellowed straw, as hats not bought, but inherited. They looked about the same age as the Meares’ cottage.—So did Mr. and Mrs. Meare themselves, though they’d worn better: achieving between youth and decrepitude (unlike their hats and their house) a comfortable middle age …
    â€œMiss Datchett? We’ve the chaps all ready for you,” said Mr. Meare. “Or would you like to see—”
    â€œThe kennels first?” said Mrs. Meare.
    Looking straight over their heads—for she was a good deal taller than either—Louisa perceived a dachshund-shaped weathervane (probably stuck, since in the light westerly breeze it pointed due north) attached to some sort of outbuilding. It didn’t exactly beckon, but the Meares so obviously wished to show her round, she gave the polite answer.
    â€œWe thought you might!” said Mrs. Meare. “Be a little careful of the whitewash, will you?—Ted only finished it this morning.”
    As Louisa by now anticipated, it wasn’t much of a kennels. Compared with the splendid York establishment starred by My Lucky, My Winsome, and now My Handsome, Kerseymere was practically amateur. (So was Mr. Meare’s whitewashing amateur: streaky above, coagulated below.) The lying-in room had obviously been a toolshed, the puppy-run adjoined a cabbage patch; Mrs. Meare frankly did kennel maid herself. (“It’s so nice that we can manage everything between us!” she observed happily. “Teddy’s a vet, you know. Of course I have to let the garden go a little!”) But the dachshunds themselves were all right—clean-bred and sturdy, classically colored, alert and gay; and before Sebastian the Third of Kerseymere Louisa at last unslung her camera with genuine relief. She had by this time a feeling that her fee had been saved up in a piggy bank.
    â€œIf we can only get him into Country Month!” sighed Mrs. Meare. “I don’t mean in an advertisement—though we have advertised, once—I mean among the proper photographs!”
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Louisa absently. “He’s about the best dachs I’ve seen yet. Anyway, I know the editor …”
    For the next hour she was completely absorbed, as upon the rough grass obediently paraded Sebastian, Viola and Orsino of Kerseymere. The Meares’ handling of them was impeccable; indeed, only a minimum was required. (The poodles at Cannes had been more of hams, but strictly on their own temperamental terms.) “These must be a gift to show,” said Louisa appreciatively. “Who shows them?”
    â€œMolly does,” said Mr. Meare. “A woman catches the judge’s eye,” he added seriously.
    â€”Louisa glanced at Mrs. Meare’s weatherbeaten cheek under the Panama hat, and continued photographing Sebastian the Third. As though reading her thoughts, he glanced severely back at her; Louisa got a rather good shot. Her last, a trickier one, was of a tumble of Viola’s offspring; then she packed up, but only because she’d run out of film.
    â€œWhat trouble you’ve taken!” exclaimed Mrs. Meare gratefully. “Now you must have tea and