Free Old Filth by Jane Gardam

“You’re just in time. I’ll get them to make you some more of the little tongue sandwiches. Did you have a good walk?”
    â€œWonderful, thanks. Any news?”
    â€œYes. Hitler’s invaded Poland. Don’t tell your father yet, Pat. He can do nothing about it and there’s his favourite supper. Oxtail stew.”
    Â 
    â€œIt’s not all an act, you know,” said Pat, the thought-reader, Mrs. Ingoldby having gone up to change for dinner. “It’s a modus vivendi . Old-fashioned manners.”
    â€œI like it.”
    â€œNot upsetting the guests, yes. But she keeps anything horrid inside, for her own safety. My mother’s not the fool she makes herself out to be. She’s frightened. Any minute now, and farewell the carpet factory and security. It’s going to be turned over to munitions. Ploughshares into swords. It’s been our safe and respected source of income for two generations. This house’ll go. Jack’s going into the Air Force, and I intend to.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œYes. I suppose so. After I’ve got in to Cambridge. If they’ll have me. Get my foot in for later.”
    He didn’t ask about Eddie’s plans.
    â€œAs I’ve been through the OTC,” said Eddie. “I suppose I’ll go for a soldier. My father was in something called the Royal Gloucesters—I don’t know why. He might get me in there.”
    â€œBy the way,” said Pat, like his mother avoiding rocks in the river. “All that about footmen and Ma—it’s balls, you know. Too many Georgette Heyers.”
    â€œBut your mother’s so—” (he was going to say innocent but it didn’t seem polite) “—truthful.”
    â€œShe’s self-protective,” said Pat. “Can you wonder? She was through the Great War, too.”
    Â 
    That evening after dinner they listened to the wireless with the long windows open on to the lawn. A larch swung down black arms to touch the grass. A cat came out from under the arms and limped across the garden and out of sight. It was shaking its paws crossly.
    The news was dire. After the Colonel had switched it off, you could hear the clipped BBC tones continuing through the open windows of the servants’ sitting-room. Shadows had suddenly swallowed the drawing-room, and it was cold.
    Mrs. Ingoldby draped a rug about her knees and said, “Pat, we need the light on.” The heart-breaking smell of the stocks in the nearest flower bed engulfed the room like a sweet gas.
    Pat lit up a cigarette and the cat walked back over the grass, a shadow now. Two green lamps of eyes blinked briefly. Pat put the light on.
    â€œWhatever’s the matter with the cat?”
    â€œDon’t talk to me about the cat,” said the Colonel. “I threw it out of the bedroom window.”
    â€œPa!”
    â€œIt had done a wee on my eiderdown. I threw the eiderdown after it. I’d have shot it if the gun had been handy. I’m keeping it loaded now for the Invasion. That cat knows exactly what it’s doing.”
    â€œDo be careful, dear. It’s not a Nazi.”
    â€œCats and bees and the world, all gone mad. I tell you, there’ll be no honey this year. Everything’s a failure. I’m thinking of buying a cow.”
    â€œA cow, dear?”
    â€œThere’ll be no butter by Christmas. Powdered milk. No cream.”
    â€œWhy ever not?”
    â€œIt’ll be rationed. Forces first. Are you a fool?”
    Â 
    At bedtime Eddie leaned out of his bedroom window—the bedroom now seemed altogether his own—and looked at the dark and light rows of the vegetable garden, the Colonel’s obedient regiment standing to attention under a paring of moon. Silence until six o’clock tomorrow, and the factory hooter. Then the chorus of clicking feet trudging down The Goit as if nothing could ever change. Along the landing he heard the