Stories of Ourselves: "An Englishman's Home" by Evelyn Waugh

Had he been of literary habit and of an earlier generation, his observations might have formed a little book of aphorisms.

These and a hundred other characteristics Mr Metcalfe noted for emulation.

‘That’s what we need – rain,’ he said to himself, and opening the garden door stepped into the balmy morning air.

‘These old fellows know a thing or two that the scientists don’t,’ he would often remark, simulating an air of patronage which was far from sincere.

Boggett, the gardener, was not particularly old and he knew very little; the seeds he planted seldom grew; he wrought stark havoc whenever he was allowed to use the pruning-knife; his ambition in horticulture went no further than the fattening of the largest possible pumpkin; but Mr Metcalfe regarded him with the simple reverence of peasant for priest.

...sixty further acres of farmland had also been available, and for a day or two he had toyed with the rather inebriating idea of acquiring them.

No, seven acres, judiciously chosen, was the ideal property, and Mr Metcalfe had chosen judiciously.

It was ‘a dignified Georgian house of mellowed Cotswold stone; four recep., six principal bed and dressing rooms, replete with period features’.

Lady Brakehurst had not in fact called on Mrs Metcalfe, living as she did in a world where card-leaving had lost its importance, but, of the calling class, there were two other households in Much Malcock, and a border-line case – besides the vicar, who had a plebeian accent and an inclination to preach against bankers.

The rival gentry were Lady Peabury and Colonel Hodge, both, to the villagers, newcomers, but residents of some twenty years priority to Mr Metcalfe.

He was impecunious but active in the affairs of the British Legion and the Boy Scouts; he accepted Mr Metcalfe’s invitation to dinner, but spoke of him, in his family circle, as ‘the cotton wallah’.

These neighbours were of unequivocal position; the Hornbeams at the Old Mill were a childless, middle-aged couple who devoted themselves to craftsmanship.

Mr Hornbeam senior was a genuine, commercial potter in Staffordshire; he supported them reluctantly and rather exiguously, but this backing of unearned quarterly cheques placed them definitely in the upper strata of local society.

Mr Hornbeam senior was a genuine, commercial potter in Staffordshire; he supported them reluctantly and rather exiguously, but this backing of unearned quarterly cheques placed them definitely in the upper strata of local society.

In fact, had they preferred a tennis court to their herb garden, and had Mr Hornbeam possessed an evening-suit, they might easily have mixed with their neighbours on terms of ostensible equality.

At the time of the Peace Ballot, Mrs Hornbeam had canvassed every cottage in bicycling distance, but she eschewed the Women’s Institute, and in Lady Peabury’s opinion failed to pull her weight in the village.

At the time of the Peace Ballot, Mrs Hornbeam had canvassed every cottage in bicycling distance, but she eschewed the Women’s Institute, and in Lady Peabury’s opinion failed to pull her weight in the village.

Mr Metcalfe thought Mr Hornbeam Bohemian, and Mr Hornbeam thought Mr Metcalfe Philistine.

Mr Metcalfe thought Mr Hornbeam Bohemian, and Mr Hornbeam thought Mr Metcalfe Philistine.

In the rafters of their church the death-watch beetle had been expensively exterminated for them; their scouts had a bell tent and silver bugles; the district nurse drove her own car; at Christmas their children were surfeited with trees and parties and the cottagers loaded with hampers; if one of them was indisposed port and soup and grapes and tickets for the seaside arrived in profusion...

...at evening their menfolk returned from work laden with perquisites, and all the year round they feasted on forced vegetables.

Mr Metcalfe looked at his gadget with sudden distaste, propped it petulantly against the sundial, and with his hands in his pockets stared out across the valley.

‘Housing scheme’, ‘Development’, ‘Clearance’, ‘Council houses’, ‘Planning’ – these obscene words had been expunged from the polite vocabulary of the district, only to be used now and then, with the licence allowed to anthropologists, of the fierce tribes beyond the parish boundary.

News of it reached them at midday by means of the village charwoman, who dropped in twice a week to despoil their larder.

Hopeless sorrow reigned unrelieved. Mrs Hornbeam’s pottery went to pieces. Mr Hornbeam sat listless at the loom.

Delicacy forbade recognition of the vital fact that Mr Metcalfe was very much the richer – delicacy tempered with pride.

Mr Metcalfe left the House abruptly, almost precipitately, and all that evening he chafed.

Mr Metcalfe left the House abruptly, almost precipitately, and all that evening he chafed.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ said Colonel Hodge superfluously.

Should you not accede to this generous offer I shall take steps to safeguard my own interests at whatever cost to the neighbourhood.

The lovely valley, so soon to be defiled, lay resplendent in the sunset.

The speculative builders to whom he had viciously appealed showed no interest in the site.

And from this dramatic, last-minute move for conciliation sprang the great Hodge Plan for appeasement and peace-in-our-time.

And from this dramatic, last-minute move for conciliation sprang the great Hodge Plan for appeasement and peace-in-our-time.

On the days when the gardens were open to the public, record crowds came to admire the topiary work, yews and boxes of prodigious size and fantastic shape which gave perpetual employment to three gardeners.