“You,” she said, anger flushing her face, “you are despicable.”
“But . . . but . . . what have I done?” said Adrian, aghast at this sudden display of rage on the part of the normally calm Samantha.
“Wasn’t Rosy left you by your uncle?” enquired Samantha.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t he leave you money to look after her?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t your uncle your last living relative?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, strictly speaking, Rosy is your relative, and you have absolutely no right to talk about selling her as though she were an old clock or something. You’re despicable.”
Adrian stood with his mouth open, staring at Samantha hazily.
“All right,” she continued, taking off her apron and flinging it into a chair, “you do whatever you think is right. If you consider selling one of your relatives into servitude is right, then the sooner you are out of here the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
She turned and ran across the great kitchen and clattered up the stairs. Adrian heard her bedroom door shut. He was still standing there in a daze when a strong odour of burnt eggs woke him with a start and he pulled the pan off the fire, burning his fingers in the process.
Mr. Filigree waddled into the house, sniffing the rank smell of burning appreciatively.
“Ah,” he said, smacking his lips, “breakfast.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get your own,” said Adrian curtly. “Samantha’s gone and locked herself in her bedroom.”
“Ah well,” said Mr. Filigree philosophically, “it happens, you know, dear boy. It happens.”
“What happens?” snarled Adrian.
“Oh, things,” said Mr. Filigree, vaguely waving his fingers. “Piques; tantrums; arguments; furores. Upsidownsy, upsidownsy.”
“Yes. Well, I’m damned if I’m going to be upsidownsied,” said Adrian. “I’m leaving.”
“Do you know,” said Mr. Filigree, peering into the pan, “I do believe these eggs are burnt.”
“Yes, and you can blame your daughter for that,” said Adrian.
“No doubt,” said Mr. Filigree. “However, there appears to be one lurking here,” he said, pointing a fat finger, “that has escaped the holocaust. Would you like to share it with me?”
“No,” said Adrian. “I’m going to pack.”
Packing with one arm was more difficult that he had anticipated, but eventually he jumbled his clothes in somehow. He was still simmering with rage at Samantha’s outburst, which he considered to be quite beyond the bounds of propriety. After all, he wanted to get rid of Rosy for her sake, didn’t he? It was her he was thinking of and there she was, carrying on as though he were some sort of sadistic criminal. Well, he’d show her.
To his immense chagrin, he discovered that it was impossible for him to harness Rosy to the trap with his arm encased in plaster, and so he was forced to ask Mr Filigree to help him.
“Do you know,” said Mr. Filigree, tightening the straps that lashed the trap to Rosy’s rotund form, “I wonder if you’re being altogether wise, dear boy?”
“Now, don’t you start,” said Adrian. “I’ve had quite enough from Samantha.”
“I was just thinking,” said Mr. Filigree penitently, “I’m not trying to interfere in any way, but it seems to me you are going to have difficulty in hitching and unhitching Rosy.”
“I’ll find somebody to help,” said Adrian. When everything was ready, Adrian stood for a moment irresolute. Mr. Filigree watched him with round, anxious blue eyes.
“Well,” said Adrian, with an attempt at jocularity, “here I go.”
“Aren’t you, um, aren’t you going to say good-bye to Samantha?” squeaked Mr. Filigree.
At that moment the last thing that Adrian wanted was to see Samantha, but Mr. Filigree looked at him so plaintively, like a gigantic baby pleading for its bottle, that he had not got the heart to say no. He stamped back into the Unicorn and Harp and clumped his way up the stairs, he stopped outside Samantha’s door and cleared his throat.
“Samantha,” he called in a firm, commanding voice. “Samantha, it’s me, Adrian.”
“Well, I didn’t think it was Rosy,” came Samantha’s voice from behind the door.
“I’m just off,” said Adrian, making a wild gesture with his hand to indicate the extreme distance that he hoped to cover during the day. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Samantha sweetly.
“And thank you for all your trouble,” said Adrian.
“Don’t mention it,” said Samantha. “Any time you’re run over by a train arid you happen to be nearby, don’t hesitate to drop in.”
“Yes. Well then, I’ll be off,” said Adrian.
There was silence from behind the door.
“The reason I’m leaving so early,” he shouted, “is because we’ve get a long way to go.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t bellow through the door like that,” said Samantha.
“Well, I’ll be off,” said Adrian
“Yes,” said Samantha in honeyed tones, “you’d better hurry, or you’ll miss the slave market.”
Seething with rage at the unfairness of this remark, Adrian clattered down the stairs and strode out to the barn.
“Well, good-bye, Mr. Filigree,” he said. “I really am deeply grateful for all you have done for me. I hope that we will meet again some time.”
“Bound to,” said Mr. Filigree earnestly. “Simply cannot be avoided, dear boy. The thing is to have some sort of sign of recognition, because I mean suppose for example I was a beetle and you were the Prime Minister. Unless one had some sign of recognition, one wouldn’t know, would one? A careless gesture at me as I crawled across some state papers, and you might damage me irretrievably. So, should we meet in an after life I will say ‘Do you remember the Unicorn and Harp?’ and you will say ‘Yes I do’.”
Adrian was about to remark that Mr. Filigree would have difficulty in saying “Do you remember the Unicorn and Harp?” in the unlikely event of his being a beetle crawling across state papers, but he felt that this might prolong his departure, so he nodded, took Rosy’s warm leathery ear in his hand and urged her forward.
A hundred yards down the road he stopped and looked back. The Unicorn and Harp crouched under its thatch like a black and white tortoise under a golden shell. He thought he saw something move in the window of Samantha’s room, but he could not be sure. With a sigh he took hold of Rosy’s ear again, and they continued down the road.