“What’s shocking this morning, Mrs. Purvis?”
“Why, ‘ere now, listen to this, if you please!” she would say indignantly, and read as follows: “‘It was announced yesterday, through the offices of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe, solicitors to ‘Is Grace, the Duke of Basingstoke, that ‘Is Grace ‘as announced for sale ‘is estate at Chipping Cudlington in Gloucestershire. The estate, comprisin’ sixteen thousand acres, of which eight thousand are in ‘untin’ preserve, and includin’ Basingstoke Hall, one of the finest examples of early Tudor architecture in the kingdom, ‘as been in the possession of ‘Is Grace’s family since the fifteenth century. Representatives of the Messrs. Merigrew & Raspe stated, ‘owever, that because of the enormous increase in the estate and income taxes since the war, ‘Is Grace feels that it is no longer possible for ‘im to maintain the estate, and ‘e is accordingly puttin’ it up for sale. This means, of course, that the number of ‘Is Grace’s private estates ‘as now been reduced to three, Fothergill ‘All in Devonshire, Wintringham in Yawkshire, and the Castle of Loch McTash, ‘is ‘untin’ preserve in Scotland. ‘Is Grace, it is said, ‘as stated recently to friends that if somethin’ is not done to check the present ruinous trend towards ‘igher taxation, there will not be a single great estate in England remainin’ in the ‘ands of its original owners within a ‘undred years…
“Ah-h,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding with an air of knowing confirmation as she finished reading this dolorous item. “There you ‘ave it! Just as ‘Is Grace says, we’re losin’ all our great estates. And what’s the reason? Why the owners can no longer afford to pay the taxes. Ruinous ‘e calls ‘em, and ‘e’s, right. If it keeps up, you mark my words, the nobility’ll ‘ave no place left to live. A lot of ‘em are migratin’ already,” she said darkly.
“Migrating where, Mrs. Purvis?”
“Why,” she said, “to France, to Italy, places on the Continent. There is Lord Cricklewood, livin’ somewhere in the south of France. And why? Because the taxes got too ‘igh for ‘im. Let all ‘is places go ‘ere. Ah-h, lovely places they were, too,” she said, with appetising tenderness. “And the Earl of Pentateuch, Lady Cynthia Wormwood, and ‘Er Ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Throttlemarsh—where are they all? They’ve all left, that’s where they are. Packed up and got out. Let their estates go. They’ve gone abroad to live. And why? Because the taxes are too ‘igh. Shockin’, I calls it!”
By this time Mrs. Purvis’s pleasant face would be pink with indignation. It was one of the most astonishing demonstrations of concern George had ever seen. Again and again he would try to get to the bottom of it. He would bang down his cup of Ovaltine and burst out:
“Yes, but good Lord, Mrs. Purvis, why should you worry so much about it. Those people aren’t going to starve. Here you get ten shillings a week from me and eight shillings more from the doctor. He says he’s retiring and going abroad to live at the end of this year. I’ll be going back to America pretty soon after that. You don’t even know where you’ll be or what you’ll be doing this time next year. Yet you come in here day after day and read me this stuff about the Duke of Basingstoke or the Earl of Pentateuch having to give up one of his half-dozen estates, as if you were afraid the whole lot of them would have to go on the dole. You’re the one who will have to go on the dole if you get out of work. Those people are not going to suffer, not really, not the way you’ll have to.”
“Ah-h yes,” she answered quietly, in a tone that was soft and gentle, as if she were speaking of the welfare of a group of helpless children, “but then, we’re used to it, aren’t we? And they, poor things, they’re not.”
It was appalling. He couldn’t fathom it. He just felt as if he’d come up smack against an impregnable wall. You could call it what you liked—servile snobbishness, blind ignorance, imbecilic stupidity—but there it was. You couldn’t shatter it, you couldn’t even shake it. It was the most formidable example of devotion and loyalty he had ever known.