“Perhaps your aunt is only worried about Drene, and that makes her cross with—”
“No,” Norah said quickly. “At least, not altogether. It’s all the fault of these war novels. She likes to read in the evenings, you know.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Peel said, “I know.” She pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. “I told her to borrow any book from our library whenever she wanted one. And she’s been reading war novels?”
Norah nodded gloomily.
“And Earl Grubbock was a soldier? But so were all the cowboys except old Chuck, weren’t they?”
“But my aunt knows them. She doesn’t know anything about Earl except that he was a sergeant. And there is nothing good written about them in any war novel, is there? It’s a wonder to me how we ever did win the War, if all the sergeants were so awful and all the officers were such fools.”
Mrs. Peel could find nothing to say. She would like to have smiled, but Norah was too serious. And so would I be if I were Norah, she thought.
Norah said, “I wonder why writers want to make things more difficult for men? Why, in a few years, there won’t be a woman left who’ll trust a man when he is away from her. And to think it is the men who do that to each other! Why, if it were a woman writer being bitter, you might say, ‘Well, she’s taking it out on the men, whatever they did to her.’ But this isn’t a war between the sexes. Often it stops being a war between nations. It’s a war of men on men. They really hate each other subconsciously, don’t they? I said all this to Earl when we were arguing, and he couldn’t find any answer. I was hoping he could, too.”
Mrs. Peel rested her folded arms on the table. She looked at the girl with new interest. Never underestimate the silent people, she told herself once more. Had that been Earl’s thought too?
“Tell me, Norah, you’re at college, majoring in what?” “Modern history.”
“Are you going to teach?”
“I’m thinking of journalism.”
“Ah, the big city, Chicago? New York?”
“No.” The girl smiled faintly. “Three Springs.”
“Why didn’t you work on a paper this summer? Experience, you know.”
“I worked on a paper last summer. But this year my aunt told me that a lot of writers were coming here. That’s quite an experience too, seeing them when they aren’t up on a platform making a speech or signing their novels at a bookstore.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Peel said, in dismay. Then she looked at Norah’s laughing, sympathetic eyes. “I expect you’ve found them very much like any other human beings.”
“Yes,” Norah agreed. “They’re as muddled up as the rest of us. Only some of them think they aren’t... Like Mr. Koffing, for instance.”
Mrs. Peel let herself smile this time. “Did you tell that to Earl Grubbock too?”
“Well,” Norah said politely, “he did ask me.”
“Did he listen?”
“Why, of course!” Norah was startled. “He’s—he’s very— well—”
“Not at all like the sergeants your aunt reads about?”
“Not one bit,” Norah said, laughing now. “But you will tell my aunt not to worry about me?”
Mrs. Peel nodded. She watched Norah leave the dining room. Then she rose, putting the chair back neatly in place so that Norah’s capable job of arranging the table should not be spoiled. A movement from outside the window caught her eye. It was Earl Grubbock, pretending to be studying the scenery. And probably cursing me, Mrs. Peel thought. She went out to join him. He couldn’t see Norah just now, anyway.
* * *
“I was watching the creek,” Earl Grubbock said. “Come over here and see this. Look, from this point you’d think the water was running uphill. A neat delusion, isn’t it?”
“Like most delusions.” Mrs. Peel followed him and looked. “Why, so it is! A most original creek...”
He wondered if this would be a good moment to try to find out how Mrs. Peel would react to fear. (That story of the decaying gentlewoman with a lynched corpse on her doorstep hadn’t worked out so far.) But Mrs. Peel turned to him with such a delighted smile, a smile that made her young and very much alive, that he couldn’t find the right question to ask her. Instead he blurted out, “It’s an original place in every way.” He looked round at the placid hills. “But I just don’t seem to be able to write here. O’Farlan is scribbling away; Carla’s full of new ideas; even Mimi has reached the stage of deciding she isn’t a short story writer and is talking about a novel.” Talk, of course, didn’t mean you’d get a book written: he’d found that out.
Mrs. Peel had a way of expressing sympathy and interest even without saying a word.
He said suddenly, “I may as well admit it. I’m stuck. Perhaps I’m not a writer after all. Perhaps I’d better find me a permanent job and try to make something out of that.” He stared moodily at the creek. But he felt better, somehow, for having put his thoughts into words at last.
“Whether you take a permanent job, or go on taking part-time jobs, I think you ought to keep on writing. In fact, you’re the last person here among all our guests who should give up writing.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were as quiet and sincere as her voice.
“You’ve a good style and a sensitive touch,” she went on. “All that has been bothering you—” She stopped talking, and began to pace slowly round the garden. He matched his steps to hers.
After a minute or two he said suddenly, “Well, what’s bothering me?”
“Advice is wrong unless it is really asked for.”
“I’ve reached the asking stage.”
“I said you had a good style and a sensitive touch. That’s form. What bothers you is the content, the subject round which you’ll trap your style and tie it up with your touch.”
“I write what I know about. I was born and brought up in the South. I know what I’m talking about.”
“But do you want to write about it, or do you feel you ought to write about it?”
“Both.”
“You want to reform.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It is needed. Always. Everywhere. But I am never sure whether you can achieve reforms by denunciation as fully as you can by other methods. If people have pride, then denunciation is apt to drive them into a more determined stand. The only people who agree with denunciation and see all its truths are those who are already converted. The others only feel more alienated and bitter.”
“You’re jumping ahead of me. I haven’t got anything published yet.” His voice was bitter. “I can’t even finish the short story I thought was all sewed up. I can’t even manage a short story. I’m one helluva writer.”
“Why short stories, anyway? They are much more difficult than a novel... Look, Earl, why not a novel, something where you can show five points of view, ten, twenty, if you like? But not just one? For you can’t treat the South honestly from one point of view alone. And you know it; deep inside you you know it. Perhaps that is one of the reasons you don’t finish your story. You see, you could only hate the South for her faults as much as you do if you loved her a great deal for her virtues. But you won’t admit them openly because they’d spoil your argument against her.”
He stared down at the grass at his feet.
Mrs. Peel said, “Earl, you may be too gloomy about your work. Perhaps the short story is good, perhaps it only needs more time. I may be very far wrong in what I said.”
He didn’t reply. He started walking back to the house. Then his anger passed, and he stopped to wait for her. His face was worried, unhappy, but the anger had passed. “This grass needs cutting,” he said. “Where do you keep the lawn-mowers? I’ll try my hand at it this afternoon.”
Mrs. Peel said, “It’s in the garage. Jackson and I will bless you. Mrs. Gunn’s nephew from Laramie—Joe, that is—”
“The plumber?”
“That among other things... Well, he fell sick last week, and we had to tak
e him in to the hospital at Three Springs. An operation. Successful. Thank goodness. But, anyway, Jackson’s been overworked ever since. Hence the grass.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? We could have pitched in.”
“We did ask you here for a holiday, you know. I could hardly start telling you about chores, could I?”
Earl Grubbock looked at her in amusement. “Where have you been living all your life? Look, after I’ve given this piece of grass a shave and a haircut, I’m coming to see you this afternoon. You can tell me frankly just where Koffing and I can lend a hand around the place. And another thing, I’d like to hash out all this problem about my work. You’re the person to help me, if I can be helped. That’s all.”
Mrs. Peel felt her cheeks flush with pleasure. “I don’t pretend to give good advice, Earl. But one thing I do know: you mustn’t stop writing.”
Through the trees, rising over their fringed tops to lose itself in the silent hills, came the sound of the bell in the kitchen yard.
“Lunch,” Mrs. Peel said. “And you’ll have to eat more, Earl. You’ve lost so much weight, we must be starving you.”
He looked down at his waistline, automatically drawing his stomach in to meet his spine, throwing his chest out and his shoulders back. His skin was tanned, and there was a glow of health on his cheeks. The circles under his eyes had gone, along with the white, pasty, surplus-flesh look of his face.
“You know, when I saw you at first from the dining-room window,” Mrs. Peel said almost truthfully, “I thought Robb had come visiting us.”
He grinned. “Robb’s got more hair on top.”
“It isn’t the hair that matters so much, it’s this.” Mrs. Peel thumped him hard on the ribs. “Well, see you after the lawn-mowing! It’s a thirsty job.”
“That’s a date—but make it something innocuous... What between altitude and isolation, I’m practically on the wagon. It’s too much trouble keeping yourself supplied up here. No bars on the way home, no handy little liquor store round the corner, no one asking you to parties and stuffing a glass in your hand.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Peel agreed, but she glanced at his waistline and thought it was also pleasant to feel as fit as you looked.
The bell rang again, with an extra clang to warn them that Mrs. Gunn’s eyebrows were rising.
“It’s a cheese soufflé!” Mrs. Peel said, in sudden alarm. She broke into a run. Earl Grubbock followed her, laughing. Helluva lot I’ve got to laugh about, he thought. But a wide smile was still on his face as Mrs. Peel’s pace became dignified again when they reached the hall, and they walked into the waiting dining-room.
14
STONEYWAY TRAIL CUT-OFF
Sally Bly was late in leaving Sweetwater. She stopped at Milton Jerks’s log-cabin filling-station. The boy who worked there looked at the Bugatti with professional interest. It was a good car, he said, a bit old-fashioned and queer-looking, but a good car all right.
“I think it needs some more overhauling,” Sally said.
“Like to leave it here? Milt will be back from Three Springs in about an hour. He’ll give you a lift to Rest and be Thankful.”
“I don’t think I’ll wait,” Sally said, looking worriedly at the sky. The clouds were heavier, the air was hot and still.
The boy looked disappointed. He wouldn’t have minded taking that car to pieces and putting it together again. “Guess you’re right,” he said, looking at the sky too. “Pity you didn’t leave sooner. You’d have got a lift from Jim Brent. The trucks were in here today.”
“Were they?” She had seen them. She had seen Mimi too. And, for no logical reason at all, she had avoided them. That was one of the reasons why she had wasted time in Mrs. Bill’s Zenith Beauty Shop for the last two hours. One of the reasons. She glanced at her hair in the mirror. Not altogether wasted, she thought. She gave the boy a smile and a wave and drove off.
The car seemed all right again. The boy at Milt Jerks’s garage was efficient, and she could have left it there during the day for a check-up. Only a Bugatti was a new experience for him. And Jackson, who had driven this car since they bought it in 1933 in Rome, would like to do the job of overhauling by himself. He’d resent anyone else’s touching “his” car.
The road from Sweetwater wound slowly, tortuously, up towards Stoneyway Valley. Once she reached the valley the gradient would be less steep, and there would only be a steady pull over the old Stoneyway Trail towards Rest and be Thankful. She drove as quickly as she could, but carefully, for the twists and turns in the road, up through the forests and past the precipices of rock, were difficult. She was too busy concentrating on the road, on listening to the deep hum of the engine as it made the climb, to glance at the view of the plains as it lowered away beneath her. And the sky had darkened enough, so that she didn’t halt the car above the last turn on the road, as she usually did, to sit for a few minutes and wonder at the shapes and curves and colours of the land. A strong wind rose suddenly, catching the dust up into swirling clouds, bending the tops of aspens and birches in sudden gusts. It was this threatening storm that decided her to take the shortcut as soon as she reached Stoneyway Valley. It was more of a climb, but it shortened the fifteen miles which still lay ahead of her by at least seven. In wet weather it was impassable. But the recent dry weeks had made it firm. It was narrow, but it was quick.
She swung the car into the cut-off. She was driving confidently now, even enjoying it. The back seat of the car was piled with parcels, but a quick glance behind told her that they were safe, although they jolted about with each bump in the dirt road. And then it seemed to her that the car, still humming smoothly and powerfully, was travelling more slowly. Half-way up the first hill in the cut-off it slowed down as the engine strained. She could smell burning rubber.
She thought anxiously, it must be the brakes. But how? Whoever had trouble with brakes going uphill? If she could reach the top of the hill she’d stop there. But what then? The smell of burning rubber increased, and with it steam started pouring out of the radiator cap. She edged round the last curve on the hill, but the car stopped before it reached the top. It stopped dead, with the engine still humming. She cut off the engine, and sat there for a few moments, trying to make up her mind what to do. The brakes were fast: it was they that had stopped the car. The nauseating smell of burning rubber surrounded her. She looked for water. On one side of her was a pine forest, on the other a bank with a ditch at its foot; but the little stream there had almost dried up. She would have to try it. The radiator cap was smoking now.
She picked up her hat and scrambled down the bank for water, scaring the curious chipmunks that had come out on to a rock to watch her. I’m as scared as you are, she thought, and tried to fill her hat with water. The time she had to wait seemed enormous and frightened her still more. But at last she had scrambled back on to the road with a hat almost full of water. Then with one hand she had to pull off the cardigan, which she had worn tied loosely round her shoulders, to help her unscrew the radiator cap; even with its protection she scalded her hand. And, of course, she spilled some of the precious water. It wasn’t enough, anyway. She slid down the bank once more.
This time, as she poured the water, and then stood back to look at the smoking dragon, it seemed to her as if the car moved. The brakes must have relaxed their grip just enough. Instinctively she dropped her hat and cardigan and sprang towards the front seat to get at the wheel. As she jumped in she knew she was too late. She even, for a hideously blank moment, forgot what she must do. Then she tried the brake, but it wouldn’t work at all now. The car was moving downhill preparing to gather speed, veering over towards the bank. She rose, trying to jump out. And the car, as if it were glad to get rid of her, suddenly lurched on the shoulder of the narrow road and threw her out. The swinging door struck her across her back. The jutting fender scraped savagely at her arm, but the wheel missed her. Lying in the road, she was only dimly aware of the car’s crashing plunge down the bank.
15
COWPOKE’S CORNER
Old Chuck thought the stew smelled mighty good tonight, even if he did say so himself. It was nothing fancy he thought of the supper, but he cooked it clean. And he always had it ready when the boys got in. The potatoes would take another ten minutes, so he went to the door of his kitchen and sat down on the step while he rolled a cigarette.
You’re getting old, he told himself. Ten years ago—five, even—he would have gone to Jim and said to hell with all this cooking, and Jim would have given him a real job. He had thought of asking for one. But he knew that if there had to be a man to cook and do odd jobs around Flying Tail, then he was it. A twinge in his left knee, as he stretched out his leg, emphasised the truth of his words. He swore quietly, steadily, imaginatively, for a full minute. Then he rose, a thin, slow-moving figure, with the thin, slow-burning cigarette held in one corner of his mouth, and went across to the barn to see if the sick pony was doing any better.
He looked over at the hillside where the horses roamed at night. They had already been turned out. He halted for a moment, hand on hip, his keen grey eyes narrowed. He recognised and named the horses even from this distance. He could still see as good as anyone, he thought, with some satisfaction. And he could ride better than most. It was the long trips that did for him nowadays, them and the sleeping in rain and cold. Well, he had it good while it lasted. And there was worse ways to end your days, still working, still being useful. He’d be able to go on working here if he wanted to—Jim was a good boss. Didn’t throw you out when you got a bit stiff in the joints. Yes, he’d work here, summers at least, until one day... Well, he thought, as he watched the horses scattered over the hillside, it’ll be for me like it is for you. Some spring, when we ride up to get you, there’ll be one of you that won’t have got through the winter.
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