Giant's Bread

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

Mrs Levinne laughed again.

  ‘I can see that you at any rate have never thought of it till this minute. But it would be a wise plan, you know – that is, if the other girl won’t have you. Keeps the money in the family.’

  Vernon went away with his brain tingling. All sorts of things fell into line. Uncle Sydney’s chaff and hints. The way Enid was always being thrust at him. That, of course, was what Mrs Vereker had been hinting at. They wanted him to marry Enid! Enid!

  Another memory came back to him. His mother and some old friend of hers whispering together. Something about first cousins. A sudden idea occurred to him. That was why Joe had been allowed to go to London. His mother had thought that he and Joe might –

  He gave a sudden shout of laughter. He and Joe! It showed how little his mother had ever understood. He could never, under any circumstances, imagine himself falling in love with Joe. They were exactly like brother and sister and always would be. They had the same sympathies, the same sharp divergences and differences of opinion. They were cast in the same mould, devoid of any glamour and romance for each other.

  Enid! So this was what Uncle Sydney was after. Poor old Uncle Sydney, doomed to disappointment – but he shouldn’t have been such an ass.

  Perhaps, though, he was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it wasn’t Uncle Sydney – only his mother. Women were always marrying you to someone in their minds. Anyway, Uncle Sydney would soon know the truth.

  5

  The interview between Vernon and his uncle wasn’t very satisfactory. Uncle Sydney was both annoyed and upset though he tried to conceal the fact from Vernon. He was uncertain at first which line to take, and made one or two vague sallies in different directions.

  ‘Nonsense, all nonsense, much too young to marry. Packet of nonsense.’

  Vernon reminded his uncle of his own words.

  ‘Pooh – I didn’t mean this kind of marriage. Society girl – I know what they are.’

  Vernon broke out hotly.

  ‘Sorry, my boy, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But that kind of girl wants to marry money. You’ll be no use to her for many years to come.’

  ‘I thought perhaps –’

  Vernon paused. He felt ashamed, uncomfortable.

  ‘That I’d set you up with a large income, hey? Is that what the young lady suggested? Now, I put it to you, my boy, would that be business? No, I see that you know it isn’t.’

  ‘I don’t feel that I’m even worth what you give me, Uncle Sydney.’

  ‘Pooh, pooh, I wasn’t saying that. You’re doing very well for a start. I’m sorry about this affair – it will upset you. My advice to you is, give the whole thing up. Much the best thing to do.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Uncle Sydney.’

  ‘Well, it’s not my business. By the way, have you talked it over with your mother? No? Well, you have a good talk with her. See if she doesn’t say the same as I do. I bet she will. And remember the old saying, a boy’s best friend is his mother – hey?’

  Why did Uncle Sydney say such idiotic things? He always had as far back as Vernon could remember. And yet he was a shrewd and clever business man.

  Well, there was nothing for it. He must buckle to – and wait. The first misty enchantment of love was wearing off. It could be hell as well as heaven. He wanted Nell so badly – so badly.

  He wrote to her:–

  ‘Darling, – There is nothing for it. We must be patient and wait. At any rate we’ll see each other often. Your mother was really very decent about it – much more so than I thought she’d be. I do quite see the force of all she said. It’s only fair that you should be free to see if you like anyone better than me. But you won’t, will you, darling? I know you won’t. We’re going to love each other for ever and ever. And it won’t matter how poor we are … the tiniest place with you …’

  Chapter Six

  1

  Nell was relieved by her mother’s attitude. She had feared recriminations, reproaches. Insensibly she always shrank from harsh words or any kind of scene. Sometimes she thought to herself bitterly, ‘I’m a coward. I can’t stand up to things.’

  She was definitely afraid of her mother. She had been dominated by her always from the first moment she could remember. Mrs Vereker had the hard, imperious character which can rule most weaker natures with whom it comes in contact. And Nell was the more easily subdued because she understood well enough that her mother loved her and that it was because of that love that she was so determined that Nell should have the happiness out of life that she herself had failed to get.

  So Nell was immeasurably relieved when her mother uttered no reproaches, merely observed:

  ‘If you’re determined to be foolish, well, there it is. Most girls have some little love affair or other which comes to nothing in the end. I haven’t much patience with this sentimental nonsense myself. The boy can’t possibly afford to marry for years to come and you’ll only make yourself very unhappy. But you must please yourself.’

  In spite of herself, Nell was influenced by this contemptuous attitude. She hoped against hope that Vernon’s uncle might perhaps do something. Vernon’s letter dashed her hopes.

  They must wait – and perhaps wait a very long time.

  In the meantime Mrs Vereker had her own methods. One day she asked Nell to go and see an old friend – a girl who had married some few years ago. Amelie King had been a brilliant dashing creature whom Nell, as a schoolgirl, had admired enviously. She might have made a very good marriage, but to everyone’s surprise she had married a struggling young man and had disappeared from her own particular gay world.

  ‘It seems unkind to drop old friends,’ said Mrs Vereker. ‘I’m sure Amelie would be pleased if you went to see her, and you’re not doing anything this afternoon.’

  So Nell went off obediently to call on Mrs Horton at 35 Glenster Gardens, Ealing.

  It was a hot day. Nell took the District Railway and inquired her way from Ealing Broadway station when she got there.

  Glenster Gardens proved to be about a mile from the station – a long depressing road of little houses, all exactly alike. The door of No. 35 was opened by a frowsy-looking maid with a dirty apron and Nell was shown into a small drawing-room. There were one or two nice old pieces of furniture in it and the cretonnes and curtains were of an attractive pattern though very faded, but the place was very untidy and littered with children’s toys and odd bits of mending. A child’s fretful wail rose from somewhere in the house as the door opened and Amelie came in.

  ‘Nell, why how nice of you! I haven’t seen you for years.’

  Nell had quite a shock on seeing her. Could this be the well turned out attractive Amelie? Her figure had got sloppy, her blouse was shapeless and evidently home-made, and her face was tired and worried with all the old dash and sparkle gone out of it.

  She sat down and they talked. Presently Nell was taken to see the two children, a boy and a girl, the younger a baby in a cot.

  ‘I ought to take them out now,’ said Amelie, ‘but really I’m too tired this afternoon. You don’t know how tired one can get pushing a perambulator all the way up from the shops as I did this morning.’

  The boy was an attractive child, the baby girl looked sickly and peevish.

  ‘It’s partly her teeth,’ said Amelie. ‘And then her digestion is weak, the doctor says. I do wish she wouldn’t cry so at night. It’s annoying for Jack, who needs his sleep after working all day.’

  ‘You don’t have a nurse?’

  ‘Can’t afford it, my dear. We have the half-wit – that’s what we call the girl who opened the door to you. She’s a complete idiot, but she comes cheap and she really will set to and do some work which is more than most of them will do. A general servant hates coming anywhere where there are children.’

  She called out: ‘Mary, bring some tea,’ and led the way back to the drawing-room.

  ‘Oh, dear Nell, do you know I almost wish you hadn’t come to see me. You look so smart and
cool – you remind me of all the fun one used to have in the old days. Tennis and dancing and golf and parties.’

  Nell said timidly: ‘But you’re happy …’

  ‘Oh, of course. I’m only enjoying a grumble. Jack’s a dear, and then there are the children, only sometimes – well, one is really too tired to care for anyone or anything. I feel I’d sell my nearest and dearest for a tiled bathroom and bath salts and a maid to brush my hair and lovely silken garments to slip into. And then you hear some rich idiot holding forth on how money doesn’t bring happiness. Fools!’

  She laughed.

  ‘Tell me some news, Nell. I’m so out of things nowadays. You can’t keep up if you have no money. I never see any of the old crowd.’

  They gossiped a little, so-and-so was married, so-and-so had had a row with her husband, so-and-so had got a new baby, and about so-and-so there was the most terrible scandal.

  Tea was brought, rather untidily, with smeary silver and thick bread and butter. As they were finishing, the front door was opened with a key and a man’s voice sounded from the hall fretful and irritable.

  ‘Amelie – I say, it is too bad. I only ask you to do one thing and you go and forget it. This parcel has never been taken down to Jones’s. You said you would.’

  Amelie ran out to him in the hall. There was a quick interchange of whispers. She brought him into the drawing-room where he greeted Nell. The child in the nursery began to wail again.

  ‘I must go to her,’ said Amelie, and hurried away.

  ‘What a life!’ said Jack Horton. He was still very good-looking, though his clothes were distinctly shabby and there were bad-tempered lines coming round his mouth. He laughed as though it were a great joke. ‘You’ve found us at sixes and sevens, Miss Vereker. We always are. Travelling to and fro in trains this weather is very trying and no peace in the home when you get there!’

  He laughed again, and Nell laughed too, politely. Amelie came back holding the child in her arms. Nell rose to go. They came with her to the door, Amelie sent messages to Mrs Vereker, and waved her hand.

  At the gate Nell looked back and caught the expression on Amelie’s face. A hungry, envious look.

  In spite of herself Nell’s heart sank. Was this the inevitable end? Did poverty kill love?

  She reached the main road and was walking along it in the direction of the station when an unexpected voice made her start.

  ‘Miss Nell, by all that’s wonderful!’

  A big Rolls-Royce had drawn up to the kerb, George Chetwynd sat behind the wheel smiling at her.

  ‘If this isn’t too good to be true! I thought I saw a girl who was mighty like you – from the back view anyhow – so I slowed down to have a look at her face, and it was your very self. Are you going back to town? Because, if so, step in.’

  Nell stepped in obediently and settled herself contentedly beside the driver. The car glided forward smoothly, gathering power. A heavenly sensation, Nell thought – effortless, delightful.

  ‘And what are you doing in Ealing?’

  ‘I’ve been to see some friends.’

  Moved by some obscure prompting, she described her visit. Chetwynd listened sympathetically, nodding his head from side to side, all the while driving the car with the perfection of a master.

  ‘If that isn’t too bad,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You know, I hate to think of that poor girl. Women ought to be taken care of – to have their lives made easy for them. They ought to be surrounded with everything they want.’

  He looked at Nell and said kindly:

  ‘It’s upset you, I can see. You must have a very soft heart, Miss Nell.’

  Nell looked at him with a sudden warming of her heart. She did like George Chetwynd. There was something so kind and reliable and strong about him. She liked his rather wooden face, and the way his greying hair grew back from his temples. She liked the square, upright way he sat, and the firm precision of his hands on the wheel. He looked the kind of man who could deal with any emergency, a man on whom you could depend. The brunt of things would always be on his shoulders, not on yours. Oh, yes, she liked George. He was a nice person to meet when you were tired at the end of a bothering day.

  ‘Is my tie crooked?’ he asked suddenly, without looking round.

  Nell laughed.

  ‘Was I staring? I’m afraid I was.’

  ‘I felt the glance. What were you doing – sizing me up?’

  ‘I believe I was.’

  ‘And I suppose I’ve been found utterly wanting.’

  ‘No, very much the other way about.’

  ‘Don’t say these nice things – which I’m sure you don’t mean. You excited me so much that I nearly collided with a tram then.’

  ‘I never say things I don’t mean.’

  ‘Don’t you? I wonder now.’ His voice altered. ‘There’s something I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time. This is a funny place to say it, but I’m going to take the plunge here and now. Will you marry me, Nell? I want you very badly.’

  ‘Oh!’ Nell was startled. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’

  He shot a quick glance at her before returning to his task of steering through the traffic. He slowed down a little.

  ‘Do you mean that, I wonder? I know I’m too old for you –’

  ‘No – you’re not – I mean it’s not that –’

  A little smile twisted his mouth.

  ‘I must be twenty years older than you, Nell, at least. It’s a lot, I know. But I do honestly believe that I could make you happy. Queerly enough, I’m sure of it.’

  Nell didn’t answer for a minute or two. Then she said rather weakly:

  ‘Oh, but really, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Splendid. You said it much less decidedly that time.’

  ‘But indeed –’

  ‘I’m not going to bother you any more just now. We’ll take it that you’ve said no this time. But you aren’t always going to say no, Nell. I can afford to wait quite a long time for what I want to have. Some day you’ll find yourself saying “yes”.’

  ‘No, I shan’t.’

  ‘Yes, you will, dear. There’s no one else, is there? Ah! but I know there isn’t.’

  Nell didn’t answer. She told herself that she didn’t know what to say. She had tacitly promised her mother that nothing should be said about her engagement.

  And yet, somewhere, deep down, she felt ashamed …

  George Chetwynd began cheerfully to talk of various outside topics.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  August was a difficult month for Vernon. Nell and her mother were in Dinard. He wrote to her and she to him, but her letters told him little or nothing of what he wanted to know. She was having a gay time, he gathered, and enjoying herself though longing for Vernon to be there.

  Vernon’s work was of the purely routine order. It required little intelligence. You needed to be careful and methodical, that was all. His mind, free from other distractions, swung back to its secret love, music.

  He had formed the idea of writing an opera and had taken for his theme the half-forgotten fairy story of his youth. It was now bound up in his mind with Nell – the whole strength of his love for her flowed into this new channel.

  He worked feverishly. Nell’s words about his living comfortably with his mother had rankled, and he had insisted on having rooms of his own. The ones he had found were very cheap, but they gave him an unexpected sense of freedom. At Carey Lodge he would never have been able to concentrate. His mother would have been, he knew, for ever fussing after him, urging him to get to bed. Here, in Arthur Street, he could and often did, sit up till five in the morning if he liked.

  He got very thin and haggard looking. Myra worried about his health and urged patent restoratives upon him. He assured her curtly that he was all right. He told her nothing of what he was doing. Sometimes he would be full of despair over his work, at others a sudden sense of power would rush over him as he knew that some small infinitesimal fr
agment was good.

  Occasionally he went to town and spent a week-end with Sebastian, and on two occasions Sebastian came down to Birmingham. Sebastian was Vernon’s most valued stand-by at this time. His sympathy was real, not assumed, and it had a two-fold character. He was interested as a friend and also from his own professional standpoint. Vernon had an enormous respect for Sebastian’s judgment in all things artistic. He would play excerpts on the piano he had hired, explaining as he did so the proper orchestration. Sebastian listened, nodding very quietly, speaking little. At the end he would say:

  ‘It’s going to be good, Vernon. Get on with it.’

  He never uttered a word of destructive criticism, for in his belief, such a word might be fatal. Vernon needed encouragement and nothing but encouragement.

  He said one day: ‘Is this what you meant to do at Cambridge?’

  Vernon considered for a minute.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘At least it’s not what I meant originally. After that concert, you know. It’s gone again – the thing I saw then. Perhaps it’ll come back again some time. This is, I suppose, the usual sort of thing, conventional – and all that. But here and there I’ve got what I mean into it.’

  ‘I see.’

  To Joe, Sebastian said plainly what he thought.

  ‘Vernon calls this the “usual sort of thing”, but, as a matter of fact, it isn’t. It’s entirely unusual. The whole orchestration is conducted on an unusual plan. What it is, though, is immature. Brilliant but immature.’

  ‘Have you told him so?’

  ‘Good lord, no. One disparaging word and he’d shrivel up and consign the whole thing to the waste-paper basket. I know these people. I’m spoon-feeding him with praise at present. We’ll have the pruning knife and the garden syringe later. I’ve mixed my metaphors, but you know what I mean.’

  In early September Sebastian gave a party to meet Herr Radmaager, the famous composer. Vernon and Joe were bidden to attend.

  ‘Only about a dozen of us,’ said Sebastian. ‘Anita Quarll, whose dancing I’m interested in – she’s a rotten little devil, though; Jane Harding – you’ll like her. She’s singing in this English Opera business. Wrong vocation, she’s an actress, not a singer. You and Vernon – Radmaager – two or three others. Radmaager will be interested in Vernon – he’s well disposed towards the younger generation.’