The Flowering Thorn

by Margery Sharp

  “I’d rather not have a serious row if I can help it,” said Lesley distastefully.

  “Oh, ’e won’t think you mean it,” explained Mrs. Sprigg, “but it’ll just show ’im we won’t stand no nonsense. You leave it to me, Miss Frewen. I’ve known old ’Orace since afore ’e was born.”

  On principle, and from a cultivated horror of gossip, Lesley never encouraged her to talk, but no one could be in the same house with Mrs. Sprigg for three hours daily without insensibly gathering a good deal of information, much of it libellous, about the inhabitants of High West-over. There was Mr. Pomfret the vicar, with his wife and four children: Mr. Cox at the Post Office: young Arnold Hasty, whom Lesley already knew, and Mr. Walsh the postman, who drank like a fish, said Mrs. Sprigg, but was always all right once you got him on his bicycle. (“It seems to bring ’im to life,” explained Mrs. Sprigg. “’E can ride that bicycle, Miss Frewen, when ’e can’t stand up. I’ve seen it with me own eyes. But as ’is wife says, what’s the good of that to ’er? You can’t take a bicycle to bed with you.…”) There was also, looming trout-like among sprats, the majestic figure of Mr. Lionel Povey, landlord of the Three Pigeons and property-owner on a large scale. It was he who had caused to be built, a year or two after the War, the new line of cottages called Beatty Row: erecting them on a site so notoriously damp and aguish that the shivering inhabitants (said Mrs. Sprigg) might be seen nightly streaming forth in search of warmth and refreshment in the Three Pigeons itself. A Napoleonic trickiness, indeed, seemed to be Mr. Povey’s chief characteristic. In 1918 he had palmed off on the War Memorial Committee a secondhand goddess, wired for electric light and picked up cheap at some local Great House sale.…

  “But—but couldn’t anyone tell?” interrupted Lesley, who had been listening in spite of herself.

  “Tell? Not them. It was the old Vicar, not Mr. Pomfret. Blind as a bat ’e was: and Sir Philip at the Hall—a proper old rip if ever there was one—’e didn’t care one way or the other.… Laughed fit to burst, ’e did, when they found the pair to ’er in Povey’s backyard. She’s got ’er ’and lifted above ’er ’ead, d’you see, to carry an electric torch, and Povey, ’e’d taken away the light and put in a great big Union Jack, as big as what the Scouts have. It looked real fine, Miss Frewen, you wouldn’t believe: and they set ’er up opposite the Post Office with all the names on a step underneath.”

  “Do you mean in the square?” asked Lesley. “I’ve never noticed it.”

  Mrs. Sprigg shook her head.

  “Ah, you won’t find ’er there now. Couldn’t stand up to the weather, you see, ’er being only stucco. They ’ad to take ’er away more’n five years ago, just after Mr. Pomfret came. And old Povey ’ad ’ad all the money, you see, so all we’ve got now’s a tablet in the church.”

  2

  With the passage of July, and being somewhat relieved from domestic burdens, Lesley’s mind began to revert more and more frequently to the idea of a house warming. She had been cut off from her friends for nearly two months, and the out-of-town season was nearly upon them. With the approach of August bank holiday, therefore, and encouraged by a spell of brilliant weather, Lesley decided to issue the invitations for her first week-end party. The original project had been something in the nature, and on the scale, of a fête champêtre, but a closer acquaintance with an actual cottage had later decided her in favour of the intimate. By moving into the small room with Pat she could dispose of one best bedroom and a whole barn, the latter being furnished, to be sure, with no more than the large double bed she had found there on arrival: but two men could sleep there quite comfortably, and wash in the outhouse.

  For more social purposes, indeed, there was only the one small sitting-room, oppressive though amusing with its crowded Victorianism; but the orchard was now quite agreeable, Mrs. Sprigg having by either fair means or foul (and probably the latter) obtained a signal victory over the Walpole pigs. The hordes had been withdrawn, the fences repaired: and Mrs. Sprigg returned from her embassy with permission for Miss Frewen and the little boy to walk wherever they pleased over Walpole grassland. In the orchard, then, the house-party would spend most of its time; if it rained they could play bridge; and if someone remembered to bring a gramophone, they might even try to dance on the level part of the barn.

  With these considerations in view, therefore, the party was whittled down to three. They were Elissa: Toby Ashton, because Lesley owed him for a whole fortnight: and Bryan Collingwood, because he had once threatened to commit suicide, and she felt that her emotional life needed pepping up. By a singularly fortunate chance they were all able to accept, and Lesley at once sat down to plan menus out of a Fortnum and Mason catalogue. Elissa, indeed, had kindly offered to bring down her own provisions: but Elissa, though genuinely helpful, was notoriously absent-minded. And besides—thought Lesley, flipping over to the entrées—it wasn’t going to be that kind of a party. Her position as hostess, with all that it implied of responsibility and distinction, was to be perfectly definite. She had no intention of being camped on; and if Elissa brought the gin it would soon be Elissa’s picnic.

  ‘I’ll have to go up to Town,’ thought Lesley; for the projected bi-monthly visits had not yet materialised. She had been too busy, too unhappy, and above all too tired: she had even washed her own hair, so that its thick natural waves now lay loose and uncorrugated; on one occasion, in Aylesbury, she had even risked having it cut. The result, indeed, might have been considerably worse; but it required more than the merely passable to eclipse Elissa, and on the Thursday before the party arrived, Lesley left Patrick in charge of Mrs. Sprigg and went up to Town by an early train. There she spent four expensive but profitable hours in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, emerging with an almost higher degree of fashionable polish than she had ever before attained. More obviously portable were a couple of brightly coloured table-cloths with napkins to match, and a pair of linen sheets to go on the double bed. The whole excursion, indeed, was highly successful, and in a final fling of good spirits Lesley paid extra on her ticket and returned first class.

  Arriving at the White Cottage, however, her spirits were abruptly lowered. There had arrived during her absence a Fortnum and Mason van delivering provisions for the house-party: and the bill that came with them was so enormous that Lesley was shocked into the most purely domestic state of mind she had ever experienced.

  It was incredible. With doubting eye she ran over the addition. The addition was correct. Then she ran over the list itself. That was correct too. Food was expensive when bought course by course, so to speak, in attractive fireproof dishes: almost worse than the drinks, and God knew they were bad enough.…

  In fact, one might almost say that it was the drinks that did it.

  ‘After this week-end,’ thought Lesley, looking at the row of bottles, ‘I shall have to shop in Aylesbury. It’s almost enough to make one marry Toby Ashton.’

  The thought took her by surprise: half sardonically she followed it up. It was true that he had never asked her: but she had a pretty shrewd idea that if, the next time he made one of his dishonourable proposals, she were to reply, ‘No, Toby, but if you like I’ll marry you’—he would quite probably accept the change of procedure with at least equanimity. For he was a man, thought Lesley quite seriously, on whom marriage would weigh very lightly: and with an income on which one fairly conscientious wife would really make practically no impression.

  ‘I could leave Pat down here, with a good nurse, almost out of my own income,’ thought Lesley.

  In such glowing colours did the vista unfold: more than ever was she glad of her visit to Bond Street. Elissa could amuse herself with Bryan or, if Bryan proved refractory, could get on with her Yogi. She always said she was longing for solitude: and for once she should get it. Lesley’s brilliant scarlet lips curved in a rare smile: really it was going to be rather amusing! And if Bryan brought down another revolver, that would be rather amusing too. He would never actually pull the trigg
er, but the attempt at any rate should be pleasingly picturesque.…

  ‘I shall take Toby over the Walpole meadows,’ thought Lesley suddenly. ‘Elissa loathes walking.’ And thinking of those sunny, cow-inhabited slopes, she had a fleeting glimpse of certain lost advantages. For one could scarcely faint, nowadays, at the sight of an unexpected Alderney, nor was any credit to be got out of not having done so. With sense taken for granted, and sensibility at a discount: with intentions unasked and mystery out of fashion—life was a good deal more complicated than one’s grandmother imagined.

  A step on the threshold—a pattering shrew-mouse scurry—brought her abruptly from her dream. Still faintly smiling, Lesley went down on her knees and began to sort the food.

  “What things they do think of!” said Mrs. Sprigg admiringly. She picked up a bottle of stuffed olives and held it to the light: tomato-red spots on a cylinder of smooth green. “Now, if I ’ad that I’d want to keep it on the mantelshelf, not ’ide it away in me inside. If you’ll pass them through the ’atch, Miss Frewen, I’ll put ’em in the cupboard.”

  3

  The final preparations proceeded smoothly to their conclusion. The larder was stocked, the linen aired. Lesley’s hair lay like a skull-cap, her complexion continued perfect. It came inevitably as something of a shock, therefore, when late on the Friday evening Bryan Collingwood telephoned from Town to ask whether he might bring down with him a beautiful Russian. Her name was Natasha.

  “But who is she, my dear?” asked Lesley, a trifle coldly.

  “The daughter of an Imperial general, darling, only someone murdered him, and now she’s taken up economics. She terribly wants to see the real English country, and I said I’d ask if you could have her.…”

  “Well, now you have asked, my dear, and I’m terribly sorry, but there’s no room. What time are you going to get here?”

  “But, Lesley—”

  “Well?”

  “But, Lesley—I don’t really know how it happened—but I’ve more or less invited her. I mean, she’s coming.…”

  At the other end of the telephone, by a notable effort of will, Lesley just restrained herself from swearing aloud.

  “But my dear, there isn’t a bed for her!”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll put up at the pub, and Natasha can have mine.”

  “Well, she’ll be sharing it with Toby Ashton, but I don’t mind if they don’t,” said Lesley resignedly.

  The following morning, of course, she went over to Aylesbury and brought back by car a divan bed. It was sheer waste of two-pounds-ten, but no hostess can properly exercise her charm with one guest at the local pub and another in compromising circumstances. Paying for the thing cash down with most of her ready money, Lesley was further and seriously exercised by the problem of its bestowal. To put it in Elissa’s room would almost certainly annoy Elissa: but there seemed no other alternative to clean fun in the barn. The dining-table, too—it was fortunate that she had never had any intention of letting Pat feed with his elders, for it did not really accommodate more than three. Four would have been just possible, five would result in positive dovetailing. In these anxious considerations, and in a last run-through of the menus with Mrs. Sprigg, the intervening hours passed with astonishing rapidity: no sooner had she hung up the receiver (or so it seemed), than it was Saturday afternoon. Lesley made up her lips, smoothed her shingle, and went down to the gate to wait for Peter’s car.

  And now, as though suffering from reaction, time stood still. Elissa was always late, to be sure, and Bryan little better; but their reiterated promises to be down by two now threw a high light, so to speak, over what was really quite normal unpunctuality. After the first half-hour Pat, who had been hanging about the lane, lost interest and retired to the orchard. This Lesley by no means regretted, for he was definitely to be kept in the background: a rapid introduction as soon as the party arrived, and then no more sight or sound of him for the next three days. Pat might be slow, but he was very obedient: if one told him to stay in the kitchen, the kitchen was where he would be found. His presence, however, had afforded her much the same sort of companionship as one gets from a large dog, and without it the minutes passed more slowly still. Sunset would not have surprised her, nor the first stars: and indeed even by the kitchen cuckoo it was fully another hour before the big green car swung round the corner of Pig Lane. As far as could be seen, however, there were only three occupants. Toby Ashton driving, Elissa beside him with her head on his shoulder, and young Bryan Collingwood alone in the back.

  “There she is!” cried Elissa shrilly: and a second or two later was clasped in Lesley’s arms.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When the first embraces were over, and with her arm through Toby Ashton’s, Lesley said,

  “I thought Bryan was bringing a girl friend?”

  “So he has, darling,” said Elissa, taking out her powder-box. “Natasha. She’s at the Three Pigeons.”

  “We all went in for a drink, darling,” supplied Bryan, “and she suddenly let out that she was afraid you didn’t really want her, and wouldn’t come on. She’s so fearfully sensitive.”

  There was a brief silence, during which Lesley received the curious impression that though this was no doubt the complete truth as it appeared to Bryan, it was by no means the complete truth as it appeared, for example, to Elissa. Aloud she said,

  “But that’s absurd! Of course I want her. If you’ll walk down the road with me, Bryan, we’ll go and fetch her at once.”

  “Poor young lad!” said Toby Ashton compassionately. “He’s exhausted already, Lesley, with exercising so much will-power. And I’m exhausted with driving, and Elissa’s exhausted with heat.”

  “Then you’d better all lie down in a row under the apple-trees while I go myself. What’s she like, Elissa?”

  The powder-box closed with a snap.

  “Extremely striking, my dear. Wears garters, but no stockings. To carry stilettos in. Or do I mean vodka?” said Elissa blandly.

  2

  It being finally decided that both Lesley and Bryan should return at once to the inn, the other two were conducted as far as the cottage door, introduced to Pat and Mrs. Sprigg, and there left to make themselves completely at home.

  “We’ll just get into country clothes, darling,” promised Elissa, “and then play in the garden till you come back. It’s all so perfectly heavenly I feel about ten again.” With genuine emotion she gazed over the placid landscape. If anyone at that moment had offered her love in a cottage for the next twenty years, she would have answered: “No, freehold.”

  “We’ll have tea or drinks or something as soon as I get back,” said Lesley; and turning back with Bryan Collingwood, led him at a brisk pace down Pig Lane. He seemed vaguely uneasy, and even younger than Lesley remembered him: speaking nothing but the most trivial commonplaces, and hardly looking at her since the moment of arrival. They had kissed, of course, with the automatic enthusiasm displayed by all Elissa’s friends on either meeting or parting: but the whole secluded length of Pig Lane was traversed without further incident. Outside the Three Pigeons stood a large American car, towards which her companion, however, though an amateur of the breed, cast no admiring glance; and no more, for the matter of that, did Lesley. She was merely reminded by it of the necessity of garaging Toby’s.

  “I think they’re outside,” said Bryan glumly.

  Too preoccupied with her own thoughts to mark his unexpected use of the plural, Lesley followed him round to the back of the Three Pigeons, where the genius of Mr. Povey had created a small open-air pleasure-ground. It contained an arbour, a statue, three long wooden tables with benches on either side: at one of which, her chin propped between her hands, now sat the sensitive Natasha.

  As Elissa had said, she was extremely striking. She was as striking as a leopard, or a panther, or anything else tawny, untamed and matchlessly graceful. Both eyes and hair were precisely the colour of amber, her eyes the clear, her hair the cloud
ed: for the rest of her features, they showed a child-like perfection of contour completely unmarred by the ravages of thought.

  (‘Economics, my God!’ murmured Lesley under her breath.)

  Nor was the creature’s companion, in his way, any less spectacular. On the other side of the table, preposterously muffled in an enormous motor-coat, sat one of those magnificent young Americans usually encountered only in advertisements for underwear. He appeared to be a little over six foot or so, he had a kind and trustful face, and a mouth formed by nature for the very phrase on which Bryan and Lesley now entered.

  “You poor little girl!” said the American tenderly.

  The great amber eyes were misty but brave. As though unable to trust her lips, Natasha nodded.

  “Just all alone, the way I am, and no place to go,” said the American, more tenderly still.

  Lesley was extremely annoyed. The vamping of the wealthy was a natural and recognised occupation, but there was no need to libel one’s hostess in the process. Stepping promptly forward, therefore, she held out her hand and said briskly,

  “But of course you’ve somewhere to go, my dear. I’ve just been scolding Bryan for not bringing you by force.”

  It sounded to her own ears so unpleasantly like a rebuke that for an instant she half expected a leopard’s claw full across the face: and for an instant, indeed, felt the whole graceful body tense with fury. The next moment Natasha had swung round in her place, hands outstretched and eyes dim with tears of gratitude. Emotion, it appeared, overcame her very easily indeed: or perhaps she felt that as she had tears in her eyes already, gratitude was what they might just as well be of.

  “How good you are!” she murmured happily. “But I think everyone is good in England. Even the Americans.”

  Thus admitted, so to speak, among the persons of the drama, the young American rose to his feet and bowed all round. From the general Natasha now descended to the particular.