The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping

by Warwick Deeping

  The owner of Ain’t She Sweet beamed upon him, and proceeded to get back into a suit of orange and purple pyjamas.

  “Rather. Early bird. And the worm, too, sir. If you are up half an hour before the other fellow—you get the goods.”

  With an air of radiance he disappeared within to dress, and Jermyn strolled back towards the hotel, meditating upon matrimony or whatever it was in such a case, and just how a woman bore with it, and why she walked in her sleep. The fellow snored. Obviously he trumpeted cheerful platitudes all day. He was all round and polished, and without shadows.

  About eleven o’clock Jermyn repeated his visit. He strolled along the bank and saw the fat fellow paddling about in a dinghy with a fishing-rod over the stern, and the girl lying in a deck-chair. She had a magazine on her knees, but she was not reading it. She lay and stared at the sky with an air of perplexed apathy.

  Jermyn went a little way along the bank and sat down under a tree. The fat little fellow in the little fat white dinghy was as busy as a water-beetle. His bald head glistened.

  He hailed his mate.

  “Sylvie! Sylvie!”

  She raised an obscure head.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “You got the cream for the strawberries?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about a Welsh rarebit? I’ll come aboard and cook one. I’m a dab at toasting cheese.”

  Jermyn’s inward man nodded consentingly. Welsh rarebit! Obviously. Was it the Welsh rarebit that made the girl walk in her sleep, or was she suffering from other pangs and disharmonies? There was something likeable about that fat little fellow—and yet——!

  That night Jermyn went down and watched the house-boat. There was the same moon, the same silence, the same mystery. A sound of snoring trembled from the inwardness of Ain’t She Sweet. And then the white figure emerged and crossed the plank of the gangway, and began to float over the grassland in its suit of white silk.

  Jermyn felt strangely troubled. This mystery of sleep-walking seemed part of the greater mystery of things; it was a salute to the moon, and to all those mysterious pangs and yearnings which the immortal soul is heir to. A Welsh rarebit or tragedy? Could anything tragic associate itself with that fat fellow’s snoring?

  He followed. He so much as dared to get ahead of the girl and let her pass close to him. He might have been and was invisible. Some other self walked in the body of her mundane flesh. She floated and dreamed, and Jermyn shadowed her white slimness until she returned to the house-boat and its happy stridor.

  Something in him rebelled. He was conscious of qualms. Almost it was as though he was wanting to walk with the dreamer.

  Monday and eight o’clock! Jermyn was down there and under cover in time to see the early bird off to business. Wearing bowler and black coat, and carrying a little brown case, he got into the dinghy and handled the sculls.

  “Good-bye, darling.”

  A murmur seemed to come from the house-boat.

  “Good-bye, darly-darly. I’ll bring back a lobster to-night.”

  In Jermyn there stirred a little spasm of nausea.

  It was not that he was just an idle fellow with a sentimental eye fixed upon a pretty woman, for in Africa Jermyn had learnt the love of watching instead of the lust to kill, and this Lady Macbeth of the barge had got herself mixed up with the moonlight. There was something a little frightening and poignant in the stare of her dark, sleep-walking eyes; for Jermyn she had the lure of some gliding and mysterious animal.

  But how absurd! What was she, after all, but a bit of suburbia mated to a little fellow who went oilily to business in a bowler hat, and who had christened his house-boat Ain’t She Sweet. You might get very bored with his snoring and his cheerfulness, and his lobsters and his Welsh rarebits, but he was not exactly a figure of tragedy.

  However, the urge stirred in Jermyn. He was curious to see how the live woman behaved while the man was away in town. How did she and Ain’t She Sweet amuse each other? It was like watching life in Africa, and he sat under a tree in a tangle of bracken, and used a pair of field-glasses.

  The flies were active, far more active than anything upon the deck of the house-boat, for the girl appeared to do nothing but lie in a long chair and gaze at the river and the sky. Occasionally the leaves of a book fluttered, and once Jermyn did discover her looking at something that might have been a photograph. As a matter of fact it was a photograph, the portrait of someone who was dead, someone who had died in the war.

  The flies grew more aggressive, and Jermyn allowed himself a more active inclination towards the river. He strolled down; he approached the house-boat so that the woman remained unconscious of his nearness; he stood and observed her.

  Suddenly he addressed her.

  “Excuse me, but could you tell me where and how I can cross the river here?”

  She was startled. She sat up in her chair. She tucked the photo away between the pages of a book.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Jermyn, standing there with his hat in his hand, had the impression of her as a woman who was frightened. Now, what on earth had she to be afraid of? But was not a startled antelope just as fearful?

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I have disturbed you. I wondered if you could tell me how I could get across the river.”

  She stared at him, but there was no recognition in her eyes. As a sleep-walker she was genuine.

  “There is a bridge at Malton.”

  “How far?”

  “Oh, two miles I think.”

  “Nothing nearer?”

  “The hotel has punts. I’m afraid our dinghy is over the other side. My husband leaves it there for crossing in the evening.”

  Her eyes had a kind of vacancy. It seemed to Jermyn that even while she was speaking to him, her thoughts were elsewhere, absorbed in some other life. He was just a little piqued, for she was a comely creature, and she had for him a suggestion of mystery. She looked so unsuited to Ain’t She Sweet, and a little fat fellow in a bowler hat.

  He said:

  “Thank you so much. I think I’ll try the hotel. Peaceful spot, this.”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  “Yes; very quiet.”

  “Some of us like it like this.”

  But obviously she was waiting for him to go; he had disturbed her melancholy dreaming, and his feeling of pique was merged into pity. He thought that she had the saddest eyes he had ever seen. It was as though he had surprised her in a moment of relaxation when she had ceased to stiffen herself with the starch of pretence, and had let herself drift like some Ophelia on the waters of oblivion. But, no; it was not quite like that. Her eyes reminded him of the eyes of an animal shut up in a cage.

  He smiled, saluted her, and walked on. Now, what was the trouble? Was it just a case of boredom and too much lobster and cheerfulness and bowler hats, and digestive disillusionment? Was she just one of those young women who needed a floor to scrub? But then, was not the house-boat ready to hand, and all the multifarious fussings of the so-called simple life?

  No; somehow he left her with the feeling that her disharmony was more than a mere matter of temperament. Possibly she was one of those who had scuttled into a cage to escape from life, and who now yearned to escape from the cage.

  Jermyn wandered back to the Camois Court for lunch, and afterwards he lay in a long chair under a tree and meditated.

  “That woman’s bored,” he thought; “and I’m bored; half this tired old country is bored, and rushes about in machines to try and escape somewhere. I suppose that fat fellow is bored. But is he? Probably he is making money, and a man of that sort only begins to be bored when he has made much money. I think I’ll get back to Africa.”

  But when the night fell and the moon rose Jermyn became restless, like one of the feline creatures of his wild world who must prowl when the stars are out. He walked straight through the stuffy lounge of the Camois Court Hotel into the summer night, and a curtain of mystery seemed to fall be
hind him.

  Yet he retained a feeling for the ridiculous and the whimsical. In a tame old country, such as this, you went prowling in a dinner jacket and a boiled shirt to watch the possible antics of a young woman who had supped on lobster. For, presumably, the fat fellow had not forgotten to bring back the lobster!

  Yet, was tragedy ever very far away from you, even in a tame old country where an ironical cynicism yawned over its little drinks? Did it not depend upon your definition of what was traffic? In an African forest things happened in the darkness, though as far as Jermyn knew animals did not walk in their sleep.

  But this was the third night, and his curiosity felt quickened. He posted himself by a tree and waited. The moonlight met the river and the domes of the old trees. Would the soul of this woman walk? And, if so, why? Was it lobster and bowler hats and boredom, or something else, something more poignant and primitive?

  Suddenly he saw the white figure appear. It crossed the gangway, but on the grass slope between the river and the trees it seemed hesitant and undecided. In fact the girl’s behaviour was different, and at the end of half a minute’s watching Jermyn realized why it differed. She was awake, and very wide awake. She walked restlessly to and fro; she looked at the river. Even when standing still she gave him the impression of a figure that was agitated.

  He saw her go back towards the house-boat. She stood a moment, and then went down on her knees; she seemed to be sawing at something. And then he understood. She was cutting one of the mooring-ropes. He saw her rise quickly and go to the other rope and bend over it. A moment later she was on the house-boat, and raising the plank of the gangway she pushed at it and then let it drop into the water. A widening strip of moonlit water between the boat and the bank showed that the craft was adrift.

  Jermyn, who might have supposed that she was playing a joke with herself and with the gentleman who snored, suddenly remembered Malton Weir and its vigorous curve of foaming water. The weir was less than a quarter of a mile down stream, and inevitably Ain’t She Sweet would arrive at Malton Weir and take a toss into the seething pool below. Did this girl realize? Was she doing the thing wilfully?

  And suddenly the active Jermyn came to life. Ain’t She Sweet was drifting out into mid-stream, and he could see the girl standing on the upper deck of the boat. He hailed her.

  “Hallo!—I say! There’s the weir.”

  She turned her head for a moment, and then took no more notice of him, and to Jermyn her tragic wilfulness became more evident. His long legs carried him down to the place where the house-boat had been moored, for the girl had left the dinghy sleeping at its post. Jermyn made a dash for the dinghy, only to find that it was chained and padlocked.

  Well, something had to be done, obviously. He tried to snap the chain, but without success, and a glance over his shoulder showed him Ain’t She Sweet well adrift down the moonlit river. He tore again at the chain. Damn the thing! It held. He got his feet well forward into the bow of the boat, and heaved; the mooring-post broke, and Jermyn went flat in the little, wallowing craft. The back of his head hit the seat. It hurt him, and hurt him badly. And suddenly he raged.

  He got out the sculls, and gave chase, but the little tub of a boat had no pace. Ain’t She Sweet and that mad creature of a girl had two hundred yards start of him; there was a good deal of water in the river, and the current set strangely towards the weir. Something in Jermyn raged. He knew he had to get aboard that drifting house-boat, and take tragedy by the collar.

  Ain’t She Sweet had drifted within two hundred yards of the weir when Jermyn ran the nose of the dinghy alongside, and holding the chain and broken mooring-post, jumped aboard. A moment ago, looking round over his shoulder, he had seen the girl standing in the doorway of the cabin quarters. Now she had disappeared.

  He shouted.

  “Hallo, are you mad? We shall be over the weir in two minutes.”

  A door slammed. He fancied that he heard the turning of a key. Had she locked herself in? Damnation! And that fat little fellow, her husband!

  He gave the dinghy’s mooring-chain a twist over the house-boat’s rail, and plunged for the cabin opening. It was all dark. He hit his head against something and swore. He was in a narrow passage with doors opening from it. He tried the nearest, and finding it locked, hammered with his fists.

  “Hallo! hallo! For God’s sake unlock that door. You’re adrift, and close to the weir.”

  Something thudded, a man’s bare feet as he tumbled out of his bunk.

  “Who’s that? Who’s there?”

  “Damn you, unlock the door. You’re adrift and on the edge of the weir.”

  A figure in orange and purple pyjamas blundered out. He blundered into Jermyn.

  “Adrift. But how——”

  “Never mind how, man; where’s your wife’s cabin? You have got a wife, haven’t you?”

  The little man let out a kind of yelp and charged down the passage. He shouted:

  “Sylvie! Sylvie! Wake up.”

  He fumbled at her door. It was locked.

  “Sylvie!”

  And suddenly there was the noise of water rushing, a moist roar, and the house-boat’s nose gave a dip.

  “My God——”

  “That door—break in.”

  Together they threw themselves against the door, but at that moment Ain’t She Sweet took her plunge, and Jermyn and the husband were sent staggering. Jermyn felt himself clutched. He was in contact with a warm fat body, and then the rush of water came up the passage like a wave into a cave. The boat sagged and shuddered.

  In the wet darkness Jermyn felt himself carried upwards along the passage. Something warm and soft and struggling heaved against him. There was sudden light, a spread of spume, and he found himself in the weir pool, with a black thing bobbing close to him, the fat fellow’s bald head.

  Ten yards away Ain’t She Sweet half submerged and reeling over on her port side, seemed to be sliding downwards under a sheet of foam. Jermyn, striking out, and spitting river water, watched the boat with a kind of furious and helpless anguish. And suddenly the white shape of her rolled over, and the tarred hull showed in the moonlight.

  “My God——!”

  He beat about and looked for the husband. Could the fellow swim? He saw the dark head and the bald patch not two yards away.

  “My God!—she’s gone under! Can you swim?”

  A little choking voice replied:

  “My wife——! Sylvie—Sylvie. Oh, it’s gone.”

  They were swept down stream, and together they landed among some water flags close to a group of alders. They scrambled up a grass bank. There was silence; the silence of a strange finality.

  Then, suddenly, the fat little figure plumped down upon the grass. It covered its face; it wailed.

  “But we were so happy. I don’t understand. I tied the ropes myself——”

  Jermyn, dripping, with his boiled shirt bulging, looked at the little, pulped figure.

  “She——”

  And then he cut the truth out.

  “Well, someone—— Pretty damnable. Probably the ropes were frayed. I happened to be wandering about; I live up there at the hotel. I saw one end of the boat sag out into the stream. One rope may have gone, and the other broken.”

  The little man wailed:

  “Trapped in her cabin. Oh, my God! She slept by herself—because——”

  He raised his face and blurted it out.

  “Because—I snored. But we were so happy.”

  THE SAND-PIT

  They lived on opposite sides of the little green valley, where the sand-pit lay in a waste of bramble and bracken, and the lane from Claypits to Snodlands trailed its grassy ruts between high hedges.

  Herrick owned the old red cottage with the two yew trees, and the faded blue door under the trellised porch. The woman occupied the new white bungalow which poor Gordon had built after the war. Herrick had been there three years; the woman less than six months. He had a shortened left
leg, a small pension, and a passion for the open air. He grew fruit and raised chickens. His life was a busy loneliness in one of the wildest parts of Sussex.

  That spring he became aware of the woman on the other side of the narrow valley, and sometimes he would pause among his fruit trees and look across at her, seeing her as a slim figure moving over the grassland or about the rather derelict garden. She had inherited poor Gordon’s chicken houses, those brown dots scattered over the hillside, and all poor Gordon’s haphazard planning of things, his untidy enthusiasms, his after the war makeshifts.

  Herrick wondered what she was doing there, but for some weeks his interest remained nothing but a vague curiosity. He wondered how old she was, and what she was like to look at.

  From a cottage down at Claypits a Mrs. Jane Jenner came up daily to make his bed, and wash the crockery and do some desultory cooking, and it was Mrs. Jenner who made these human shadows upon the Sussex hillsides more real to each other. She gave an hour a day to Miss Merriss of the white bungalow. She gossiped cheerfully in both bungalow and cottage, and with a large and human cheerfulness that was insidious and persuasive. These two lonely people listened. They began to see each other more intimately through Jane Jenner’s eyes.

  To Herrick she said:

  “Merriss—that’s her name. She can’t be no more than eight-and-twenty. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.”

  Herrick, washing his hands under the kitchen pump, was persuaded to contradict her.

  “Well, why not? If she likes the life——”

  Mrs. Jenner was dogmatic.

  “A pleasant-looking young lady. Well, I never knew a girl yet, sir, at her age and with her looks—and chickens and likely to be satisfied. But it ain’t no business of mine.”

  To Marjory Merriss in the white bungalow she was more picturesquely confidential. Her round, red face expressed motherliness.

  “One of those ex-officers; he’s got a short leg. Been here three years. No; I don’t think he makes much out of it, poor gentleman; just rubs along, you know. Of course I does what I can.”

  “Is he all alone?”

  “Sure. He must be terrible lonely at times, Miss.”