The Nutmeg Tree

by Margery Sharp

  “It isn’t rot,” said Julia tartly. “It’s a very good work.”

  “All right, darling. But I know Sir William ducked out of it.”

  “He needs a rest. He’s on holiday.”

  “So is Susan. So—more to the point—am I. It was bad enough when she was always dashing off to read French, but this thing’s the limit. She can’t talk about anything else.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it,” said Julia calmly, “because it’s the sort of thing she’ll be doing all her life. I expect you will too.”

  “Not me,” said Bryan, in genuine alarm. “I’ve got too much sense. I know my own limitations. All I want is a quiet life. When you open your cake-shop, darling, I shall apply for a job as errand-boy.”

  “I’m not going to open a cake-shop,” snapped Julia, whom this subject was beginning to infuriate.

  “Not even for the sake of giving me employ? What do you expect to become of me?”

  Julia considered.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said thoughtfully, “if you were to turn out a journalist.”

  “That’s clever of you, darling, because I’ve had the same notion myself. I’d make a damn good special correspondent. How did you tumble to it?”

  “I used to know a lot,” said Julia vaguely. “They never seemed to settle down. But what are you talking like this for? You’re going to be a barrister!”

  “Weather permitting, my dear. I’m not sure I should ever stick it. Besides, most barristers are journalists. That’s how they earn the odd guineas to buy their beer.”

  Julia sat up in exasperation. “Can’t you see,” she wanted to say, “can’t you see how hopeless it is?” But instead—for she was at last learning wisdom—she merely remarked that even if his own income proved insufficient, Susan’s should at any rate be able to supply him with drinks.

  “If you think I’m going to sponge on Susan—” began Bryan hotly.

  “She’ll have much more money than you will,” Julia pointed out; “especially if you’re going to be an errand-boy. I don’t know exactly, but she’ll have all the Packetts’.”

  Bryan stood up and walked quickly to the window.

  “She’ll probably give it all away,” he said over his shoulder. “To these good works you’re so keen on.”

  Julia nodded.

  “Very likely. I expect she’ll go in for them really seriously.”

  His fingers began to drum an impatient and angry tattoo.

  “If you ask me,” he said at last, “if you ask me—”

  “I’m not asking, I’m telling you,” said Julia. “It’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”

  The next moment the door slammed behind him.

  2

  The party at luncheon was reduced by one: Mr. Relton had gone off on a long walk—so ran the message left with Claudia—and would not be back to tea. Julia looked quickly at her daughter, to see whether the interview which she so confidently anticipated had already taken place; judging by Susan’s countenance, it had not. Susan was openly annoyed, because she had desired Bryan’s company for a trip to Belley, and her afternoon’s plans were thus disarranged; but she showed no sign of having been faced with the disarrangement of her whole future. Her future, as it happened, was what she chiefly talked about, and it was concerned so largely with the problems of club management that Julia could not help wondering whether the absence of Bryan would really disarrange it all. “She’ll get over it sooner than I thought!” Julia told herself happily. “If only she can keep her opinion of herself, she’ll be right as rain!” A wound to Susan’s self-esteem was the only one Julia really feared, and if the break came from Bryan—as it would—even that might be avoided: Susan wouldn’t have let him down; she would have kept, scrupulously, her side of their mutual promise. For Bryan’s self-esteem Julia didn’t care a rap, and so she told Sir William when she met him, at three o’clock, in the ruined pavilion.

  They met there every afternoon, stealing up—at least Sir William walked, but Julia definitely stole—from the quiet house while its other inhabitants took their siestas. There was no actual reason, of course, why they should not have ascended boldly side by side, but Julia’s romantic and sentimental heart—had she not drawn it, in lipstick, on the pavilion wall?—always missed a beat as she pushed through the nut trees and found Sir William waiting for her. She enjoyed that moment too much to forgo it, even though they never stayed longer than five minutes, because there was nowhere to sit.…

  “As for Bryan, I don’t care a rap,” said Julia. “He ought to be just plain grateful to me.” As always on leaving the pavilion, she put out her hand and with a light caressing gesture touched the lipstick heart. Sir William turned back from the steps to watch her. “And if he isn’t now,” continued Julia, her rite performed, “he will be in a week or two. I’ve been an absolute providence to him.”

  “If not a mother,” agreed Sir William. “Would you like to go over and dine at Aix?”

  “In evening dress?” asked Julia at once.

  “Certainly,” said Sir William. “That’s mainly why we’re going. I have a craving to put on tails.”

  “I bet you look a dream in them,” said Julia sincerely. She let him help her down to the path, and there stood a moment in thought. But she was no longer thinking about Bryan. “I can’t do much myself,” she said regretfully, “because my wardrobe’s a bit low. I’ve got a lovely dark-blue taffeta, only I don’t know if you’ll like the top. I mean, there practically isn’t any—not even shoulder straps. I don’t mean it isn’t decent, because it is; but it’s a bit—well, dashing. I’ve got a nice lace scarf, though; it used to be white.”

  “And what colour is it now?” asked Sir William with interest.

  “Écru. I lent it to Louise once, and she got into a roughhouse somewhere—just like she always did—and upset coffee right across the middle. So we made a lot more, in a hand-basin, and dipped the whole thing, and it came up beautifully. And then Louise went and spilt the whole basinful, right down her frock!”

  “It’s like the House that Jack built,” observed Sir William, fascinated. “So then you made a bathful—”

  “No, we didn’t. Louise just smashed the basin to smithereens. It was just after she’d been psychoanalyzed, and she was scared stiff of repressing herself. Not that she ever had, so far as I could see; but she said yes, and if she’d only known sooner there wouldn’t be a whole plate left in the Café Royal.” Julia paused and looked at Sir William anxiously. “She isn’t rough, you know; it’s just that she’s got a rather quick temper.”

  “She sounds a most delightful and entertaining companion,” said Sir William. “I won’t say I’m sorry she can’t come with us to-night, because I want you to myself; but when we’re in London I shall have great pleasure in meeting her.”

  Julia looked at him adoringly.

  “You don’t know how lovely that is, William. I’d hate to drop her, and I’d hate to have to see her behind your back—in fact I wouldn’t, because I’ve promised myself I’ll never know anyone you don’t like. You’ll never have to be ashamed of my friends, William—truly you won’t!”

  “I’m sure I shan’t,” said Sir William.

  He spoke sincerely; he had long made up his mind to the fact that marriage with Julia would undoubtedly bring him some very queer acquaintances; but he was also convinced that her instinct for people could be perfectly trusted. Her friends might be what she called “rum”; they would also be what she called “good sorts.” Their company would probably be extremely entertaining, and he had no fear of their influence, for Julia was too clever to let him be either bored or swindled. His only apprehension was that she might plunge to the other extreme and demand to open bazaars. Well, if she wanted to, she could. Sir William felt that even Julia’s respectability would have something lavish and cheerful about it—like a Costers’ open-air service.…

  “You’d make a first-rate Pearlie Queen,” he told her;
and suddenly wondered how many of his own acquaintances, given that remark, would be able to guess the context—Sir William to the future Lady Waring.

  “Not a single one of them!” cried Julia, when he had explained why he was laughing. She thought the matter over and became slightly indignant. “And they won’t even when they’ve seen me, either. I’m going to be the perfect lady.”

  Sir William bent and kissed her.

  “Whether I like it or not?”

  “Whether you like it or not,” said Julia firmly.

  Five minutes later she was being kissed again, this time by Fred Genocchio.

  3

  It happened in this way: Julia, anxious to see whether her taffeta needed ironing, went down to the house alone and was met on the upper terrace by Anthelmine and the woman from the lodge. They were evidently looking for her; they had a visiting-card, which Anthelmine seized out of her companion’s hand and thrust with a flourish under Julia’s eye.

  It was Fred Genocchio’s.

  For a moment Julia stood still, a prey to the most violent and conflicting emotions. Astonishment came first, then dismay, then a wave of flattered excitement. She didn’t want Fred any more, especially she didn’t want him there and then; but how touching of him to have come! Poor old Fred!

  “Where is he?” she asked. “Où est-il?”

  “Là-bas,” replied Anthelmine, jerking her shoulder towards the gates. She looked at Julia with a friendly, conspiratorial smile; she was evidently aware that the visitor had nothing to do with Sir William.

  “Je vais,” said Julia haughtily. “Merci beaucoup.”

  Anthelmine smiled again, and with a lavish display of tact hustled her companion in the direction of the kitchen door. Julia waited till they were gone, then hurried down the drive. Dear old Fred! she thought, as she rounded the bend; she would speak to him for just five minutes, very kindly and superiorly, before sending him away. She could do no less. Not to do as much would be rude, unladylike. In her anxiety to get it over Julia almost ran, so that Mr. Genocchio, watching from below, and with no clue to her real motive, may be excused for misinterpreting the situation. He saw Julia hastening towards him, catching her skirt on a rose, trail, jerking it free and hastening on; and with happy (though unjustified) confidence stepped forward and caught her in his arms and kissed her soundly.

  “Fred!” cried Julia.

  He at once released her. There was no mistaking that repulsive note. Julia backed a little away and held out her hand.

  “Why, Fred!” she said graciously. “This is a surprise!”

  But his mental agility was not equal to hers. Instead of shaking hands like a gentleman, Mr. Genocchio merely gaped.

  “What’s up?” he asked bluntly. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “Of course I’m pleased to see you.”

  “Well, you don’t seem like it.”

  “I’m surprised,” explained Julia. “I thought you were in Paris. Is the trip over?”

  “Yes, it’s over,” said Mr. Genocchio glumly. “Ma and the others went back yesterday.”

  “Is Ma all right now?”

  “Yes, she’s all right.”

  “And the others?”

  “They’re all right too. What about yourself?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” said Julia.

  “You look it,” said Mr. Genocchio. “You look grand.”

  The old admiration was warm in his voice, bright in his eyes, and in spite of herself Julia could not repress a slight responsive glow. He was beautifully built, even in an ordinary suit. If he had turned up in tights she could hardly have answered for herself.…

  “Having a good time here?”

  “Lovely,” said Julia.

  “You don’t want a change? I mean, you wouldn’t like to run over to Aix or somewhere—or even back to Paris—for a day or two?”

  Julia took a long breath.

  “I ought to tell you, Fred,—I ought to have told you at once,—I’m going to be married.”

  Mr. Genocchio stared at her a moment in silence, then turned on his heel and stared at a rosebush instead.

  “Congratulations,” he said over his shoulder. “Chap staying here, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Don’t look like that, Fred!”

  “Why not?”

  “It—it upsets me.”

  “I’m upset myself,” said Mr. Genocchio. “I know I’ve no right to be, but there it is.” He broke off a rose switch and stood turning it in his hands. “I’d hired a car,” he said.

  Julia sniffed. She had so indefensibly sympathetic a nature that in another moment she would have wept.

  “I’m ever so sorry, Fred. I am truly.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” said Mr. Genocchio, recovering himself. “At least, I don’t suppose there is. Is he a good sort?”

  The phrase, so totally inadequate to Sir William, jarred on Julia’s ear. But an odd shyness, a sort of modesty, prevented her from explaining the true magnificence of her prospects. As she would have put it herself, she didn’t want to rub it in.…

  “One of the best, Fred. I’ve been damned lucky.”

  “I know who’s got the luck all right,” muttered Mr. Genocchio. “Well, it’s all in the game. I suppose I’d better be going.”

  Julia hesitated. It seemed awful to let him come all that way and not offer him so much as a drink; but what was the good? He wouldn’t be comfortable, nor would she. Indeed, when she thought of introducing him to the Packetts, and particularly to Susan, discomfort was altogether too mild a word. It would be plain bloody awful, and no offence to anyone.…

  “I see I had,” said Mr. Genocchio slowly. “I’ve put you out by coming. I’m sorry.”

  If only he could have swung off, glorious on his trapeze, and disappeared to the ruffle of drums! If only he could have leapt into his car and rushed away at sixty miles an hour! But twenty feet of gravel path separated him even from the gate, and that was too high to be vaulted. It was the worst exit he had ever been faced with: all he could do was to get himself off …

  In Julia too the sense of anticlimax was strong. It was so strong as to be unbearable. All her theatrical instincts, as well as her genuine fondness for the man, rose in revolt. She caught him by the shoulder, turned him round, and held up her face to be kissed.

  “Julie!”

  “Fred, darling!”

  He held her tight (“I hope that’s not another bruise,” thought Julia, already assuaged), then almost pushed her from him and hurried off. Julia too turned away, and without looking back again to reascend the drive. As far as the first landing complacency accompanied her: she felt she had handled the situation well, artistically—which meant that she had got the last ounce out of it—and, above all, in a ladylike manner. She was very much pleased with herself. But as she arrived in sight of the house, this agreeable mood changed. She felt a curious sensation of having burned her boats. That was odd and unpleasant enough, but the feeling that succeeded it was worse still. An awful doubt invaded Julia’s mind. Would a lady—a real lady—have offered that last kiss without being asked? Above all, would she have enjoyed it? Considering these two questions carefully, Julia was forced to answer yes to the first (because Fred wanted it so badly, and it would have been a shame to refuse) and no to the second. This was very bad, since she herself had enjoyed it thoroughly. She had enjoyed it just as much as if she hadn’t been engaged to Sir William at all.

  “I’m awful,” thought Julia, with sincere melancholy.

  But she repented. She repented hard, all evening, until it was time to start for Aix; and then the sight of Sir William in tails drove everything else from her head.

  Chapter 23

  1

  After an evening of unalloyed pleasure Julia and Sir William returned to the villa at one in the morning. They had dined, they had danced a little, but chiefly they had watched the people—Julia as usual keeping up a running commentary on everyone and everything she saw, Sir William a
s usual listening and laughsing at her flights. To Julia’s delight, they saw the Disgusted Lady, who, marvellous in ice-blue slipper-satin, engrossed and despised the services of the best professional partner while her companion of the Pernollet admired from the edge of the floor. “Isn’t she grand?” demanded Julia. “Astounding,” agreed Sir William; “a collector’s piece.” And Julia beamed at him, because that was just what she had tried to convey to Susan, and he understood so exactly. She was looking well herself, too; she drew many admiring glances; while as for Sir William—“You’re the most distinguished man here!” declared Julia. “Look as fond of me as you can, William!” And Sir William did look fond of her, just as though he were a Frenchman—except that everyone was taking him (Julia knew it) for an English lord.…

  At Muzin Sir William put the car away in its barn, so as not to wake the house, and they walked up together through the still garden. A full moon dropped silver between the trees, robbing with its brightness all brightness of colour, paling the red roses, darkening the white, but exquisitely defining, by a stroke of silverpoint and a line of charcoal, every bough and twig that daylight merged in green. Julia stood still and let the scarf slip from her shoulders. At once the moonlight flowed over them, making them whiter than milk.

  “What a wonderful night!”

  “Wonderful,” echoed Sir William. “Whenever there’s a full moon, my dear, you must wear that frock.”

  Julia spread out her wide skirt and let the light play over it. It was no longer blue, but black and silver.

  “I’ll always have one like it,” she promised. “I—I’ll be buried in it, William.” Suddenly her voice and her hands trembled, the stiff folds dropped together with a long rustling sigh. “William!” she said. “William—I’m frightened!”