Noel very bravely said that he didn’t know the score, and had only once heard the work, and knew nothing about it.
‘Of course, I’m only the dilettante,’ said Swan modestly. ‘Tony here is the real reader.’
‘Gosh!’ said Colin, who had looked at Morland’s book, ‘you’re reading Lemon too!’
‘He’s jolly good reading, sir, don’t you think?’ said Morland, pleased to find another railway enthusiast. ‘I’ve always been very keen on railways, ever since I had a clockwork train, and I like reading everything I can find about them. Lemon Upon Running Powers is awfully interesting. I find it a bit stiff in bits, but of course you wouldn’t, sir.’
‘Well, I did,’ said Colin, ‘and I had to get Mr Merton to explain it.’
Colin and Morland would have liked a long talk about Lemon, but Kate interrupted to inquire after Morland’s hand, which had a very disgusting piece of sticking plaster on it.
‘It’s splendid, thank you,’ said Morland. ‘Eric had a little bottle of peroxide with him, so we put it on and watched the rotten part fizzling. It was ripping. Would you like to see the tent?’
Ignoring the fact that she could already see it quite well, Kate allowed the boys to show her everything; their clothes and camp equipment neatly folded, and the trench they had dug in case of rain. When she had admired it all, she inquired if any mending were needed. They thanked her, but said no.
‘Your shirt didn’t seem to have any buttons the other day,’ said Kate to Swan.
‘Oh, that shirt doesn’t like buttons, thanks awfully. What, Tony?’ said Swan, as his friend hit him. ‘Oh, yes. It’s awfully kind of you, Miss Keith, and if you did happen to have any black wool about you we’d be very grateful if you could mend a sock. You see, we only brought one spare pair, and Tony burnt half of it when he was using it to take the frying pan off the fire, when we were doing sausages.’
Kate said she had her sewing things in her bag, and would love to mend the half sock. The boys were then formally invited to the picnic, an invitation gladly accepted. The picnic-party returned to the boat, leaving Swan and Morland to make themselves a little tidier before entering society.
By the time tea was laid the Keiths had arrived in the car with the thermoses. Colin went over to the bank to fetch them. A few minutes later the ferryboat was seen coming across with Mr and Mrs Birkett, who explained that neither of them punted, so they had left the punt for their daughter and Mr Winter, who had gone out in the blue sports car. Swan and Morland, in blue short-sleeved shirts and flannel trousers, joined them. Mrs Birkett begged that no one would wait for her unpunctual young people. Swan and Morland were very helpful in passing things, and then tacitly withdrew with Lydia and a large plate of mixed food to a slight distance, leaving the grown-ups to themselves.
‘Lydia,’ Kate called across the grass, ‘where did I put the Gentlemen’s Relish sandwiches?’
‘I don’t know,’ shouted Lydia through a large mouthful of something. ‘Have the last sandwich, Tony.’
‘Rather,’ said Morland. ‘I say, these sandwiches are pretty decent. What are they? Anchovy?’
‘Dunno,’ said Lydia. ‘It says on the paper. Kate always writes on sandwiches what’s in them, as if one couldn’t taste.’
‘Patum Peperium,’ Morland read on the greaseproof paper. ‘It would make a good verse for the Carmen, Eric. ‘“Patum Peperium, Patum Peperium, When they stink you’d better bury ’em.”’
This brilliant effusion was a great success with both Swan and Lydia, and led to a very intellectual discussion of Horace, in the course of which it was unanimously agreed that if he hadn’t written in Latin he would have been a jolly good poet. The noise and laughter made Mrs Keith ask what it was.
‘Only Tony making a poem about Patum Peperium,’ said Lydia.
Kate jumped up and went over to the classical department. The incriminating paper lay at her feet.
‘Oh, Lydia, you’ve eaten all the Gentlemen’s Relish,’ she said.
‘It said Patum Peperium,’ said Lydia.
‘My good girl, don’t you know that Patum Peperium is the Latin for Gentlemen’s Relish?’ said Swan. ‘These girls’ schools! We’re awfully sorry, Miss Keith. We didn’t know they were special.’
‘As long as you enjoyed them, it’s all right,’ said Kate. ‘There’s fruit salad when you’re ready, but you’ll have to come over and get plates and spoons. I’ve got the mending for your sock, Tony, if you let me have it.’
Morland handed her the sock, which she put in her bag.
‘Gosh!’ said Swan, pointing to the river. ‘There’s our Rose in a punt.’
‘Is that the one that’s engaged to a master?’ asked Lydia.
‘Yes. And there is the master, our Mr Winter, punting her. Look at him, Tony, the water’s running down his sleeves.’
Philip Winter, not an expert punter, was indeed nearly wet through already, with a sluice of water running all over him every time he lifted the punt pole. He tied up the punt and he and Rose came ashore. Rose, in pale pink organdie with a large floppy hat, looked so perfectly the River Girl that an audible gasp went up from her audience.
‘Well, I’m glad I don’t look like that,’ said Lydia, who was sitting on the ground, her feet straight out in front of her, her face, neck, arms and legs bright red, and her hair tied back with an old tie of Swan’s that she had borrowed.
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to tidy up a bit,’ said Swan, ‘though I admit our Rose is more the pink limit than ever today.’
The presence of three young men, one of them a stranger, gave added lustre to Rose’s lovely eyes and an added flush to her well made-up cheeks. She at once embarked on an animated conversation with all three, ignoring her damp affianced in a way which, used as he was to her peculiarities, he could hardly bear. Lydia and the boys, attracted like savages to something new, came over and established themselves among the party, gazing with the unmoved and scornful stoicism of Red Indians upon the enchanting Miss Birkett.
Kate, who couldn’t bear to see anyone neglected, addressed Philip, asking him if he had seen the Whitsun decorations in Northbridge church.
Philip said it was horrible to see flowers torn from their natural setting and slowly dying of thirst.
Kate, who had a kind heart for everything, said she hated that of course, but that in Northbridge church all the flowers had their stalks either in jam-jars of water or in damp moss.
Yes, said Philip, while human beings were dying slowly in the depressed areas.
Lydia, resenting Philip’s way of taking her sister’s kind advances, said loudly that it was awful about the depressed areas, but she didn’t see that jam-jars of water or damp moss would be any good to their inhabitants, even if some people did like being wet.
Philip, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, sore at his Rose’s immediate neglect of him for a gilded stranger (for so he inaptly called Noel in his own mind), made a scornful noise and said, pointedly ignoring Lydia, that the money spent on flowers would have supported several families for a week, but he supposed Miss Keith knew nothing about such uncomfortable subjects.
Kate, having to disappoint him, said that far from money having been spent on flowers, they were all gifts. And what was more, Lydia put in, her sister had done charitable work in Barchester ever since she left school and been into all sorts of perfectly ghastly places that she didn’t suppose Mr Winter had ever heard of, and she didn’t have to read the newspaper to know about distressed areas.
‘Good old Lydia! Muscle in!’ said Swan, softly enough for Philip to have to pretend that he hadn’t heard.
Philip, looking angrily at Lydia, said it was easy for people with great gardens and acres of hothouses to give from their superfluity, and the poverty in Barchester was (which he seemed to consider discreditable to it) as nothing compared with the poverty of the distressed areas, and that social problems could not be tackled by amateur charitable organisations, and as an afterthought, that
fascism got no one anywhere.
Kate was so puzzled by the sudden introduction of fascism, and the way in which Philip was now arguing on three different subjects at once, that she was silent for a moment. But Lydia, looking at Philip as if he were a black beetle, said no one with any sense would be a fascist.
‘Nor a communist either,’ she went on, stunning the rest of her auditors with the power of her voice. ‘I’m all for the Empire myself. I mean, when people are young I suppose they’ve got to be something, but the sooner they get over it the better. And as a matter of fact the flowers all come from the cottage gardens, and the best ones came from the allotments down by the railway. And if people aren’t as distressed in Barchester as they are in the north of England, that’s a jolly good thing for Barchester, and anyway if they wanted they could be just as distressed as anyone. And as for charitable things, they do the best they can, and that’s more than can be said of everyone that talks a lot. I say, Eric, let’s have races. We’ll punt the boat, and Tony can punt the canoe, and whoever falls in first wins.’
As the three younger members withdrew, Mrs Keith, who hadn’t heard the beginning of the conversation, but had been agitated by her younger daughter’s attack on a guest, turned to Philip, and asked him kindly whether he had seen the Whitsun decorations in Northbridge church, which she thought quite lovely.
‘Don’t you feel the brutality of tearing flowers from their natural surroundings to perish slowly of thirst?’ said Philip, torn by the sight of Rose’s triple flirtation, miserably conscious that he could hardly control himself, anxious to wound someone.
Mrs Keith looked at him with interest.
‘No,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘not if they give pleasure. You must excuse my disagreeing with you, but I find that a purely sentimental point of view. If it were human beings I could sympathise, like negroes being sold down the river, or child marriage that my Uncle Oswald used to think so unfortunate. But, of course, in England child marriages are not allowed.’
‘People are suffering and dying day by day in the distressed areas,’ said Philip, sticking to one of his points.
‘But that is so sentimental again,’ said Mrs Keith. ‘They are suffering just as much here, only because it’s the South no one is interested. Henry,’ she called to her husband, who had been talking to the Birketts, ‘Henry, what is the number of people out of work at Hogglestock? Mr Winter is interested in unemployment.’
‘About three hundred, I’m afraid, since the boiler works closed down,’ said Mr Keith.
‘There!’ said Mrs Keith.
‘They are doing all they can for them in Barchester,’ said Mr Keith. ‘The Dean’s grandfather used to be a curate at Hogglestock when it was a very poor agricultural community, and Crawley has always felt a special interest in it. What touched him very much was that some of the Easter flowers in the cathedral were offered by the men there, who had grown them in their enforced leisure. The committee on which the Dean and I serve had provided garden tools and seeds.’
‘They asked for bread and you gave them stones,’ said Philip sternly.
‘Not stones, seeds,’ said Mrs Keith. ‘I wonder, Mr Winter, if you are related to my Uncle Andrew. He was the youngest of my grandfather’s second family. My father, who was the youngest of the third family, was very fond of him. His second wife was a Miss Winter whose parents had lived in Bermuda and were supposed to have a trace of black blood.’
‘My father is a clergyman,’ said Philip, rather sulkily.
‘Then he wouldn’t have black blood,’ said Mrs Keith. ‘At least, I’m not sure, for I know I met a black bishop once, at the Palace at Barchester, but then, being a bishop makes a difference. I don’t think they’d allow it in the lower branches.’
‘My father has no black blood,’ said Philip, determinedly.
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Keith. ‘Kate, I do think it’s going to rain.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Kate; for the fat white clouds had turned black while they were talking and were surging up in the sky, while a chill wind began to blow. ‘You and Father had better go back.’
Mr Keith said he would take the Birketts and his wife over in the Rectory punt, leaving the picnic-party to collect the boats and bring them home. Rose had no objection to being left with so many gentlemen, and no one took any notice of Philip, who began to collect the tea-things in a hopeless way. Kind Kate, who saw what the matter was, and bore him no grudge for his recent attacks on the church decorations and charitable committees, knelt beside him, packing up the remains of the feast in friendly silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Philip presently, in an ungracious voice.
‘Lydia can be most trying,’ said Kate.
One or two big drops fell. Kate looked anxiously up the river, but the racing craft were not yet in sight.
‘Philip,’ said Rose, addressing her lover for the first time since the picnic began, ‘can’t you get a boat? My frock will be spoilt.’
Short of swimming across and getting the punt there was no escape till the boat and canoe came back. Colin said he would shout for the ferry, but it was well known that old Bunce took himself off duty every day from five to seven, these being the hours when the ferry was most in demand, and worked on his allotment a quarter of a mile away, besides being stone deaf. They all shouted, but no one appeared.
‘Oh Philip, you are sickening,’ said Rose. ‘It’s going to pelt, and you know I’m frightened of thunder.’
‘I’ll go up to the end of the island and yell to Lydia,’ said Colin. ‘They can’t have gone farther than the weir.’
He buttoned up his coat and ran off. The heavy drops were spattering on the tree beneath which Rose and her cavaliers were standing. Rose had taken off her flowered hat and was holding it in her hand.
‘You are sickening not to have brought a coat, Philip,’ said Rose. ‘Isn’t he sickening, Mr Merton?’
‘Have mine,’ said Noel, taking off his grey flannel coat with a good pretence of willingness, and putting it carefully round Rose’s exquisite shoulders.
‘Thanks most awfully,’ said Rose. ‘Oh, Mr Carter, could I have your coat to cover my hat? It will be absolutely spoiled if it gets wet.’
Everard saw nothing for it but to take off the coat and give it to Rose, who wrapped her hat carefully in it. Philip, nearly beside himself with mortification and rage, strode off after Colin, leaving Kate to pack the last of the tea-things into the basket.
‘Miss Keith,’ said Everard, ‘you’ll get wet. Come under the trees.’
‘Where is your coat?’ asked Kate severely. ‘You’ll be drenched.’
‘Rose Birkett, confound her, has taken it to cover her hat,’ said Everard.
‘There’s the rug,’ said Kate. ‘I’d put it under the tea basket to keep it dry. It’s rather old and dirty, but if you don’t mind —’
Everard seized the rug, rapidly unfolded it and put it round Kate. Kate snatched up her bag from the ground and they ran under the trees, where Kate knew a good log they could sit on. Lightning split the clouds and thunder crackled across the sky. Then the rain came down in a steady drench.
‘You’d better have some of the rug,’ said Kate, unfolding it to its fullest extent and throwing part of it across Everard’s shoulders. ‘I don’t think much rain will come through the leaves, but it’s silly to get wet. These storms never last long. Now I can get that sock of Tony’s mended.’
From her bag she took some black wool, a darning needle, and a black sock into which she thrust her hand. A small charred circle in the leg had crumbled away, leaving a hole. Kate looked at the sock more closely.
‘Oh, Mr Carter,’ she said, ‘someone has been mending this sock with navy blue wool!’
Everard was hardly in a state to understand anything. Pure chance had set him there on a log, a very shabby old rug folding him and Kate away from the world. The words ‘expiring frog’ floated in his mind, which was otherwise a thundering void, flecked with point
s of light. He pulled himself together enough to say in a weak voice, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it isn’t your fault,’ said Kate tolerantly. ‘I don’t suppose you can think about boys’ socks as well as everything else. I’ll just unpick this and darn it again properly. Can you imagine anyone using navy blue wool for a black sock!’
Everard was so deeply conscious of Kate by his side that he could only just summon enough strength to say No.
‘I suppose you haven’t any real control over the matron,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t see how a man could have. But really, navy blue wool —’
‘Do you mind if I smoke,’ said Everard, hoping to calm himself. He took a cigarette and lit it, but his hands shook so much that Kate looked up from her work.
‘You have got a chill,’ she said anxiously. ‘I do think Miss Birkett is a little unreasonable to want two coats, but she is so very pretty. The rain won’t last much longer. Look, it’s clearing towards Barchester. I can see the sun on the cathedral. Put the rug more round you.’
Summer Half: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 11