by Angus Wilson
Peter longed to say something more, to make sure that everything was all right, but he remembered what Jennie had said to him about wasting time trying to undo things that were done. As he looked at her peering so solemnly at the book in front of her and making notes on a piece of paper from time to time, he felt once more how privileged he was to have won her love. She was so clear-sighted, so firm in her judgements, so tenacious in her application. Here she was learning Italian, and learning it competently, not just playing at it, and all because she intended a visit to Italy some time next year. They had almost quarrelled about it some weeks ago when she had refused to go to Studio One to see the Raimu film because she had her next lesson to prepare. ‘Aren’t you being rather goody-goody about all this?’ he had said, but she had shown him immediately how false was his perspective. ‘No, darling, it’s not a question of being good, it’s just a matter of thinking ahead a little, being sensible even if it means being a bore sometimes. If I went to Italy without having read something of their literature and without being able to speak adequately I should feel such a fraud.’ ‘You mean because you would be having something on easy terms that others could appreciate more.’ ‘No, no’ she had cried ‘damn all that about others, that’s just sentimentality. No, I’m thinking of myself, of my own integrity. Peter, surely you can see that one must have some clear picture of one’s life in front of one. You can’t just grab at pleasure like a greedy schoolboy, Raimu this evening because I want it, no Italian because I don’t. The whole thing would be such an impossible mess.’ Then she had leaned over the back of his chair and stroked his hair. ‘Listen to me’ she had said ‘talking to you like this, you who have done so much with your life even at twenty-seven, fighting that dismal Baptist background, winning scholarships, getting a First, being an officer in His Majesty’s Navy and now being an A.P. at the Ministry and a jolly good A.P. too. That’s really the trouble, you’ve read everything, you know all the languages, I don’t. Be patient with me, darling, be patient with my ignorance.’ She had paused for a moment, frowning, then she had added ‘Not that I think you should ever stop learning. The trouble is, you know, that you’ve got swallowed up by the Ministry. Town planning is a wonderful thing but it isn’t enough for someone like you, you need something creative in your leisure time too.’
Of course he realized that she was right, he had fallen into the habit of thinking that he could rest on his laurels. There had been so much activity in the past few years, constant examinations, adapting himself to new situations, new strata of society, first Cambridge, then the Navy, and now the Ministry and life in London, he had begun to think that he could rest for a bit and just have fun, provided he did his job properly. But Jennie had seen through that. It wasn’t as if she could not have fun too when she wanted it, and in a far more abandoned, less inhibited way than he could ever manage, but she had a sense of balance, had not been thrown out of gear by the war. And so he had promised to resume his University research work on the Pléiade.
Peter opened the new book on Du Bellay and read a few pages, but somehow with Jennie sitting opposite he could not concentrate and he began to stare out of the window. Already the train was moving through the flats of Cambridgeshire: an even yellow surface of grass after the summer’s heat, cut by the crisscross of streams with their thick rushes and pollarded willows; only occasionally did the eye find a focal point – the hard black and white of some Frisians pasturing, the rusty symmetry of a Georgian mansion, the golden billowing of a copse in the September wind, and – marks of creeping urbanization – the wire fences and outhouses of the smallholdings with their shining white geese and goats. It seemed strange to think that Jennie’s home which she had painted in such warm, happy, even, if the word had not been debased, cosy colours should lie among such plain, almost deadening landscape. But as Peter gazed longer he began to feel that there was a dependability, an honest good sense about these levels that was much what he admired so in her, and perhaps as she had built that brilliant, gay attractive nature upon plain and good foundation, so the Cockshotts had created their home alive, bright, happy-go-lucky, ‘crazy’, Jennie had often described it, upon this sensible land.
He tried to picture her family from the many things she had said about them. His own home background was so different that he found it difficult to follow her warm, impulsive description of her childhood. Respect for parents, he understood, and acceptance of the recognized forms and ceremonies or else rebellion from them, but he had been far too busy winning scholarships and passing examinations to attempt the intimate undertones, the almost emotional companionship of which Jennie spoke, nor would his parents, with their austere conceptions of filial obedience tempered only by their ambitions for his future, have understood or encouraged such overtures. He felt greatly drawn to the easy familiarity that she had described, yet much afraid that her family would not like him.
It was clear that the only course was to maintain a friendly silence and trust to Jennie to interpret as she had done so often in London. Her affection for her father was deep and he imagined it was reciprocated. Indeed the wealthy barrister who had retired from the law so early sounded a most attractive gentle creature, with his love of the country, his local antiquarianism and his great artistic integrity which had caused him to publish so little, to polish and polish as he aimed at perfection. A survival, of course, but a lovable and amusing person; Peter’s only fear was that he would fail to grasp the many leisured-class hypotheses by which Mr Cockshott obviously lived, but there again Jennie had explained so much.
Her stepmother, Nan, remained more vague. Some children, certainly, would have resented the intrusion of an American woman into their home, but Jennie and her brother had apparently completely accepted Nan, though there were clearly things in her that Jennie felt difficult to assimilate, for she often said laughingly that her step-mother had on such and such an occasion been ‘rather pathetically Yankee’. Thinking of the garrulous, over-earnest American academical women he had known, Peter had thought this an unpleasant condemnation; but his acquaintance was very limited, and Jennie had explained that Southerners were quite different ‘awfully English really, only with an extra chic for which any English girl would sell her all’. Peter thought that perhaps Nan might be a little alarming, but obviously very worthwhile.
Then there was Jennie’s brother Hamish who had been her companion in all those strange, happy fantasy games of her childhood. She had explained carefully that he was not an intellectual, but that he was very learned in country lore and had read all sorts of out-of-the-way books on subjects that interested him. Jennie admired him because he had hammered out ideas for himself in so many different spheres – had his own philosophy of life and his own views on art and politics. Some of these views sounded strangely crazy to Peter, and perhaps a bit cocksure, but still he was only twenty-two and as Jennie had pointed out views didn’t matter when one was young, what really counted was thinking for oneself. It would be necessary to go very easy with a fellow like that, Peter reflected, thinking of his own obstinate defiance of heterodox ideas at that age; it had been mostly due to shyness he remembered. And lastly there was Flopsy, who was some sort of cousin, though he could never unravel the exact relationship. She was certainly somebody outside his former experience, not that he was unused to the presence of elderly unmarried female relations in the homes of family friends, but their activities were always confined to household matters, women’s gossip, or good works. This Flopsy was a much more positive character, for not only did she run the household, and with such a happy-go-lucky family she must be kept very busy, but she appeared also to be the confidante of all their troubles. The extent to which even someone so self-reliant as Jennie depended upon her advice was amazing, but she was obviously a rare sort of person. He felt that he already knew and liked her from the many stories he had heard of her downright tongue, her great common sense and her sudden frivolities, he only hoped that he would not fall too much below her idea of
the ideal suitor, but at least he felt that so shrewd and honest a woman would see through his awkwardness to his deep love for Jennie. Anyhow, he decided, if anything went wrong it would only be his own fault, for it was really a privilege to be meeting such unusual people who were yet so simple and warm hearted, above all it was a great privilege to be meeting Jennie’s family.
As she stepped from the carriage on to the little country platform Jennie looked back for a moment at her lover. ‘Frightened, darling?’ she asked and as Peter nodded assent ‘There’s no earthly need’ she said ‘I’m pretty certain you’ll approve of them and I know they’ll love you. Anyhow anyone who fails to make the grade will have to reckon with me. So you’ve been warned’ she ended with mock severity. A sudden gust of wind blew from behind her as she stood on the platform, causing her to hold tightly to the little red straw hat perched precariously on her head, blowing the thick, dark wavy hair in strands on which the sun played, moulding her cherry and white flowered dress to her slender figure, underlining the beauty of her long, well-shaped legs. It gave a moment’s sharp desire to Peter that made him fear the discomfort of the week-end, doubt his ability to keep their mutual bond that parental feelings were to be respected, love-making forsworn.
But desire could not endure, already they had been claimed by Nan. ‘Honey’ she cried in her soft Southern drawl, throwing her arms round Jennie’s neck ‘Honey, it’s good to see you. I know it’s only a week, but it’s seemed like an age.’ ‘Darling Nan’ cried Jennie, and her embrace was almost that of a little girl, as she kicked her feet up behind her. ‘Darling Nan, this is Peter. Peter, this is Nan.’ The sunburnt, florid face, with its upturned, freckled nose turned to Peter, the blue eyes gazed steadily at him, then Nan broke into a broad, good-natured smile, the wide, loose mouth parting to reveal even, white teeth. She gave Peter’s hand a hearty shake ‘My! this is a good moment’ she said. ‘A very good moment.’ Then she turned again to Jennie, and holding her at arm’s length. ‘You look awfully pale, dear’ she said ‘I hate to think of you up there in those dreadful smoky streets, and it’s been so lovely here. We have the most beautiful autumns here, Peter.’ ‘They’re the same as autumns anywhere else, darling’ said Jennie. ‘That they’re not’ said Nan ‘Everything’s kind of special round here. You just wait till you see our trees, Peter, great splendid red and gold creatures. I better warn you I shan’t like you at all if you don’t fall in love with our countryside. But I know you will, you’re no townsman, not with those powerful shoulders. I like your Peter’ she said to Jennie. ‘There you are, darling, she likes you.’ ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, look at that’ cried Nan ‘Hamish hasn’t moved out of the car’ and she pointed at a tall, dark-haired young man whose legs seemed to fill the back of the grey car towards which they were advancing.
It gave Peter a shock to see Jennie’s eyes staring from a man’s face. He felt the moment had come to be positive. ‘Hullo, Hamish’ he said with what he hoped was a friendly smile, but the young man ignored him. ‘That’s a revolting dress’ he said to Jennie, in a mumble that came from behind his pipe. ‘Not so revolting as a green tie with a blue shirt’ said his sister. ‘Really, darling, you need me here to take your colour sense in hand.’ ‘Parkinson’s wife been took again, and it’s a mercy she come through, what with being her eighth and born with a hump like a camel’ said Hamish. ‘Never’ said Jennie ‘and her such a good woman. What be they callin’ “the littl’un?’” ‘They don’t give ’er no name’ said Hamish ‘for fear she be bewitched.’ ‘Appen it’ll be so’ said Jennie.
‘For heaven’s sake, you two’ said Nan ‘What will Peter think of you? Aren’t they the craziest pair? Look at poor Peter standing there wondering what sort of place he’s come to.’ Peter endeavoured to explain that he understood them to be imitating rustics, but Nan would not allow him to comprehend. ‘My dear, there’s no need to hide it from me. I know exactly what you’re thinking “What ever made me come down to this crazy place among these crazy people?” And so they are – the crazy Cockshotts. My dear’ she called to Jennie in the back of the car ‘it’s going to be the most terrible picnic, I’ve just not thought a thing about what to eat or what to drink, so Heaven knows what you’ll find, children.’ ‘Never mind, darling,’ called Jennie ‘the Lord will provide.’ ‘He’d better’ said Nan ‘or I’ll never go to that awful old church again.’
To Peter sitting in front with her it seemed that Nan never ceased speaking for the whole nine miles of their drive to the house. He could not help feeling that in her garrulity she was much like other American women, but he felt sure that he was missing some quality through his own obtuseness. He found it easy enough to answer her innumerable questions for a murmur of assent was all she required; her sudden changes, however, from talk about the village and rationing or praise of the countryside to a more intimate note confused him greatly. ‘I do hope you’re going to like us’ she said, fixing him with her honest blue eyes, to the great detriment of her driving ‘because I know we’re going to like you very, very much.’
As a background to Nan’s slow drawl he could hear a constant conversation in varying degrees of rustic accent, coming from the back of the car, sometimes giving place to giggles from Jennie and great guffaws from Hamish, sometimes to horseplay in which wrestling and hair-pulling were followed by shrieks of laughter. Only twice did the two conversations merge. ‘Jennie’ called Nan once ‘You never told me Peter was a beautiful young man. He’s beautiful.’ ‘Nan, Nan, don’t say it. You’ll make him conceited’ said Jennie. ‘I can’t help it’ said Nan ‘If I see anything beautiful, whether it’s trees or flowers or a lovely physique I just have to say so.’ ‘He’s certainly better than Jennie’s last young man’ said Hamish ‘the one with spavins and a cauliflower ear. Peter’s ears appear to be of the normal size.’ ‘We pride ourselves on our ears in my family’ said Peter, trying to join in the fun, but Hamish was intent on his own act. ‘Then there was the young dental mechanic, a charming fellow, indeed brilliant as dental mechanics go, but unfortunately he smelt. You don’t smell, do you?’ he called to Peter. ‘Don’t be rude, Hamish’ said Jennie, and Nan chimed in with ‘Now Hamish you’re just being horrible and coarse.’ ‘Ah, I forgot’ said Hamish ‘the susceptibilities of the great bourgeoisie, no reference must ever be made to the effects of the humours of the human body upon the olfactory nerves. Peter, I apologize.’
Luckily Peter was not called upon to reply, for Nan directed his attention to a Queen Anne house. ‘My! what a shame’ she said ‘the Piggotts are from home. I know you’d just adore the Piggotts. They’re the most wonderful, old English family. They’ve lived in that lovely old house for generations, but to meet them they’re the simplest folk imaginable. Why! old Sir Charles looks just like a dear old farmer …’ and she continued happily to discourse on the necessary interdependence of good breeding and simplicity, occasionally adding remarks to the effect that having roots deep in the countryside was what really mattered. Suddenly she paused and shouting over her shoulder to Jennie she called ‘My dear the most awful thing! I quite forgot to tell you we’ve all got to go to the Bogush-Smiths to tea.’ ‘Oh, Nan, no!’ cried Jennie ‘not the Bogus-S’s.’ ‘We always call them the Bogus-Smiths’ said Nan by way of explanation ‘they’re a terrible vulgar family that comes from Heaven knows where. They’ve got the most lovely old place, a darling old eighteenth-century dower house but they’ve just ruined it. They’ve made it all olde-worlde, of course they just haven’t got any taste. Don’t you agree, Peter, that vulgarity is the most dreadful of the Deadly Sins?’ Peter murmured assent. ‘I knew you would’ said Nan ‘I wish you could see Mrs Bogush-Smith gardening in all her rings. I just hate to see hands in a garden when they don’t really belong to the soil. The awful thing is, Jennie’ she added ‘that everything grows there. I suppose’ she ended with a sigh ‘people just have green fingers or they haven’t.’ ‘The Bogus-S’s have money’ said Hamish ‘and a sense of the power of money, that
’s what I like about them. If the people who really belong to the land are effete and weak and humane, then let those who have money and are prepared to use it ruthlessly take over. I can respect the Bogus-Smiths’ vulgarity, it’s strong. When I’m with them it’s gloves off. Mr Bogus-S. sweats his workmen and Mrs Bogus-S. her servants but they’ve got what they want. I like going there, it’s a clash of wills, my power against theirs.’ ‘Hamish is crazy on Power’ said Nan explaining again. ‘Very well, darling you shall go and Peter and Jennie can stay at home. The Brashers will be there.’ ‘Oh, hell’ said Hamish, and Jennie roaring with laughter began to chant.
‘In their own eyes the Brashers
Are all of them dashers
The Boys are all Mashers
And the girls are all smashers.’