“Oh, that’s Treasure Island, isn’t it?” said Sylvia. “I saw a film of it.”
If David had not been above Sylvia on the ladder-stair, he would have made some charming excuse and taken her out of the Temple and killed her. But he was already battling with the trap-door, stiff from long disuse, while dust and flakes of plaster from the ceiling rained down on them both. The trap-door suddenly burst open, one half falling back against the wall of the upper room, the other getting unmoored from its rusty hinges and falling on the floor with a bang that made the plaster fly more than ever and roused an enormous, panic-stricken gang of spiders and daddy-longlegses to mass hysteria.
“It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” said Sylvia, emerging from the opening.
Indeed, it was not a place to choose for a fine afternoon, but to David it still meant romance. The writings and the very bad pictures on the walls were the work of himself and his brothers and Agnes. A line from a French sonnet still visible in pencil reminded him of the summer those French people had taken the vicarage, the year Martin was seventeen. Lord! how long ago. Agnes’s children had played there before the war, but since that time the Temple had been deserted, its plaster flaking, its stone crumbling, its woodwork rotting. There were some ominous cracks in the walls and David determined to ask Martin to have them looked at. The Temple must not fall into disrepair before the next generation could play in it; though where the next generation was coming from, no one could say.
“I don’t mean awful, exactly,” said Sylvia. “I mean it’s a bit lonely. I mean it feels lonely. At least I mean it would feel lonely if it was a person.”
David looked at Sylvia with a respect which had hitherto been lacking in his relation with her, though always the gentleman. The girl was coming out. Not only was she an admirable creature to the eye, but she appeared to have some finer shades of thought of which he had not guessed her to be capable.
“There ought to be five or six children here at least,” said Sylvia in a very determined voice, as of one who was going to do something about it at once.
“Quite right, love,” said David. “Let’s off to town and purchase some.”
The allusion evidently meant nothing to Sylvia, but all the same David was interested. They went down the ladder backwards, cautiously, and crawled out of the window. David then gave the boards a few bangs so that they were more or less firmly fixed over the gap.
Sylvia was standing outside the Temple on the hot stone pavement, shading her eyes with one hand as she looked over the land. David came and stood beside her, silent, under the spell of a nostalgia for lost childhood, a nostalgia that Sylvia’s words had roused. His height was almost matched by the tall Sylvia. She turned her head and their eyes were almost on a level. Their hands touched, lingered together.
“Sylvia,” said David.
He had not in the least meant to say it, and certainly not in that particular voice, and was excessively annoyed with his nostalgic self for its behaviour.
“David,” said Sylvia.
And as she had nothing else to say and was too comfortably warm and lazy to bother to think of anything, they remained rather ridiculously hand in hand upon the idle hill of summer, speechless.
“Yes, five or six children certainly,” said Sylvia after a pause. “Or perhaps ten.”
“Ten is a large number,” said David, “but you shall have as many as you like.”
As Sylvia made no comment, he assumed that her ambitions were satisfied. He then rather wished that his golden beauty would let go of his hand, for his fatal boredom was rapidly gaining upon him. But the golden beauty appeared to have no such idea and chivalry forbade him to withdraw his hand if she wished to hold it. It was all rather embarrassing and a distinct nuisance.
Meanwhile Martin had been walking, not too fast, for the day was hot and his leg reminded him of its existence more than he liked, up the hill under the beechwood cover. As he came blinking from the green gloom into the hot July sun, he saw his Uncle David holding Sylvia’s hand and heard them discussing how many children they were going to have. It was no business of his and he was furious with himself for his involuntary eavesdropping. There was nothing for it but to kick some loose pieces of stone as noisily as possible and speak to them; of course in a very natural way.
“David,” he called across the clearing. “Are you going to play squash? They are waiting for you and Sylvia.”
The hands so lately clasped came undone without any effort on their respective owners’ part and apparently with no consciousness of anything unusual having occurred.
“I say, Martin,” said David. “Just one moment. There are some nasty cracks in the upper room. I think you ought to have the Temple looked at. On the east side.”
Martin moved round to the east.
“There’s a crack outside too,” he said. “Some of the lead clamps have fallen out. It’s the place where the boughs of the big beech hit it in that storm when the barn was struck when I was a boy. I’ll get a man onto it to-morrow.”
“It’s all rather in a mess,” said David. “I took Sylvia inside and the ladder is rickety and the trap-door is broken. All rather sad.”
“There are a lot of sad things at Rushwater,” said Martin, thinking of the many improvements and repairs that an estate needed and the difficulties in getting men and material, not to speak of the money. But among the sad things he did not include the sight of two people hand-in-hand before the Temple, for it was a thing he should not honourably have seen and must forget.
“And one is that blasted leg of yours,” said David. “Why on earth did you come sweltering up the hill, Martin? Why didn’t you send one of the boys? Come on, Sylvia. We’ll keep the others waiting.”
But he would not let Martin hurry his pace down the hill and Martin was vaguely grateful, though his gratitude felt to him as if it came from a great distance and was tired. If he did not talk much to Sylvia it was not because he felt unfriendly to her; he only felt lost and wished the day were well over.
By the time they got to the racquet court Anne had, by dint of screaming from various attic windows, collected George Halliday and Leslie major. Leslie minor had elected to stay on the roof and see if he could climb the hideous little pointed turret with a weathercock on it. As the turret stood on a flat leaded roof with a parapet, he could do himself no harm unless he fell off and broke his legs, said Anne, which cold comfort seemed to satisfy his host.
The vicar and Sylvia were already hard at it, with George and Leslie major waiting their turn and Martin acting as audience-umpire, rather glad to rest his leg.
“We were going to see the church, weren’t we,” said David to Anne, as they walked back to the terrace.
Anne wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to go and see the church. It would be very peaceful to sit and talk to Robin. But as they got nearer the terrace she saw that Robin was talking to Rose Bingham, just as if he had known her all his life and apparently amusing her.
“I’m taking Anne to the church,” said David, as they passed the talkers.
“I’ll come too, uncle David,” said Clarissa, who was resenting with all the unreasonableness of an advanced young lady in her teens the fact that her cousin Rose was finding entertainment in a grown-up man’s talk; a schoolmaster too, with a wooden leg, said Clarissa scornfully to herself. And she got up and followed the church-going party.
Anne, who had almost decided to stay with Rose Bingham and Robin, suddenly felt aggrieved that Clarissa was disturbing her and David’s private visit to the church, a visit which a moment ago she had thought of escaping. Clarissa slipped her hand affectionately yet mockingly into her uncle’s coat pocket and so walked beside him, chattering about Paris and Rose’s flat where she was to go on a visit when things were better. Names of people unknown to Anne floated into the conversation and for the thousandth time the grown-up Anne Fielding suddenly found herself a shy schoolgirl again, and all because of a girl fully four years younger than herself. Stil
l, Clarissa was David’s niece, and the world Clarissa and David belonged to was not Anne’s world; a fact to be recognised and accepted by Miss Bunting’s ex-pupil.
Presently Clarissa withdrew her hand from David’s pocket and they turned their steps to old Mr. Leslie’s grave where the sweetbriar was showering its perfume on the warm air. Anne crushed a leaf between her fingers and breathed the sweet scent. Clarissa did the same. David plucked and gave a little sprig to each of his companions.
“How sweet of you, uncle David,” said Clarissa in her charming society voice. “It is too delicious. I shall put it in your buttonhole.”
Reaching upwards a little, she put her sweetbriar in her uncle’s buttonhole, arranging it with elegant fingers. David accepted the attention gracefully, but had to admit that his niece Clarissa had beaten him at his own game. Was she giving him the sprig as a token of affection from a dutiful niece, or was it her way of showing him that his gift was worthless; or, even more mortifying, to show him that she knew that he knew that both gifts were a mere piece of idle showing off?
“Your hands are as charming as ever, Clarissa,” he said, as she finished her arranging and stood back to look at it.
Anne was not comfortable. She felt a mocking antagonism between uncle and niece but could not explain it. She turned aside and without thinking of what she was doing began tracing the letters on an old flat-topped family grave, a kind of stone chest on four bulbous stone legs, sagging towards one corner where the ground had given way.
“I am a fool; also a blindworm,” said David’s voice conversationally at Anne’s elbow. “Do you know, I had never properly noticed your hands.”
Anne looked up, startled.
“They are quite exquisite,” said David, taking one of them and holding it lightly while he looked at it. “I adore fingers that are so elegant and turn up at the ends and have almond nails. I cannot at the moment think what flowers they are like, but certainly a flower. Perhaps one of those slim tulips that turn outwards. You and Clarissa shall have first and second prize for hands.”
Without the least suspicion of pressing or wishing to retain her hand he laid it on the tombstone again.
“And now we will go and see Bunny’s memorial,” he said, “and then, I think, tea.”
Anne had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. To have her hand taken by David and admired ought to have filled her with indescribable rapture, instead of which she felt as if the David who was Miss Bunting’s favourite pupil had suddenly vanished, or had never existed. David was still David, but Anne was woman enough to know, though she could not have put it into words and would have been ashamed to utter them if she could, that David was using her as a pawn in the game of pinpricks that he was playing, and very unkindly playing, with his niece Clarissa. Clarissa, whom she was more than willing to like, would now dislike and despise her; and though Clarissa was four years younger than she was, she was also a much older creature; older, Anne thought in a quick confused way, because the Leslies had so long a tradition behind them and had an understanding of life as part of their birthright. David understood life, so did Lady Graham in a different sort of way; so did all Leslies, down to Leslie minor who having decided that to climb a hideous little pointed turret was the most important thing in the world, was quietly devoting a hot Sunday afternoon to this uninteresting employment. Anne Fielding did not understand life and never would, but she did understand good manners and the duties of a guest, so she accompanied David and a scornful Clarissa into the church, where lived the little tablet which kept Miss Bunting’s name alive. David, suddenly bored with young girls, went and played the organ to himself, while Clarissa, seeing flowers in a state of languor on the altar, went to the vestry, collected a long-spouted watering-can, filled it at the vestry tap and replenished the vases.
Seldom had Anne been more perplexed. The happy Sunday to which she had looked forward with such excitement had turned to dust and ashes. David—though evermore David—could be unkind, more than unkind. He had hurt Clarissa, he had made Clarissa dislike Anne. How could one ever be happy again after such a searing experience? She wondered in a respectful way if one could pray about it as one happened to be in a church, but came sadly to the conclusion that she didn’t know what she wanted to pray for, except to go back to a quarter of an hour ago and none of the things to happen that had happened. And if the vicar did chance to come in and find anyone praying in his church, he might think it presumptuous. Sad, bewildered, a little afraid, all Anne could find to say was, “Oh, Miss Bunting,” and wait to see what happened. Nothing happened. David’s music flowed on. Anne tiptoed down the aisle and out into the sunshine where Clarissa was making daisy chains with her neat elegant hands.
“Uncle David will go on like that for ages,” said Clarissa. “Let’s go back.”
Her voice was again a society voice, but Anne felt that she was less like an elegant savage animal showing teeth and claws, and was relieved.
“I went to look at Miss Bunting’s monument,” said Anne, making conversation according to the old governess’s precept.
“I wish old Bunny were alive,” said Clarissa in a tone of savage intensity, which however did not seem to be directed against Anne.
“So do I,” said Anne.
“Why do you want her alive?” asked Clarissa lightly.
Anne wondered idly why Clarissa asked and thought that whatever she said would probably be wrong, but that the truth was perhaps the safest, so she said, “Because she always knew what to do. She was my governess for a year before she died.”
“How stupid I am,” said Clarissa, still in her society voice but with much more kindness. “Mummy did say something about Bunny being with you, but as I didn’t know you then I didn’t think about it. Good old Bunny. We all adored her.”
Encouraged by this Anne ventured to say, “Please, why do you want her to be alive too?”
“Because she was the only person that didn’t spoil uncle David,” said Clarissa. “Of course we all adore him, but he is too frightfully selfish. Gran and mummy don’t see it of course, poor darlings, but I do and so does Rose. I wish Bunny had been here just now and she’d have scolded him till he was ashamed. At least I don’t believe anyone could make uncle David ashamed, but anyway she’d have made him behave. Stupid showing-off at his age.”
At this blasphemy Anne expected the heavens to fall, but having other things to do, they didn’t. And after a moment’s silence, which felt to her like years, she came to the conclusion that Clarissa was right. David was David: but Miss Bunting would not have approved his conduct that day, and Miss Bunting could not err.
“I like your friend Robin Dale,” said Clarissa, evidently considering that the subject of David was disposed of and that she and Anne were leagued in confidence. “And the boys say he is a very good sort,” which pleased Anne very much. “I wish I were a boy.”
Anne asked why.
“Not really,” said Clarissa, “because they take so long to grow up. But then I could do what I wanted.”
Anne asked what that was.
“Engineering draughtsmanship,” said Clarissa. “I mean to make daddy send me to a proper boarding school for two years and I’ll get a scholarship to Cambridge. And in the holidays I want to go into a real works and learn things. Gran and Mummy will think it’s too ghastly but Merry thinks I had better try to have my own way because everyone will have to do a job probably. I wish I knew anyone in a works.”
“I do know someone who has a works,” said Anne, “but I don’t think you’d exactly like him perhaps.”
“Do you really?” said Clarissa, as much impressed by Anne’s acquaintance with the engineering trade as Anne was by Clarissa’s precocious bright ease of manner.
“He is called Mr. Adams,” said Anne. “I know his daughter too, at least I haven’t seen her for some time, but she is awfully clever at mathematics and got a scholarship.”
“You know Mr. Adams?” said Clarissa, stopping dead. “
At Hogglestock?”
“They were near us at Hallbury one summer,” said Anne, “and he is standing against daddy for Barchester.”
“Oh, bother politics,” said Clarissa. “Look here, Anne, can you get me introduced to him?”
Anne, now feeling quite grown-up again and fully conscious of her four years’ seniority, said she must ask mummy and anyway Clarissa couldn’t go into a works yet, but she would promise faithfully to do all she could for her when the time came.
“Thanks terrifically,” said Clarissa. “I say, don’t take any notice if I fight uncle David a bit. I’m really awfully fond of him, but he needs taking down. I’ve been talking to Rose about it and she quite agrees it’s time he came to heel. She’s going to do something about it. She’s terrifically clever and nice.”
CHAPTER 9
ROBIN and Rose had remained peacefully on the terrace, finding each other rather amusing, till Martin came across the lawn and asked Robin if he would mind umpiring for George Halliday and Leslie major.
“The vicar just beat Sylvia, but only just,” he said. “So he is going to show her his plans for the new central heating in the church as a consolation prize.”
Robin went off to the squash court and Martin sat down by Rose and said nothing.
“What’s wrong?” said Rose, lighting another cigarette.
“Why?” said Martin.
“You look rotten,” said Rose. “Is your leg bad?”
“Oh, damn my leg,” said Martin.
“Thanks,” said Rose. “And now you can tell me what it is.”
The vicar and Sylvia walked slowly across the lawn in the direction of the church, waved their hands, and disappeared behind some shrubs. Martin, having answered their signal, slumped down into his chair looking so old and haggard for one so young that his cousin Rose, who was very fond of him in her own way, felt almost disturbed.
“I expect I’m only stupid,” said Martin.
“You are. Terrifically stupid,” said Rose, without raising her husky low voice or showing any signs of emotion. “Now, what is it? Come on and take your fences. Is it money?”
Peace Breaks Out Page 26