Egg was taken aback. He did not know what to answer. Here was most flagrant sin rioting unchecked, and he, against his will, was being made almost a party to it. He grunted; and bent down to examine the tap of the cider barrel.
‘Ah,’ said William Smart. ‘And I dare say you think I’m a wicked old rascal, too, eh?’
Egg stood up and met a searching glance. ‘Wicked, yes. It’s wicked enough, there’s no gainsaying. But that’s between you and them and … well, and the Almighty, I spose, if it’s my opinion you’re asking.’ Profoundly embarrassed, and wishing he had said nothing, he went on hastily: ‘None of my affair anyhow. I’m not God, and don’t set up be. Now just you come and look here, Mr. Smart, at my cowshed.’
‘Cowshed? Why, what’s to do with the cowshed?’
‘You’ll see, you’ll see!’ As they crossed the yard to the cowshed Egg became excited with triumph, anticipating the day when he would enact this same scene with Nicky. For an instant, having his back to William Smart, he pretended that this was Nicky following him. ‘There, Mr Smart. What d’ye think of that?’
‘Well, well, well!’ Smart was impressed. ‘I shouldn’t know the place. Never seen it looking so clean before, and I’ve known the Ridge Farm, being a neighbour, for a matter of forty year.’
‘New concrete floor, y’see, with a trifle of slope on it,’ said Egg, anxious that no feature of the change should be overlooked. ‘You see that, Mr Smart?’
‘Indeed, I do, sir. Indeed I do. And a runnel for the muck. That’ll make all the difference, that runnel will.’
Egg’s heart warmed to the man. ‘Making everything shipshape, don’t you see,’ he confided, ‘against the boy’s coming home. Got this cowshed up my sleeve, as they say. A little surprise for him.’
Smart nodded. ‘Well …’ He hovered a moment; then nodded again, and was away, stamping back to his pony and cart. Egg lingered awhile, his eyes enjoying the sunlit yard and the many-gabled house, until he remembered that it was about time for the postman to come with the second delivery: unless, he said to himself as he hurried in, my watch has gone and got fast again. ‘Jane, where are you, my dear?’ She was not in the kitchen, and he was about to call again, but checked himself lest he should wake the cradled child, whose life, as yet, consisted of little beyond feeding and sleeping. She’ll be out at the front door watching for the postman, he thought, and, going to look for her there, he began preparing himself for the possibility, even the probability, of there not being a letter this afternoon. Most days he and Jane were disappointed, and were put to the trouble of pretending, each to the other, that they hadn’t expected anything. He tried now to discourage the silly hope in his breast, that tiresome fluttering bird; but, no matter what he said, the creature wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t be still, wouldn’t stop singing its lovely nonsense.
He found Jane in the road, receiving a letter from the hand of the postman. The impudent dog was staring at her rather curiously, Egg thought. What the devil does he mean by it! A fine girl she was, a fine hearty girl, and being a mother had enriched her charm. But she was Nicky’s wife, wasn’t she!—and not one to be stared at by this moony-eyed postman. She was Nicky’s wife, and Nicky’s father clicked the latch of the gate with angry emphasis.
‘Is there a letter, Jane?’ His tone was almost peremptory.
Even then, confound it, she didn’t instantly look round. She was saying something to that fellow. When she did turn she confronted her father-in-law with a strange face, a stubborn child’s face he thought it. She came to him with Nicky’s letter in her hand, took his arm, and contrived to smile.
‘Stared at you, that man did!’ said Egg.
‘What man?’ Her face seemed to close again; its habitual candour had vanished.
‘That postman, who else!’ Egg’s voice was sharp. ‘What’s he want to stare for!’
‘I didn’t notice,’ said Jane. She hadn’t yet opened her letter, though her eyes were fixed upon it. ‘Let’s go in and read what he says, Dad.’
They went through the kitchen together. Jane, tearing the envelope open, paused to examine the censor’s pencilled signature in the left-hand corner. Egg was impatient. What’s the matter with the wench, he asked indignantly. Don’t she want to read her letter! She drew the letter from its sheath and stared at the first page. Her face was wooden. Suddenly she pushed the letter towards him.
‘You read it first, Dad.’ Egg, nervously polishing the lenses of his spectacles, shot a quick surprised glance at her. ‘I must go to Eggie,’ said Jane. ‘He’s crying.’ She ran from the room.
Egg had heard no crying. He was mystified and suspicious. But here was Nicky’s letter for him to read, and his fingers trembled as they approached it. It would be a family letter, with a little private one, doubly folded, for Jane alone. How unlike Jane to be so cool about a letter from France. That absurd hope still fluttered in his breast: perhaps this was to say that the boy would soon be back home, on a ten days’ leave, or even, perhaps, that the end was in sight. But no, it was the usual letter, saying nothing much, bits of Nickyish fun here and there but on the whole rather mechanical in its cheerfulness. A disappointment, as letters always were. Egg had been disappointed in this way so many times before, but he had not yet mastered his lesson, he had not yet learned to save himself pain by abandoning hope. He left the letter lying on the kitchen table, and turned away feeling empty and defeated. He had eaten his cake, every crumb of it, and was still hungry. There was nothing to do but go on waiting.
2
But indeed there was much to do, and next morning he and his men were busy in the orchard filling their baskets with Camleys, a small dark-green apple much grown in South Mershire and very plentiful this year. It was a private point of honour with Egg to do his share—rather more than his share—of stripping the taller trees, because the having to climb the ladder, stood as it often must be against a swaying branch, challenged his courage; he dreaded the ordeal, and for that very reason would not shirk it; he had been nimble enough at this work in his boyhood, and he was resolved to prove to himself, against all reason and despite all appearances, that he was as young as he used to be. This morning the world was fresh to his sight and fragrant to his nostrils; standing on his ladder in the heart of an apple tree, with the laden boughs enclosing him and the ground a green patch dizzily far below, he half-believed himself a boy again. Leaning dangerously this way and that, towards such fruit as hung beyond easy reach, he worked on until the basket was so heavy that the forearm from which it hung throbbed with pain, and the shoulder ached and the hand longed to loosen its clutch on the ladder. Before beginning the hazardous downward journey, he must pause, nevertheless, to taste once more that queer vision of a bright sky trickling through the gaps in the green roof; and when he was safely back on the ground he looked about him with wondering eyes, seeing the orchard saturated with his own history. It was not that he recalled in this moment the incidents of that history; faces from the past did not throng into his vision, nor voices long silenced sound in his ears; it was rather a quality that he perceived, the distilled essence of a vanished yet real and existing time; he felt the orchard as personal to him, one with him, part of his intimate life. The feeling came and went like a breath, and then he was thinking how they must look sharp about getting the wheat sown. Next week’ll be soon enough. I must give Roger a hand wi’ the roots again; he’s not as quick as he was this time twelvemonth, and he was never what you’d call quick.
Next day, after breakfast, at which ceremony Jane excused herself from appearing (what ails that girl? he thought; there’s something mighty queer about this!), Egg made ready to drive into Keyborough with a load of fruit for the market; for some of the more enterprising local people, Nicky among them, had started a Poultry and Fruit Market that was held every fortnight at a place very handy for Keyborough Station. The packed boxes were heavier, it seemed to Egg, than they had been last year, and Beechy, who helped him with the loading, was even more stupid
than usual. Egg began to fume and fret in the privacy of his mind, being still, by lifelong habit, too gentle to give verbal vent to his impatience. We shall be late, that’s what we shall be, I know we shall. And the more he worried the more his back ached, and the less able was he to cope with the complication of difficulties which this once simple-seeming task confronted him with. ‘Come along, Beechy. Look alive, my boy.’ Beechy, grinning and blushing, fumbled with the harness; his master, in a state of controlled frenzy, snatched the belly-strap from him and after two abortive attempts succeeded in fastening it. ‘ That’ll do. You be off now and help Roger with those roots, boy.’
The last straw was added to his burden of exasperation by Jane, who suddenly darted out of the house to intercept him. ‘Must you go to market this morning?’
He stared at her crossly. ‘Must I go to market! What d’ye mean, child?’ There was a plot against him. She thought him too old for his work, too old to manage his son’s farm: the suspicion was gall to him. ‘What else should I be doing, pray?’
‘I wish,’ said Jane—she was red-eyed, she’s been crying thought Egg, but her face wore now a mulish look—‘I wish you’d let me take the fruit in this morning. You didn’t ought to do so much.’
‘So that’s it!’ He thought his guess confirmed. ‘Well, let me tell you, m’dear, I can manage well enough yet a bit. Not many could at my age perhaps, but I can. See?’ In spite of his annoyance he smiled at her kindly. I’m a difficult old fellow to lead, that’s what she’s thinking, bless her little heart! And so I am, and so I will be. ‘You run along in like a good girl,’ he added, seeing she made no movement to go, ‘and cook me a nice dinner against I get back.’
Still Jane did not move. ‘Let me come with you then.’
‘Why?’ He began losing patience again. ‘What’s come over you?’
‘I want to come,’ said Jane stubbornly, ‘ that’s why.’
He eyed her pale face intently. ‘You’re not ill, are you, my dear?’
‘I’m not feeling so well. I don’t want to be left alone. There!’ she said eagerly, ‘now you’ve got it, Dad. So just wait while I get my coat on.’
Egg did not quite believe this story of not feeling well, though her appearance was consistent with it. He felt that she was hiding something, ‘And who’s to see after the little’un, tell me that.’ Ah, he thought, that’ll have cornered her.
‘Mary’s here. Mary Curtis. She’ll be staying with him an hour or two till I’m back. She came and offered.’
‘Mary Curtis here! First I’ve heard of it,’ complained Egg. ‘Seems you’ve made y’r plans, my girl.’
‘And I can be back in time to feed him when he wants me,’ she quickly added.
‘Oh, very well…’ Egg grumbled acquiescence, still peevish to think that he was being managed; but during the drive to Keyborough, a matter of fifteen to twenty minutes, he forgot his grievance and was free to notice with more solicitude how silent and listless she was. Still, women were like that sometimes, poor things, and I dare say, he said, there’s no call to worry. ‘Got a headache have you Jane?’
She brightened at once, but with a brightness that seemed not quite natural. ‘Oh nothing much! I had a letter from Mother this morning. Did I tell you?’
‘Indeed you did not.’ He wondered why she had not told him of this; for any letter was an event, something to talk about and share.
‘Yes, and what do you think! She’s expecting a baby, Mother is.’
‘A baby. Where from?’ Engaged with his problem Egg answered absent-mindedly. He knew, as everyone did, that twelve months ago Mrs Marsh had consoled herself for the loss of Jane by marrying George Withers, an old admirer; but the meaning of Jane’s news did not immediately penetrate his anxious reverie.
‘Where from? What a question!’ Jane smiled, though wanly. ‘Her own, I mean. She’s going to have a baby. Just fancy!’
‘God bless my soul!’ Egg laughed to himself. ‘Lemme see, how old would y’r mother be now?’
’ She’s just forty-five, according to my reckoning. What a surprise for everyone!’
‘Forty-five, eh? Well, Nicky’s mother was forty-nine turned, I remember, and a bit more, when Nicky was born. Some folks say old parents have poor children, but Nicky wasn’t so poor.’ He smiled at a memory. ‘When he was little I sometimes used to bath him. A sturdy child he was, although they pretended he was delicate. Stuff and nonsense. … No, I wouldn’t a called Nickey a poor child. And I wouldn’t call ’im poor now. Whadda you say, Jane, eh?’
Jane did not seem to have heard the question, for she had turned her back on him and was burrowing mysteriously among the cargo of apples. Disappointed to find her not responding to his sentiment, he said no more. He did not even ask Jane why she sat so silent, her face half-averted from him; for he was becoming impatient of the mystery. She’s not enjoying the trip: why did she come? He remembered that postman and the way he had looked at her—almost a loving look, you could a called it, and there she was, with Nicky’s letter in her hand, and dint seem to care whether she read it or not. Not a very cheering letter, he reflected, no more talk of leave in it, but nothing to be so put out about. I give it up; they beat me, women do. Ah, there’s Allchurch. ‘Morning, Mr Allchurch! Fine morning!’ He turned his horse’s head into the market square, glad to see that he was arrived in good time after all.
‘Morning, Mr Duke!’
‘Morning, Mr Pandervil!’
Duke seemed surprised to see him. So had Allchurch, now he came to think of it. What was the matter with them?
‘Jane, did you see how those two stared?’
‘Did they?’ asked Jane. ‘I don’t think they did. Just your fancy, I expect.’
‘I tell you they stared,’ insisted Egg, petulantly. ‘I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? Take a look at me, Jane. Is there anything wrong wi’ the look of me?’ He fingered his collar and tie, and, finding nothing wrong there, jumped out of the cart and called to one of the market porters to come and unload for him. At the sound of his voice a group of men standing near stopped talking and looked up at him. On their faces he read the same baffling story. He returned their stare angrily, and they instantly looked away, looked uncomfortably away. Feeling more selfconscious than he had felt since boyhood, he strolled round the market, nodding to this man and speaking to that and discussing prices with a third; and he was nettled to find Jane always at his elbow, a preposterous Jane, a talkative Jane, altogether too eager to chip in, and sometimes pulling at his sleeve and whispering some nonsense about his catching cold if they stood too long chattering. Trying to make an invalid of him! And he had never, he swore, felt better in his life, except for these pains that beat in him, with the beating of his heart, whenever he dared to imagine Nicky’s return.
3
Jane’s silences, by making him feel shut out of her confidence, forced Egg to indulge these fond imaginings more freely than was his habit. During the next few days he was for ever starting conversations that would lead to Nicky if carried far enough, and Jane acquired quite a knack of cutting them short without apparent violence. But it can’t go on, she said, I can’t go on; and on the eve of the next market, which was Mercester market, sooner than endure another public ordeal she resolved to make an end of this silence between them that was now, like a dividing sword, so sharp and glittering a thing. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lit. Nicky’s child was asleep upstairs; Jane and Egg sat warming themselves by the kitchen fire.
‘I wonder what the boy’s doing now,’ said Egg, more than half to himself.
Jane rose from her chair. ‘I must tell you something, Dad. I thought to keep it back.’ Her voice was cold; he could see that she trembled. She came and stood close by his chair, put a hand on his shoulder, and kissed his forehead.
‘Well, my dear?’ He patted her hand.
She spoke again, but in a different voice. ‘We’ll need to be brave, darling. It’s Nicky, he … he won’t be coming home to us.’ She lea
ned nearer to him, pillowing the aged head on her bosom. Maternal, she was old as the earth, and he, bewildered, a child in her arms. ‘I had the message Monday. Four days and nights I’ve had it.’
He was restive in the embrace. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arms’ length, gazing strangely into her face. ‘What d’you mean?’ His voice rose. ‘ Say it again. Something about Nicky coming home.’
She faced him, and was firm. ‘He’s not coming home. They’ve killed him.’
He stared stupidly. ‘Not Nicky. Not killed. There’s some mistake.’
‘Here’s the letter,’ said Jane.
A white shape fluttered under his eyes. He pushed it away.
‘Not Nicky!’ he insisted.
He could not bear this truth; with all his being he rejected it. The walls of the kitchen were misty; they crumbled, they grew dark, and he felt himself falling into a great pit. He was walking down a long grey tunnel, and he could hear the pad pad of pursuing feet, but from which direction they came, whether overtaking or meeting him, he could not decide, and while he stood with cowering head expecting something to leap on him the tunnel became a shaft going straight down into the heart of the earth, but if I can only get low enough, he thought, if I only run fast enough down the hole I shall get to Australia or somewhere and make a fresh start with the grocery, if only I run fast enough, but he was now in a bottle, packed tight and corked in, and a huge hand lifted the bottle up and an enormous eye stared at him, like a big goldfish, he muttered, and wondered whether the thing with the eye could hear him and wondered how soon the hand would draw the cork and drink him out of the bottle, and at once a large mouth came into view and the cork began squeaking, there was an explosion, he felt himself foaming out of the bottle’s neck and crawling over a large pink finger of which the pores were as big as rabbit-holes, and if I fall into one of ’em, help! help!—but it was already too late, he had fallen, he was falling still, into a great pit, and now he was in a long grey tunnel that bored through the earth, he thought, and if only I can run fast enough and get to the other side and make a new start in life, with firelighters so cheap and all the customers satisfied, if only I can get out of this bottle … A voice came, gentle and soothing. ‘Just a drop more! I’ve got you safe.’
The Pandervils Page 39