Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Noah felt ready to drop. In a panic he uttered a loud hoarse yell. “Help! Help!”

  He heard steps, first on the gravel, then on the grass. He looked up, in mingled relief and chagrin, into the face of Renny Whiteoak. He had rather have been rescued by anyone else.

  “Huh,” he grunted, with a truculent look upward, as though he would deny his predicament.

  “what’s the matter?” demanded Renny.

  “I’ve dug this here grave too deep. There ain’t no call fer any grave to be this deep. I can’t get out.”

  “The digging’s too hard for you. You should have let Elmer do it.”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” Noah stretched his mouth in a malevolent grin. “I’ll dig many a grave yet.”

  “why, you were retired at our last churchwardens’ meeting.”

  “I still dig for them as is over ninety. And I’d like to see anyone stop me!”

  “My God,” exclaimed Renny, “I’ve a mind to leave you down there.”

  “Then what’ll you do with your uncle? There ain’t room fer two?” Noah’s grin became jocular.

  Renny frowned. “Come now,” he said, grasping Noah’s arms, “out with you!”

  Profoundly relieved, Noah sprawled a moment on the grass, then gathered up his spade and earth-stained coat. Without a thank you he clumped down the steep path to the gate and along the roadside toward home. All the way there he grumbled over his ill-luck in being forced to call for help from a grave. Such a thing had never happened to him before.

  By an odd coincidence the black coat which he wore to the funeral was an old one given to him by Ernest Whiteoak. He greatly fancied himself in it and, when he had washed, eaten, and donned it, he had a good look at himself in the little looking glass in his kitchen. The weather was turning hot again. His coat was tight. He was as thankful as it was possible for him to be when he got a lift right from his own door to the church. He felt quite fresh as he climbed the steps. He took off his black hat and laid it on a bench in the vestibule. In there it was quiet and cool. He examined the bell rope with great exactness, as though he feared it might not be strong enough to withstand the fervour of his pulling. High up in the steeple he could see the brazen bell hanging in slumber, waiting for his summons to toll.

  The relations between Noah Binns and this bell were peculiar. He looked on it as having a proud, aloof, and stubborn nature which only he could control. He could, as he thought, make it talk, be jubilant, or strike its iron bosom in mourning. There was no doubt that the bell, on its part, was moody. For several years it had had a tendency to ring a flat and toneless note for a wedding and a cheerful flippant one for early Communion or a funeral. As Noah gazed up into the dimness where it hung he wore a look of grim command. As he dropped the bell rope from his hand a quiver ran along it, up to the brooding bell.

  “Ninety-five strokes I’ll give the old gentleman. Ninety-five — if it kills me — one hundred and one I gave his old mother and had lumbago fer a week. Thirty-one to his nephew Eden. And so it goes — right back to a single ding fer a baby. A good thing it was that not all of them lived. There’s a danged sight too many of ’em.”

  He straightened himself, spat on both palms, and grasped the rope. He pulled hard but, though the bell rocked in its high place, only a toneless grunt came from it. Noah bared his tooth in anger, put all the strength in him on to the rope. “Come now, get goin’, you rascal. Get goin’.”

  He must have pulled too hard, for the bell now walloped in the steeple, its tongue, as though in its cheek, defying him. But, at last, he was able to bring forth the slow sonorous notes of the tolling, each one dying away over the summer fields before the next one struck. Noah counted them aloud, though his voice was inaudible, even to himself. So slow was the tolling that small birds, affrighted by a note, would fly from the roof of the church, circle, and alight again before the next one struck.

  Young Chalk appeared in the vestibule, dressed in his Sunday clothes. “How’re you getting on?” he shouted.

  “Fine.”

  “Shall I take ahold too?”

  “Shut up. Ye’re makin’ me lose count.”

  Chalk stepped into the church. It was peaceful and cool in there but the air coming in at the windows was hot.

  Before half the number of strokes had been counted, people began to appear, pass through the door and take seats quietly in the body of the church. Quite a number were already gathered when the hearse and the cars bearing the mourners appeared. Renny, Piers, Finch, and Nooky shouldered the coffin and carried it up the steep path. Slowly they approached the church, the bell knelling their progress.

  In the vestibule, Renny turned his head to look at Noah who, straining on the bell-rope, increased the velocity of the strokes, in an exhausting attempt to achieve the ninety-fifth. His jaw dropped in dismay at Renny’s peremptory nod to desist. A final clang broke from the bell as the procession entered the church.

  It passed the font which had been built for Ernest’s christening. Almost a century ago his weak infant body had lain in the arms of the Rector while water was sprinkled upon his face, he having already, through his godparents, renounced the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and the carnal lusts of the flesh. Now, meekly he lay in his coffin before the chancel steps.

  Mr. Fennel looked old and fragile, but his voice rang out clear and strong, saying:

  “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!’”

  Nicholas had walked very slowly along the aisle, leaning on the strong arm of Piers’ son Philip. He had let himself down into the pew cautiously, then rested his grey head on his hand, the light touching the heavy signet ring which he always wore. Alayne, sitting beside him, laid her hand on his arm, and, after a little, he took her hand in his.

  Ernest lay, among his flowers, unable to hear the words that were spoken, or to smell the summer scents that filled the air. His favourite hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light,” did not penetrate his fastness. By ones and twos the people came forward to look in his face. Nicholas had taken his last look before they had left the house but now he strained upward in his seat to glimpse his brother’s profile once again.

  The pallbearers raised the heavy coffin and the service proceeded by the grave.

  Scarcely had the last of the congregation left the churchyard when young Chalk threw off his jacket and began to fill in the unsightly cavity with earth. As that mound diminished so the grave was filled, the grave was made and well shaped, it was covered by flowers. Chalk was joined by Noah Binns and the two looked down admiringly at their work.

  XXVII

  IN THE KITCHEN ONCE MORE

  The summer was over and had been, as Noah Binns prophesied, a hot one. Now the ground was dry and the grass harsh for lack of moisture. The pasture was so poor that cattle must be given a deal of extra feed to supplement it. The kernels of the grain were small, the apples were smaller than usual, but, on the whole, crops were good and because of the warmth and sunshine the young creatures of the farm flourished. Wright, having tea in the kitchen with the Wragges, was well pleased by the growth of the foals which had been produced that year.

  “I’ve never seen a likelier bunch than the four of them,” he said. “It’ll be a surprise to me if the boss don’t get the highest prices for them.”

  “They sure look promising,” said Mrs. Wragge.

  His cup half-way to his mouth, he stared at her in surprise.

  “You been over to see them?” he asked.

  “why not? I can walk, can’t I?”

  “Well, you don’t often leave the house.”

  “Miss Adeline dragged her over,” put in Wragge, “or she’d never ’ave went.”

  “I wish I’d been there,” said Wright. “I’d like to have shown you about. Did you see our lovely two-year-old?”

  “Sure.”

&
nbsp; “She’s to be trained for the King’s Plate.”

  “That’s the way the money goes.”

  “Nothing venture — nothing win.”

  Mrs. Wragge looked skeptical. “If the boss wants to breed show horses, let him,” she said. “If he wants to breed high jumpers, it’s O.K. by me. But — racehorses — never! That’s for men of means.”

  “D’you mean to say,” demanded Wright, “that you wouldn’t call him a man of means?”

  “Not the way money’s counted nowadays.”

  “Look at the hired help he keeps!”

  “Yes. Look at us. That’s what I say to my husband. We could get higher wages elsewhere. So could you.”

  “I’m satisfied,” said Wright staunchly.

  Wragge spoke, as from a high intellectual level. “We are creatures of ’abit,” he declared. “My wife wouldn’t know what to do with herself in a modern kitchen. Could I get along without the inconveniences I’m used to? No. ’Abit is everything.” He winked at Wright. “Wot should I do if I found myself in possession of a slim wife? Nothing. I’d be dumbfounded.”

  The cook laughed across her double chin. “And serve you right,” she said.

  A knock came on the outer door. At the same moment it opened and the gargoyle head of Noah Binns appeared. Hospitable Mrs. Wragge called out to him to enter, which he did, clumping down the steps with ostentatious effort.

  “Stairs — stairs — everywhere,” he grumbled. “They say there’s golden stairs leadin’ up to Heaven. Why don’t they have an escalator that’d take a feller up without no trouble?” He dropped creaking into the nearest chair.

  “That’s the way they go to the other place,” said Rags. “Smooth and slippery. You just sit down on the seat of your pants and you’re there.”

  “That’s supposed to be wit,” Mrs. Wragge remarked to Wright. She poured a cup of tea for Noah. “This is the first time I’ve saw you since the funeral,” she said.

  Reaching for a slice of thick bread and butter he answered, — “I ain’t the man I was. Forty-nine times I tugged on that rope and every time the bell acted contrary, like it had spite in it.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Wragge.

  “I was just gettin’ the best of it when Colonel Whiteoak ordered me to quit. My, what an unchristian look that man can give!”

  “I don’t want to hear anything against him,” put in Wright.

  Ignoring the interruption, Noah went on, — “So I quit, though I had it in me to toll the full number of his years.”

  “It’d probably ’ve killed you,” said the cook. “Have some more tea.”

  He pushed his cup across the table to her and cast a lustful eye on her rich curves.

  “Not me,” he said, reaching for cake. “I get terrible tired but I eat wheat germ and raw carrot and I’m ready fer the next funeral.”

  “Raw carrot, with one tooth!” exclaimed Rags.

  “I thought you’d retired,” said Wright.

  “I have — except for folk over ninety.”

  Mrs. Wragge patted her hair and swept some crumbs off the table with the flat of her hand. “I’ve asked Mr. Raikes to drop in,” she said.

  Her husband frowned. “I’d like to know why you asked him.”

  Looking boldly back, she said — “Ah, wouldn’t you!”

  “I doubt if he’ll come,” said Wright. “He’s getting above himself, that guy.”

  “For the love of Pete!” she exclaimed. “why on earth?”

  “Well, from what I hear, he spends most of his time in the bungalow with Mrs. Clapperton.”

  “Now, look here,” she said, in defence, “don’t be mean. He’s working for her to clear away the rubble.”

  “Him working! Ha, ha ha!”

  “The trouble with you men is you’re all jealous of his looks,” she jeered.

  “I may not be handsome,” said Wright, “but I wouldn’t change faces with that fellow.”

  “Womenfolk are all for looks,” Rags said, and added jauntily, — “The missus married me fer mine.”

  “He proposed to me in the dark,” she threw back.

  Noah had been scraping the jam-pot. Now he said, — “I’ve got along without looks. Never had no use fer them. Except in females.”

  “They say,” said Wright, “that Tom Raikes plans to step into Mr. Clapperton’s shoes.”

  “I like his cheek,” said Rags enviously.

  “Then there’ll be a mess of bungalows,” declared Noah. “Bungalows — blight — and bugs. D’you know how many birch trees died from blight this year? Twenty thousand. Twenty thousand bungalows was built and twenty thousand tater bugs is attackin’ the taters. Blight, bungalows and bugs. What’s the cure?” He attacked a piece of fruitcake while he waited for the answer.

  “what?” demanded Wright.

  “The atom bomb. That’s the cure. And I hope I’ll be here to see.”

  “Cheerful, ain’t you?” said Rags.

  His mouth full, Noah managed to articulate, — “The world’s agettin’ ready fer doom. Capitalism brung this state on. Communism’ll bust it up.”

  “He knows all the answers,” Mrs. Wragge said admiringly.

  A shadow fell across the window and the company looked up to see Raikes’ legs. His gentle knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” sang out the cook and again patted her hair.

  He said a pleasant good day and seated himself at the table. Mrs. Wragge dropped an extra lump of sugar into his cup, not unnoticed by Noah who at once stretched out a gnarled hand and helped himself to another.

  “And how is the old gentleman?” asked Raikes of Mrs. Wragge.

  “He’s gettin’ on fine,” she answered. “I thought the shock would’ve killed him but he takes his food and he sleeps and makes his little joke, almost as good as ever.”

  “Just the same,” added Rags, “he misses Mr. Ernest. We all do. I never ’ad an impatient word from ’im.”

  “Clapperton and him are both gone,” said Wright, “and if I don’t miss my guess, Mr. Ernest went up and Clapperton below.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t say that,” objected Raikes.

  “Wouldn’t say Clapperton went below?”

  “No. We all have our faults.”

  Wright gave the table a thump. “That man,” he said, “did more to upset the neighbourhood than anyone has ever done.”

  “Upset this house, you mean,” said Raikes. “Nobody minded about those few bungalows but the people here. And I’ve a bit of news for you. Mrs. Clapperton has sold the Black farm — that wee farm, y’know — and the man who’s bought it plans to build sixty little houses on it. All like as peas.”

  “The bloody scoundrel!” Wright set his jaw hard, then said, — “Pardon my language, Mrs. Wragge.”

  “That’s nothing to what I hear,” she smiled.

  “Well, I like that,” declared Rags.

  “I use only one curse-word,” said Noah. “It’s served me fer nigh on eighty years.”

  “Sakes alive,” screamed the cook. “You must’ve begun usin’ it in the cradle.”

  “That I did. It was the first word I spoke and I guess it’ll be my last. Dang.”

  Wright was brooding on building possibilities. He asked of Raikes, — “what’s to become of Vaughanlands?”

  “Mrs. Clapperton hasn’t decided. She’s had several offers.”

  “Another outcrop of bungalows, I’ll bet.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “It’ll ruin this property,” said Wright, with a black frown.

  Raikes thoughtfully stirred his tea. “I doubt if Mrs. Clapperton will want to build a big house on the property,” he said, “though there’s a lot of good material can be salvaged.”

  Mrs. Wragge asked, — “How does she like livin’ in that little bungalow alongside the Barkers?”

  “Ah, she likes it fine.”

  “And her sister?”

  “I’m not so sure about her. She
’s a quare girl.” An enigmatic smile played about his lips.

  Dennis came slowly down the stairs that descended from the hall.

  “Well, my man,” the cook asked, “and what do you want?”

  “Something to eat,” he answered, in his clear voice.

  “You’ll be eating at the proper time.” There was no encouragement in her tone.

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “I’m too busy. Run along.”

  He sat down on a step.

  Mrs. Wragge said, in an undertone, — “He’s an awful one to hang about and listen. I can’t seem to make him out.”

  Rags brought a plate of cake to the little boy. “’Ere, take a piece and be off,” he said.

  Dennis looked the cake over. “I don’t like that sort.”

  “You just say that to give trouble.”

  “No. Honestly. I like chocolate cake.”

  Cook said loudly, — “There ain’t none. So you go up and shut the door at the top.”

  “I wasn’t listening.”

  “Ho — ho.” She turned in her chair to look at him. “Now listen. You tell me one thing we said and I’ll find a piece of chocolate cake for you.”

  He tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Then you’d say I was a liar, wouldn’t you?”

  A chuckle ran round the table. Wright said, — “You’re not going to fall into any trap, are you, Dennis?”

  Dennis went up the stairs on hands and feet and, at the top, slammed the door behind him.

  “’E’s got a sly way with ’im,” observed Rags.

  “I never did like children,” said Noah, smacking his lips, then wiping them on his sleeve. “They’ve got to be. We can’t stop it. But keep them out o’ the way, I sez.”

  Raikes smiled gently. “I always like young things,” he said.

  After a little he rose, thanked Mrs. Wragge for his tea, and departed. He went straight to the bungalow where the two sisters lived. He could see Gem’s face at the window. His own face lighted. He raised his hand in salute. She beckoned and opened the door to him.

  “Althea’s out for the next hour,” Gem whispered against his cheek. Nevertheless he locked the door.