Ripeness is All

by Eric Linklater

  ’You must learn to observe things for yourself,’ said her father firmly. ‘Whenever you go for a walk, keep your eyes and ears wide open, and what you see and hear will teach you far more than books can.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose I’ll have to ask the librarian,’ said Ruth patiently, and resumed her reading.

  After breakfast Arthur filled his largest pipe – Daisy had recently been trying to make him give up smoking – and walked slowly down the road to look at the Houses. The Houses were his largest and most disastrous speculation. They were eight in number, and he had built them soon after the War, in collaboration with a late comrade-in-arms whose profit on the transaction had been considerable. The sight of them generally filled him with gloom: they stood in a row, superior villa residences built of thin red brick, unseasoned wood, and Belgian slates that did not keep out the rain. But today he looked at them with amusement, even with satisfaction, for it was in keeping with his mood that he should have carelessly thrown away good money in unprofitable investment. And that damned fellow his comrade-in-arms – his name was never mentioned, he was known simply and definitively as That Damned Fellow – had been a good fellow in his way, amusing to talk to after a roughish manner, and laudably master of his fate. Arthur smiled appreciatively to remember some nocturnal episodes of their service together in St Omer: That Damned Fellow had known his way about, all right. And he himself – he straightened his shoulders complacently – he himself had called for wine in a soldier’s voice, and clapped a girl with a soldier’s hand: he had heard the chimes at midnight.

  Arthur’s service in France had been of a very peaceable kind. He had crossed the Channel with the 4th Brackens in July 1915, and some nine weeks later, chancing to be within three or four miles of the Battle of Loos and within three or four yards of the battalion transport wagons, he had been seriously hurt by a flying tin of bully-beef. An errant shell, whether British or German no one ever knew, had pitched on one of the wagons, and violently scattered its load of quartermaster’s stores. A case of bully-beef had flown out like shrapnel, and one of the tins, a blue-painted contribution from the Argentine, had struck Arthur on the back of the head. Having been admitted to hospital with slight concussion of the brain, he stayed there for six months with shell-shock, and afterwards secured a comfortable billet as Deputy Assistant Accommodation Officer (D.A.A.O.) for Incoming Drafts at St Omer. There he stayed for nearly eighteen months, till he was appointed A.A.O. (Assistant Accommodation Officer) at Calais. He did valuable service there for another year, and shortly after the Armistice he was awarded the M.B.E. for his efforts – in conjunction with the Military Police – to control the holiday traffic problem in the vicinity of the Garden of Eden.

  Very soon after he returned to civilian life, however, Arthur’s lively imagination began to embroider his experience, soldierly enough in all conscience, with exuberant details. His description of the battle of Loos, for example, was a masterpiece of heroism too modestly related, and might well have been accepted as the crown of his military career, were it not for his story of swimming the Somme at Péronne, after the last bridge had been blown up, in a storm of machine-gun bullets, shrapnel, bombs, and rifle- grenades. Even this adventure, in some people’s opinion, was less striking than the manner in which he had held up the flank of the German advance against Kemmel Hill in April of 1918; and his friends were extremely cynical about the War Office’s system of awarding decorations, since they knew that all Arthur received, for so much uncomplaining heroism, was a paltry M.B.E.

  He had felt, to begin with, occasional qualms of conscience about these stories, and several times he had resolved to tell no more. But he so enjoyed the sensations of adventure they gave him, and he so truly desired to be a hero – or, more truly still, to have been one – that he could seldom resist the opportunities that his imagination offered, and presently, like an embezzling cashier, he found himself committed to an ever larger borrowing of other people’s assets. Like an embezzler, too, he acquired in time the conviction that he had a perfect right to what he had borrowed, and he was genuinely upset if anyone doubted his veracity. Only on the rarest occasions did he squarely face the truth and acknowledge his fraudulent conversion of it: and even then he would soon comfort himself by yielding to humility. At such times he rapidly became a Christian, he confessed his faults – to himself – and he remembered that no one who had not sinned could hope to be pardoned. He luxuriated in self-abasement and took no little pleasure in seeing himself as the chief of sinners. He always slept particularly well after such an orgy of repentance.

  Today, however, he was far from humility. Today he was a soldier of fortune. A soldier of fortune! He laughed aloud when he thought of the twofold meaning, for indeed he might have been both kinds had not That Damned Fellow persuaded him to squander his fortune and build those wretched houses. He had once had a very comfortable property. His father, dying when Arthur was fifteen, had left rather more than £8,000 in trust for him, which had ripened under the care of the late Major Gander, and though Arthur’s connexion with the family firm had never been more than a subordinate one, he was able to retire with £20,000 when American Candy, Inc. bought the business in 1921. Then his ex-comrade-in-arms appeared on the scene, and half that sum had been invested in this prettily named residential estate of Hornbeams: eight houses which already consumed half their rents in repairs, and thirty acres of waste ground too wet to be built on. That Damned Fellow, however, had done well enough out of the venture: he had been the contractor. And because Arthur was not one of those dull people who learn by experience, he had lost money steadily since then in one bogus company after another, till now his whole capital consisted of the house in which he lived, which his father had built; the unprofitable and troublesome estate of Hornbeams; and three thousand five hundred pounds in India Stock. His income was quite insufficient for his needs, and the only way in which he had lately been able to increase it was to sell India Stock or to borrow from his sister Hilary. He disliked the latter method, but it was more economical than the former, and Hilary was both generous and fairly well-off.

  Arthur walked as far as the Priory. It was a magnificent old house. Part of it was more than eight hundred years old. It had been in the market for six months, and anybody could buy it who had £12,000 to spare. Arthur greatly desired to be its owner, for its beauty delighted him, the thought of its ancient associations enchanted him, and he perceived very clearly that in such a house, with plenty of money to spend, he would make an excellent squire: he would be genial and benevolent, kind to his tenants and merry with his neighbours, a power for good and a staunch supporter of all that was most worthy of support in the customs and traditions of rural England. The mood of the Gay Guerrilla began to fade, and the larger image of the Jovial Squire crept in to take its place. But neither Priory nor squiredom were possible without money, and the only money in sight was Uncle John’s. That handsome fortune, which he had so successfully despised an hour or two before, grew more and more desirable in Arthur’s sight, and before he turned to walk homewards he was sincerely sorry for having rebuffed his wife and refused to eat the Vima-Bran.

  Daisy was in the garden when he returned. It was a poor and weedy garden, but Daisy was very fond of it. It was true that she could never remember the names of flowers, but she was profoundly convinced of the spiritual importance of growing flowers, and she could sentimentalize very convincingly about a dewdrop or a bud. Arthur, to please her, had been compelled to simulate an equal interest, though try as he would he could not make it real or even realistic. He had never been able to see himself as the Compleat Gardener. The Old Soldier, the True-Blue Tory, the Gay Guerrilla, the Desperate Rebel, the Jovial Squire: all these he could portray, but the Gardener was beyond his power. He had made the best of things, however, and for a very good reason he specialized in rock-plants. There was a small rockery at the foot of the garden, a rough heap of stones scantily covered with sedums and campanulas and alpine pinks and
poppies. But its really important feature was not easily discernible, and was indeed known only to Arthur, who had planted it, and to a few of his friends. Daisy had never guessed its existence. Arthur was always a little worried when he saw her in the neighbourhood of the rockery, and now, returning from his walk and observing her busy with a dibble among the pinks, he hurried towards her and said, in a frank and rather boyish way, ‘I say, Daisy, do you think you could give me a whisked egg-and-milk? I feel I’d rather like one.’

  Daisy, who was perspiring slightly, shook back her straying hair, straightened her pince-nez, and said, ‘Of course I will! Oh, Arthur, I’m so glad that you’re beginning to realize how right I am in what I’m trying to do for you. Just wait a minute and I’ll bring it to you out here. It will do you much more good to drink it in the fresh air. Look at those helianthi; aren’t they lovely?’

  They were two or three double scarlet rock roses that she pointed to, but Arthur did not bother to correct her, and she went very happily towards the house, stopping here and there to pick off a faded flower or sprinkle pansies from the can of guano water that she carried.

  Arthur examined the secret part of the rockery, and found it undisturbed. Presently Daisy came back, her lank form ungainly with haste, and exclaimed, ‘Hilary’s here. Won’t you come and speak to her? She can’t stay for more than ten minutes, because she’s on the way to the vicarage. She came to ask for Ruth, and now she’s going on to see Lady Caroline. Hilary says she’s worse again, and they’ve had to get a nurse in to look after her.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Arthur. News of illness always took him aback, and till he had got used to it – when he saw himself as a chronic invalid, patiently enduring discomfort, and greeting his visitors with a brave smile – it made him feel curiously weak, and wonder if he had run any risk of infection. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll come and speak to Hilary.’

  Hilary, with laudable honesty, had just told Ruth that she had no knowledge of the hedgehog’s amatory technique. She turned to Arthur and Daisy, and, with a rather brusque inflection, asked, ‘Why don’t you see that Ruth gets some friends of her own age to play with? She spends far too much time by herself, and it isn’t natural for a child to live alone.’

  ‘She’s rather a solitary little girl,’ said Daisy, ‘and surely we ought to encourage her fondness for books?’

  ‘A lot of nonsense about hedgehogs won’t do her any good,’ said Hilary. ‘She’s only just recovered from mumps, and what she wants now is good food and plenty of exercise. Why don’t you take her to the seaside?’

  Daisy, with a deprecatory smile, began to explain: ‘It’s rather difficult to get away just now.’ But Arthur, making no bones about it, said, ‘We can’t afford to, at present. As a matter of fact, I’ve just spent a very busy couple of hours trying to contrive some ways of making a little extra money, simply to give Ruth a holiday. She does want a change, but for the moment I’m in difficulties, and unless something happens there’s nothing can be done about it.’

  ‘Well, you ought to make an effort,’ said Hilary. ‘She’s as white as paper, and reading about hedgehogs won’t put colour in her cheeks.’

  ‘If Uncle John had only made the kind of will we hoped and expected he would,’ said Daisy, ‘we’d have been able to do so much for her. I can’t think why he didn’t remember our special difficulties, and even our special claims. Arthur’s father was the eldest son, and it was only because he died that Uncle John got the chance to come home and make so much money. In a way it was our money. At least that’s how it appears to me, and I think you must admit that it’s a perfectly logical point of view.’

  ‘Oh, I’m tired of talking about that wretched will,’ said Hilary. The Ganders, indeed, had spoken of little else for the last three weeks, and the Major’s state of mind, as well as their own state of health, had been canvassed, discussed, and dissected with anger and bitterness, with doubt and despair, and with tireless assiduity. Their first fury had now spent itself, but resentment still smouldered hotly and any little draught of contrary opinion was enough to blow it into flames. There had been no serious quarrel among them, because a feeling of mutual misfortune still united them, and the common asperity of their opinions about the deceased Major was still a sufficient tap for most of their ill-humour. Neither Stephen nor Jane had ever been very fond of Daisy, and their normal dislike of her was now a little aggravated by the thought that she and Arthur, by reason of their daughter Ruth, were apparently the most likely heirs; but they had no greater affection for Katherine, and she had gone off to meet her home-coming husband in Paris, in a mood so blatantly philoprogenitive as to diminish their already small affection for her, and make them doubt the ultimate succession of Arthur and Daisy. Katherine might have twins, and twins again. Her husband Oliver, it seemed, came of a family in which twins were as common as they are in a flock of sheep. Katherine had bought, for her reading in the train, a parcel of books entitled The Happy Mother, Wise Parenthood, Radiant Nurseries, and so forth. Katherine was full of optimism and utterly determined; and Stephen and Jane disliked her so much that their increasing dislike of Daisy was sensibly checked. Daisy herself could hardly bear to speak of Katherine.

  ‘As I’ve said before, Uncle John’s money was his own and he had the right to do just what he liked with it,’ Hilary continued. ‘And in any case you have nothing to grumble about. You’ve got one child already and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have another, or even two more.’

  ‘I always hoped to have a large family,’ said Daisy, and looked reproachfully at Arthur who frowned impatiently, jingled some money in his trouser-pocket, and resolutely changed the subject.

  ‘I hear there’s bad news from the vicarage,’ he said.

  ‘Poor Caroline’s very seriously ill,’ said Hilary.’ She got a heavy cold after that dreadful garden-party, and went out long before it was better. Now she’s got pleurisy, and they’re frightened of pneumonia.’

  ‘How terribly worrying,’ said Daisy. ‘And though one doesn’t like to say so, of course, it was really all her own fault. Those pigs, I mean. It was such a curious idea for a garden-party. And then when she’d caught so bad a cold she ought to have really taken great care of herself, if only for the Vicar’s sake.’

  ‘Caroline doesn’t know what it means to take care of herself, and that’s why she’s such a darling,’ said Hilary. But Daisy primly responded, ‘Any woman who has responsibilities ought to take care of herself. I used to be careless enough of my own health before I was married, but when Ruth came I realized that it was my duty to think a good deal about myself, simply for the sake of other people.’ Lady Caroline had once reproved Daisy for keeping goldfish in a bowl: ‘Oh, those poor fish!’ she had exclaimed. ‘Don’t you know it’s simply torture to keep them in a round glass like that where they can’t find any shade? You must go at once and buy a proper tank with a dark side, and put stones and things in it. Really, the ignorance and thoughtlessness of people are absolutely incredible!’ And Daisy had never forgotten nor quite forgiven this criticism.

  Hilary rose to go: ‘I’ve stayed longer than I meant to, and I must hurry. Don’t forget what I said about Ruth: the child needs taking care of more than you do, Daisy.’

  ‘Hilary’s such a dear,’ said Daisy, after her sister-in-law had gone. ‘Of course her manner is against her, and people who don’t know her very well are often put off by it, but she really is very kind and good-hearted. I understand her perfectly. What a pity she never married. She’s just a little bit unsympathetic sometimes, and marriage might have made all the difference. Poor Hilary! It’s sweet of her to take such an interest in Ruth, though really she doesn’t know anything about children. She can’t, of course.’

  Arthur was sitting very quiet and still in a large armchair. He had a sad and shrunken look. He was picturing himself ill in bed with pneumonia. He made no reply to Daisy.

  She continued thoughtfully: ‘I’m awfully glad she’s keeping Rumneys. I r
eally didn’t think she would be able to afford it, but I suppose she has more than we know of. After all she’s never had to spend money on anyone except herself, and she isn’t extravagant in any way. That costume she was wearing is exactly like her old grey one: I wonder if she had it dyed? Well, I think that’s going too far. Economy’s all very well, but if you carry it beyond a certain point it simply becomes meanness. Don’t you think so, Arthur?’

  Arthur shivered slightly. ‘I’m feeling cold,’ he said.

  A cloud, indeed, had blown across the face of the sun. Hilary, walking to the vicarage, strode more briskly, and tried to ignore the discomfort of her mind. She told herself that people habitually recover from pleurisy, that they generally evade the threat of pneumonia, and that even pneumonia is not necessarily fatal. But she could not banish her fears, and though she pretended that her slight feeling of breathlessness was caused by the pace at which she was walking, she knew that it was rather due to her sense of impending calamity. She had for many years been accustomed to think and speak of death in a matter-of-fact way, and to believe that because it was the normal conclusion of life it could be approached, and should be approached, with the calmness proper to other normal events. This happy delusion had been strengthened by the material fact that none of her own friends or relations had died for a long time past: not since the War, when her nephew John was killed at Extra Punctuationéhy, her brother-in-law, Claud Sutton, at Beaumont Hamel, and Frank Sorley, Stephen’s father, at Sanctuary Wood: and War deaths were as difficult to remember as the sensation of one particular bruise after having been knocked down by a motor car. But the Major’s sudden passing had torn this useful impercipience from Hilary’s mind, and now, still sore from that bereavement, she dreaded another hurt. She could not bear to think of Caroline dying: Caroline who was her closest friend, whose children she loved, whose house welcomed her. She felt fear growing within her, like the sensation of drowning, and she stopped by a gate at the roadside to regain control of herself.