Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  Ghent wandered out and along the high road to the Weir Bridge. No traffic was passing at this quiet hour, and often, when he had felt lonely or too near to the challenge of nothingness, he would walk to the bridge, lean upon the parapet and contemplate the river. It flowed. How obvious, but how significant! It could not stand still and contemplate itself; and so, it escaped from man’s illusion that he can stand and contemplate himself as something static and calculable, a kind of mathematical formula chalked up on a blackboard. He liked the leap and thunder of the weir, the gentle willows, Folly Island cushioned and afloat, the white stateliness of the old house up yonder among the beeches. Even Temple Towers had meaning. It was a challenge and a contrast, just as life was full of challenges and contrasts. Life was beckoning, that was why it did not conform to the plans of those who were statically minded, the producers of schemes, philosophical and otherwise. Sin, and pain, and love, and grieving were like little vortices in the vast flow. They all belonged. Yet, something strove and made for harmony. Sounds could be just casual discords until they became music, and the musician can play even with discords.

  Yes, he could suppose that Temple Towers and old Crabtree had their uses. He could remember Temple Manor’s views upon their mutual neighbour, and my lady’s witty exposition of the problem. “You and I, Peter, try to create beauty, and yet there are people who would accuse us of cowardice. They tell us that we must accept life as a savage struggle, and that the mystic is a fool who runs away to hide in dreams. I am a mystic, which means that I believe in things being meant, and that even ugliness is here to provoke us. We have to transcend it. Even Crabtree has its uses. It may provoke us both emotionally and spiritually. The crab-apple purges. We might become too soft and flowery if we had no barbarians to threaten us. We too must fight, on occasions. We humanitarians may be very close to a sentimental senility. We are apt to forget the urgent greeds of the lout world. Yes, my dear, old Crabtree and crude competition have their uses.”

  * * *

  She too was drawn to the bridge that evening, perhaps because she was finding the empty house dim and lonely, and the bridge’s arch was like a cool forehead catching the fading light. Also, there was assuagement in the sound of falling water. As she reached the gate at the end of the Folly Farm lane two cars raced up the cinder track leading from the Blue Lagoon, paused, hooting, at the junction, took the main road and turned right over the bridge to Loddon. A moment of noise, and all was peace again, with the roar of the weir dominating the English scene. She passed out and on, and not till she neared the spot where the bridge’s western abutment began to lift the road, did she become aware of that other figure leaning over the parapet with its face to the weir pool and the valley. She stood still, hesitant. If she went on would he think that her coming was no mere coincidence? And did it matter? Yes, it would matter. Yes, she would go back. And then he turned his head, as though feeling some other presence near him, and saw her.

  She could not go back now. That would have seemed so tricksy and cheap, a piece of self-conscious affectation. She walked on. She saw him straighten and turn towards her, his right hand resting on the old stone coping.

  She made herself smile, and he was thinking what a flowerlike face she had. But could flowers be frightened?

  “Rather a good place this.”

  She paused about a yard from him, and with her hands on the parapet, looked at the pool.

  “I wonder why bridges attract one?”

  He leaned sideways against the wall, observing her.

  “They always do. I’ve noticed it when I’m in a car. The more narrow and hog-backed the bridge, the more likely you are to find someone loafing there.”

  “Does that annoy you?”

  He smiled.

  “Well, no; it shouldn’t, though one’s apt to be such a cad in a hurry when one gets into a car. Dangerous, of course.”

  “There always is danger, isn’t there, in anything we do?”

  He was silent for some seconds as though her words had challenged and surprised him.

  “Yes, I suppose there is, especially in these mechanical days. You go out for peace and a picnic, and get smashed up.”

  “I wasn’t meaning quite that.”

  “Oh! A little more subtly.”

  “Perhaps. I mean, you never quite know what life has for you round the corner.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  She stood with her long fingers stroking the stone coping. It was cool and soothing to the touch, refreshed by the air that rose from the weir pool. How tantalizing and yet how pleasant was the sound of that falling water in a time of drought! The river seemed to speak for you, and to blur those little, sensitive silences that both link and separate two sensitive humans who find themselves suddenly and mysteriously attracted. They were strangers, and they were not.

  He saw her lips move. Almost, they had the pouting fluidity of French lips.

  “Tell me all about this. You must know it all.”

  “You mean, the valley?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned square to the parapet.

  “There lies Marplot, my little place. And there——”

  “Why Marplot?”

  “Perhaps there is a sting of old irony in that name. Anyhow, I have taken it for better or for worse.”

  Her forehead seemed to pucker slightly.

  “Is the land like matrimony?”

  “Oh, somewhat, I suppose, in fair weather and in foul; with my sweat and strength I thee endow.”

  She smiled.

  “I like that. Go on, please.”

  “And there is Folly Farm.”

  “That’s me. Is there some old or new irony in that?”

  “Hardly, I hope. And there’s Folly Island like a little green ship afloat. Yonder stands Farley and its elms where the rooks build. Then one comes to Temple Manor.”

  “The great old white house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like a Greek temple. Who lives there?”

  “Rather a splendid person, Melissa, Lady Vandeleur.”

  “It sounds like Meredith. Young or old?”

  “Oh, sixty-five or so, but never old. A young heart, and the head of a queen.”

  “I like that, too. And that other place on the right, Chocolate Castle?”

  He laughed.

  “And I like that! Very new gentleman of the name of Crabtree, so new that the paint smells.”

  She let out a little laugh. If love should come to her it would possess the soul of a woman who liked to be amused, to enjoy the pique and sparkle of a spirit that was not turgid with mere sex. Could any words have described more vividly the gentleman who had newly arrived? The paint still smelt. Oh, lovely!

  Her voice grew vibrant and alive. She seemed to lose her droop and her melancholy.

  “Is he very rich?”

  “Oh, very.”

  “And how——?”

  “Builds houses by the thousand. He has what is called the money-making nose.”

  “Semitic?”

  “Oh, no, good broad British. Can smell a profit ten miles off. Besides, doesn’t one wrong the Jews? They can be artists. They do know beauty and how to possess it.”

  She said: “Almost I am coming to regard money as the source of all evil.”

  “Too much money.”

  She countered him quickly.

  “Or not enough.”

  There was silence for a moment. He was looking at the little multitudes of trees in his nursery. All his capital lay there, and if hundreds of his trees died, as die they might, capital would go, and profit cease, and with his reserves gone, he would be in Queer Street. Some old land-grabber like Crabtree would buy him out. What then? He would lack the capital to begin all over again. He might find himself as someone’s head-gardener, or as a foreman in another firm’s nursery. Yes, if he were lucky.

  The light was failing, and he was aware of her drawing her hands away from the parapet.

  �
�I must be going. I suppose one ought not to leave one’s house empty.”

  He looked at her sharply.

  “You’re not all alone there?”

  She seemed to hesitate. What spirit was behind that sudden question? Like the ordinary predatory male, did he divine opportunity?

  “Yes. My married couple walked out on me. The conditions were too rural.”

  “But you oughtn’t to be alone there.”

  There was concern in his voice, and she realized that this young man was no intriguer.

  “I am trying to get a woman in. I’ve tried both Farley and Loddon. Neither were very helpful.”

  He said: “Of course you must have somebody. Would you like me to ask my men? They may know of someone.”

  “I should be grateful if you would.”

  “I’ll ask them first thing to-morrow. They are both Farley men, and Farley goes by favour.”

  “Thank you. If I could get a woman in for a few hours each day——”

  “Someone to live in. You ought not to be alone, you know, at night.”

  She smiled into the twilight, nor could he divine the feeling behind that smile. She realized that he was thinking for her, and not for himself, and in her experience such big brotherliness was singular and rare. Men petted you for what they could get.

  “You mean burglars?”

  He laughed, as though wishing to reassure her.

  “No. I don’t suppose you would be bothered in that way. But an empty house, well, you know, rather triste. What they call ‘unked’ in Berkshire. I’ve been in one, and I know.”

  She was touched.

  “Yes, it isn’t that one’s scared.”

  “No. It’s rather like seeing nothing but yourself in a mirror.”

  Her eyes seemed to fall into a stare over the simile he had used.

  “Yes, just like that. Or, one’s memories, the things one doesn’t want to live with.”

  She broke off into sudden silence, and drawing back from the bridge wall, turned to go.

  “Thank you so much.”

  Was it that she shivered at the thought of the empty house, and did he divine that sensitive tremor?

  “I’ll come as far as your gate.”

  “Oh, please don’t bother.”

  “Please let me. I’ll wait till I see a light in a window. You have matches?”

  “Yes, yours, and my own.”

  He walked with her to the lane and down it to the white fence, opened the gate for her and closed it behind her.

  “Good night. I’ll wait here till you show a light.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, it’s silly, but I don’t know your name. Of course I can say, the lady at Folly Farm.”

  She seemed to hesitate for a moment.

  “Strangeways, Mrs. Strangeways.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She went in, and he waited there until he saw a light in one of the lower rooms, and then he turned and walked back to the bridge. He stood there looking at the white foam in the weir pool. His young face had a kind of dark sheen. Strangeways. Yes, it suited her, and his mood, and his feeling that there was some mystery about her. Mystery!

  Was this the way one fell in love?

  IX

  Ghent woke early, and with a feeling that something had happened to him, and that life was different. Had it rained yesterday? It had not. Was it raining to-day? He rolled out of bed, and saw the same grey sky, clouds hurried by the wind, the willows blowing. What a summer, dusty and shabby, and grey, with that eternal wind worrying the parched earth! Bob had told him only yesterday that the big sweet-chestnut on Farley Green was dying, or looked like death, and the tree was a hundred and fifty years old. Yes, but something was different. He looked across at Folly Farm, and remembered, and the mystery came back to the world, even though a sad wind blew, and the sky was rainless and grey.

  Going out with Bunter at his heels he found Fanshaw at work with fagging-hook and crooked stick cutting the grass and weeds along the Badger’s Lane hedge. Bob was one of Farley’s wise men, in that he was darts champion, and knew everybody’s worth and reputation, and held views upon the social scheme that were frank and emphatic. He believed in Temple Manor but not in Temple Towers. That dirty old tyke ought to have been drowned as a pup. Bob did not flatter you, and when Ghent explained the situation to him, Bob sharpened the fagging-hook, warned off a horse-fly, and aired certain opinions. Folly Farm had a bad name. For why? Well, it never had been a gentleman’s house. Ignorant, half-bred people didn’t make a house gentle, no, money or no money. Yes, houses were like that, just as nature didn’t care a damn whether she dried you up or drowned you. Ghent knew by experience that it was useless to try and short-circuit Bob’s conversation. You waited until he had repeated some obvious statement three times over with increasing emphasis, and then you tried again.

  “Yes, Bob, but do you happen to know of anyone?”

  As a matter of fact Bob did. He had a married sister who had lost her husband, and who, for the moment, was at a loose end. Just moping about and twittering and behaving like a widowed weed. What Jane needed was a job of work. But what sort of person was the lady across the water, and how had Mr. Peter become interested in Folly Farm? Bob was a little curious about the second part of the question, but he could mind his own business and Peter’s.

  “What sort o’ lady is she, sir?”

  “You mean Mrs. Strangeways?”

  “Yes, not one of them hoity-toity bits from London, with a made up face and no manners. I don’t mind any sister o’ mine serving a real lady.”

  “Rather the other way, Bob, I should say. She’s gentle.”

  “Temple Manor not Temple Towers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll put it to Jane this evening. By the way, that old bastard was messin’ about in our lane this morning.”

  “Old Crabtree?”

  “Sure. He says to me: ‘Trees looking a bit sick, my man, what?’ And I says to him: ‘Yes, my man, but we don’t grow mushrooms down here.’ Looked a bit tucked up about it, he did. I reckon he’s got his old bull’s-eyes on Marplot. I’ll tell ’ee what I’d do with old cuckoo-spit like Crabtree.”

  “Give him a dose of nicotine, Bob. Well, will you ask your sister to go and see Mrs. Strangeways?”

  Bob ran a thumb along the hook edge.

  “I will, sir.”

  Few of us realize how interesting our private affairs can be to other members of a circumscribed community, and when Mrs. Maintenance heard, as hear she did, that her master was interested in the lady across the water, Mrs. Maintenance sat up and took notice. And somebody else had seen Mr. Peter driving the lady into Loddon. Well, now, what was the meaning of that? Mrs. Maintenance subscribed to the local opinion that it was unwise either to pick up or be picked. Quite a number of the commandments could be broken both by getting into and getting out of cars! Your handbag or your virtue might suffer. And a married woman too! With a she-wolf waiting round the corner Mrs. Maintenance would think of Mr. Peter as “Poor Lamb”; not that he had any resemblance to that tame creature, either physically or temperamentally, but to Mrs. Maintenance Peter was a kind of Galahad. She washed for him, and she knew.

  Now, who and what was the lady? A married woman! These week-end wives had to be watched. And when she heard from Bob that the master was interesting himself in providing domestic help for the lady over yonder, Mrs. Maintenance was troubled. She was always saying that Mr. Peter ought to get married. Not that she wanted him married, or would exactly welcome a strange young woman in the house, but it was hard on a young man not to have what he wanted, especially when there were so many young wenches about who wanted what a fine, strong lad like Mr. Peter had to give.

  “Tempting providence, I call it.”

  So, when the bell rang while Ghent was having his tea, and Mrs. Maintenance went to answer it and found a strange young woman in the porch, Mrs. Maintena
nce put on her Seventh Commandment face and was cautious.

  “Oh, would you mind giving these to Mr. Ghent?”

  She held out two boxes of safety-matches, and Mrs. Maintenance eyed them as though the serpent might be concealed even in Bryant & May.

  “You see, Mr. Ghent lent me two boxes quite a long while ago, and I promised to return them. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

  Had he, indeed, and how and when? And no doubt, this was a nice little excuse. Match-boxes forsooth! Mrs. Maintenance was austere.

  “Mr. Ghent’s at his tea.”

  “Yes. Please don’t disturb him. If you will give him these.”

  “What name?”

  “Mrs. Strangeways, from Folly Farm.”

  Mrs. Maintenance held the door ajar until she had seen the lady pass out of the gate. A pretty creature, certainly, and a lady. Moreover, she had not attempted to push in, and Mrs. Maintenance, feeling vaguely mollified, and regretting some of her abruptness, placed the two boxes on the papier maché letter-tray, and carried them into the parlour.

  “A lady left these, sir.”

  Ghent stared at them. Was she imagining it, or did his colour rise?

  “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Maintenance. Put them on the mantelpiece.”

  Mrs. Maintenance did so, and bustled out, wondering whether you could assign a romantic significance to match-boxes.

  * * *

  Sunset.

  Ghent, going out to look at the sky, a countryman’s habit, had a feeling that the purple-black cloud-bank into which the sun was sinking, promised a change in the weather. He saw smoke rising from one of the Folly Farm chimneys. Certainly, there was a little chilliness in the air, and if she chose to light a fire for the sake of cheerfulness, well and good. As for the old tag about red dawns and red sunsets, this particular year was full of freaks and contrariness which flouted experience. He strolled down to the river bank, and saw the willows on Folly Island spun over with a web of gold. His eyes searched the garden across the water, and found it empty, though the hammock was still hanging under the lime trees.