Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  So he was preparing the ground for a formal retreat. She had no illusions about that letter. His health had to be considered; he had suffered financial losses. Irene was inexorable. And what was she going to do about it? Hope, desperately, for some amorous old gentleman to become interested in her? Oh no, she was soul-sick of that sort of thing. She was tired, not physically but spiritually, for, strangely enough, she was conscious of herself as spirit.

  What happened to a pretty and rather useless woman when the illusion of being loved for something that mattered ceased from persuading her that one man was different from the others? She became just a drab, or ran a boarding-house, or called herself a secretary, or tried to keep her poor, pretty head afloat in water that became increasingly unpleasant and muddy.

  Or, she just disappeared.

  * * *

  At the Temple Towers breakfast table—storms and reverberations. Poor Mary Crabtree, that Lot’s Wife of a woman, sat pinched and congealed behind her silver coffee-pot. Thirty-five years of marriage had left her with an air of austere bewilderment. A woman of poor vitality she allowed life to bully her, as her little bandit of a husband, and her children bullied her. Even Temple Towers frightened her; she would have felt so much more a person in a Surbiton villa. As a social figure she was completely inadequate. Her elder daughter could say of her: “Mum’s only fit to carry about a pocketful of snails.”

  Mr. Roger Crabtree was eating toast and marmalade as though some piece of grilled bread had bitten him, and he was indulging in retaliation.

  “Damned Jacks-in-Office! Just sit on their bums and scribble chits to their betters!”

  “Really, Father,” said the wife; “such language!”

  She did not ask how else the officials of the Loddon U.D.C. should sit. It was sufficient that her Roger had received a polite but curt letter from the council offices, requiring him to make certain alterations at The Rookery. Their surveyors and the medical officer had reported unfavourably upon the sanitary condition of the property.

  “I’m surprised at Bacchus. Calls himself my doctor. I won’t have him inside my house again.”

  Said his daughter, over the pages of the daily picture-paper where murderers and film stars compete for fame: “What’s biting you, Parent?”

  “Yes, you can read it. You’re not like your mother. You’ve got some of your father’s stuff in you.”

  He tossed the letter across to her.

  “Ta,” said Irene. “Is that nice for me, or not? Where did I get my red hair?”

  “Not from me,” said her father.

  “Ma, I’m surprised at you! When did it happen and how?”

  Her mother looked shocked.

  “Your grandfather had auburn hair.”

  “Call it carrots. Was it, male or female?”

  Her father grabbed more toast.

  “I’ll take the case to court. Think I’m going to be bluffed, and have my property interfered with by a lot of tame clerks.”

  Irene had read the letter, and she flicked it back to her father.

  “Well, I can’t see much in it. I’d call it a storm in a cesspool.”

  “Ya,” said her father; “what’s the use of having red hair if you can’t show fight. I’m a man of ideas. I don’t go about taking orders from Jacks-in-Office. This whole place is run by a gang of snobs. Would they send a bit of bumph like this to that old bit of Dresden china over the river? Would Tom Bacchus condemn any of her property? It’s a conspiracy. They’re all jealous of my money. I’ll show ’em a thing or two.”

  His wife rose from her chair. She knew that when her husband was in one of his tantrums, he was best left alone to tear the occasion to tatters.

  XI

  She took out the punt and poled it up the river, as though the rhythmic trail and thrust of the pole would somehow help her to handle a decision. As an idle woman of pleasure she may have been peculiar in that she did know whether her balance at the bank was on the positive or negative side, and what the rough figure amounted to. She possessed about two hundred and seventy pounds to her credit at her London bank, about fifteen pounds in cash, a three years’ lease of Folly Farm, some furniture, and her jewellery. Possibly, her rings and necklaces were worth two hundred pounds. Max had given her some of these trinkets. She had arranged with her banker to transmit twenty pounds a month to her in cash by registered post. She had the means to rusticate at Folly Farm for a year. Such was her situation in the material sense, but spiritually and emotionally she was nowhere.

  She poled up the river as far as the Temple Manor boat-house, turned, and drifted back towards Folly Island. Its isolated floating greenness attracted her. She ran the punt in under the willows, tied it to a branch, and climbed ashore. Sitting down in the long grass with her face towards Marplot, she saw men uncoiling a hose and Ghent coming down to the pumping-stage with the little brown dog at his heels. His back was turned to her as he stood on the stage and swung the pump-handle, and the chug-chug of the pump joined itself to the sound of water falling at the weir.

  For the moment her thoughts ceased to be centred on herself and crossed the river to Marplot. Poor lad, the year was treating him hardly. Jane was proving a conversational person, and her gossip had spread across the river to the place where her brother worked. Yes, poor Mr. Ghent was having a terrible time of it. It had taken him years to get the nursery back into shape, and just when he looked like making a success of it this dreadful drought had arrived and threatened to ruin him. Yes, and such a clean-living, nice young gentleman. Her brother Bob had always been particular about who he worked for, but there was nothing mean or crooked about Mr. Ghent. Yes, a real gentleman, though he did work with his hands. Not like old Crabtree up at Temple Towers.

  Poor lad! But as she watched that tall figure with its brown arms at work, her compassion changed its temper. This was man, no mere pretty boy, man in his eternal conflict with nature, man, the farmer, woodsman, or pioneer, builder of bridges and of roads, who, when nature in her trampling progress threatens his little dykes and sea-walls, must strip for action and fight back. Lose or win, he remained man, that indomitable creative creature who dared to compete with nature in his planning. Something stirred in her, some elemental urge that was far stronger than mere sensuous fancy. She could feel as woman to this man, she, who in her desperate moments could call herself a mere plaything.

  She sat there on the grass bank, leaning against the trunk of a willow, watching him. She did not see him as Max Broster had seen him, a ridiculous robot, a Hodge, a fool who used his hands when other manipulative activities would be more potent and prosperous. His strength and his will to endure both touched and provoked her. And then her thoughts came back to self. She knew now, and with passion, that she longed to break with this useless, parasitic life; be something, a person, free to choose and free to give.

  She thought: “Yes, to be utterly honest I should try and strip myself of all this tarnish. I should send him back his money, leave that house, and go out naked into a new world. I should try and begin all over again. But how?”

  What a useless creature she was!

  And if he were to know! Did he know?

  More restlessness, more shabby self-revealings. She slipped back into the punt, unfastened it, and set it adrift. Should she obey the impulse of yesterday and go drifting down the river like some Lady of Shallot? But man was there. She could not repeat that rather futile gesture. It would seem like a cheap challenge.

  Another sound came to her across the water, the chug-chug of a mechanism that was not worked by hand, and looking up river she saw the nose of a white motor-boat rounding the loop above Folly Island. It came on at speed, two wings of foam spread at its cutwater, its wash playing along the banks and setting the sedges and water-weeds waving. A wireless was blaring, and a Union Jack flew from the staff at the stern. The boat took the western fork above Folly Island, and whether the occupants saw the punt or not, they did not slacken speed. Indubitably, she was to be
washed. She sat down abruptly on the cushions, facing the oncoming boat, the pole shipped and dripping. The wireless blared. She could read the name on the boat’s white snout “Gigolo.” Ghent turning to look, raised an arm and shouted, but the wireless smothered his voice.

  The girl in control of the speed-boat saw the punt, and swung the wheel over. She did not slacken speed, but swerved across below Folly Island. A little wave of water spilled itself into the rocking punt, and into Mrs. Strangeways’ lap. The wash along the Marplot bank covered Ghent’s pumping stage and filled his shoes with water.

  A figure sat up suddenly in the boat’s stern. It discovered the soused punt and the soused lady.

  “Damn it, Rene, why didn’t you slow down?”

  The boat had swept past, but Mr. Crabtree had seen beauty in distress. He had an eye for a pretty face, if he had no taste in houses.

  “Turn here, you little fool. Got to apologize.”

  The boat slackened speed and swung about, its wireless still blaring.

  “Turn off that damned thing.”

  But another voice sounded across the water.

  “What the devil do you mean by doing a thing like that? Don’t you know the regulations?”

  Crabtree glared at Ghent.

  “Breaking ’em yourself, aren’t you? No right to pump water out of the river. I’ll report you.”

  The boat had come about close to the Marplot bank, and Mr. Crabtree, with his back to Ghent, set out to succour beauty in distress. “Never mind that pump. Got to apologize.” The swell was dying away with faint plashings amid the water-weeds, and the white boat glided doucely towards the punt. Irene had switched off the engine. Mrs. Strangeways was standing up, with the pole in her hands, and her frock showing signs of her sousing.

  “Say, I’m sorry.”

  “She shouldn’t have done it,” said her father; “reckless young devil. Really disgraceful. I’m afraid we gave you a lapful.”

  Mrs. Strangeways smiled at him.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  Mr. Crabtree was emphatic.

  “Believe me, it does. I apologize. That punt’s half swamped, isn’t it? Can we take you aboard, and put you ashore somewhere?”

  “Please don’t trouble. I live just over there.”

  “Folly Farm?”

  “Yes.”

  Boat and punt were side by side, and Mr. Crabtree was standing up and holding his hat in his hand.

  “Very sporting of you, I’m sure. Afraid we’ve spoilt that frock. Ought to make it good, if you’d allow it.”

  “Really, it is quite an old frock.”

  Mr. Crabtree’s glance became more than paternal.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like it to me. Sure we can’t do anything more?”

  “Thank you. I’ll put the punt away, and go in and change.”

  “Yes, you go in and change, my dear. Mustn’t catch cold. I’ll send down to inquire.”

  Irene, who was on the edge of irreverent giggles, started up the engine and wafted her father away.

  “Here, young woman, let me tell you you have no manners.”

  “Ta-ta, Parent. But you did say bow-wow nicely to the pretty lady.”

  “Pretty lady!” said her father. “Haven’t I had you educated?”

  They sped homewards, wrangling, but at Temple Towers both Mr. Crabtree’s head-gardener and his wife received their orders. A basket of strawberries was to be sent down to Folly Farm, and Mary was to enter the Rolls that afternoon and go and call on the lady.

  * * *

  Ghent, with his shoes full of water, watched Mrs. Strangeways put the punt away, and appear on the lawn. She seemed to be in no hurry to change her frock, and she came down to the water’s edge and looked across the river at Peter.

  He hailed her.

  “I’m sorry about that. Did they get you badly?”

  “Rather.”

  “Oughtn’t you to go in and change?”

  “Yes, I will. Who was the dear old gentleman?”

  Ghent was feeling fierce.

  “I suppose you couldn’t smell the paint?”

  “Oh, Mr. Crabtree!”

  “Complete with speed-boat and daughter.”

  She turned and walked up towards the house, and Ghent faced about, and resumed his pumping with sudden ferocity. Was he never to be free from Temple Towers invasions? Had he the right to draw water from the river, and if he had not that right, and old Crabtree sneaked to the man in authority, would he be denied this precious water? Oh, damn and to hell with old Crabtree! And then he heard a voice hailing him.

  “Hallo, sir.”

  “Hallo.”

  “Hose’s bust.”

  “What!”

  “Blown up, sir. Leaking all over the grass.”

  Ghent swore. Damn the hose, and damn all people who manufactured and sold you rubbish. He walked off the stage, climbed the bank, and set off to inspect the damage. Bob had a section of hose in his hands, and he showed Ghent a half-inch split in the tube.

  “Only one-ply, sir.”

  “Yes, I know, Bob. Couldn’t afford more. Blast the ruddy thing. We’ll try some insulating-tape.”

  But he felt sore and savage, and Mrs. Strangeways who had watched the incident from her bedroom window, and who had heard Bob’s shout and some of Peter’s angry language, was moved to quick compassion.

  * * *

  They patched up the shoddy rubber piping, and worked the pump with more discretion, but about four o’clock that afternoon Ghent trod inadvertently on the hose while George was pumping, and the sudden stopping of the flow and the rise and pressure caused the hose to burst about ten yards from the pump. Ghent did not swear on this occasion. He was feeling tired and grim and languageless, and as he walked down to examine this second burst, he saw a thing that pleased him less than the exasperating frailty of a piece of rubber tubing. He saw the Crabtree yellow Rolls buttering its way down the lane to Folly Farm. It stopped outside the garden gate. Old man Crabtree himself emerged from it, followed by his wife. Poor Mary trailed through life behind him, up steps, and through gates and doorways, like some meek cow following the bull.

  Ghent watched them walk along the garden path to the porch. Mr. Crabtree rang the bell, and Jane, who answered the bell, had no reason to love the master of Temple Towers.

  “Your lady in?”

  Jane stammered. She did so when flustered.

  “M-M-Mrs. Strangeways-s-s-ly-lying down.”

  Mary Crabtree was fumbling with her card-case, but her husband was not to be denied his gesture.

  “Sorry to hear that. Go up and tell her that Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree have called. She’s not to come down, mind you, if she’s not feeling up to it. You understand?”

  “Y-Y-Yes, sir,” said Jane.

  So flustered was she that she left them standing in the porch, and went up to tell her mistress, and Mr. Crabtree, with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, stood and watched Ghent and George Garland disconnecting the burst hose.

  Mr. Crabtree was pleased. That young pup had taken the hint, had he, and was scared. Well, anyway, he would report the matter to the Conservators. Poor, silly, piddling show, that of young Ghent’s. Obviously, the drought was getting the better of him. In six months Marplot might be on the market.

  Jane returned.

  “Will you step in, please. Mrs. S-S-Strangeways will be down in two minutes.”

  What was it that made her say that she was in to Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, and to offer them tea in the garden? Ghent was asking that question, and so was she when the more remote significance of the social occasion dawned on her. She could have excused herself so easily, and yet she had flown into a pretty frock, attended to face and hair, and come down. She addressed herself to the lady, only to realize almost immediately that Mary Crabtree was very much a supernumerary, and that the old man had set the stage.

  “Felt I must apologize again for this morning.”

  “Oh, it was nothing.”r />
  “Believe me, I don’t regard it as nothing. A spoilt frock’s a serious matter, isn’t it, Mother?”

  Mrs. Crabtree agreed with him as though he had pulled some invisible string. Old Crabtree was eyeing her frock.

  “That didn’t cost three guineas, anyway!”

  He was jaunty and debonair, and she began to realize that he had cruel, sensual eyes. He was the sort of old man who would begin patting you, and sitting close to you on a sofa.

  She said: “Shall we go out into the garden? Perhaps you will stay, and have tea there?”

  The room was too much like a cage with that old savage sitting and appraising her. She felt that all her points were being considered like the points of a mare that might be for sale. It was devastating how quickly some old men summed you up, and put you and your past and your future into a particular pigeonhole.

  She rang the bell.

  “Oh, Jane, we will have tea in the garden, please.”

  They went out, and she felt that she wanted to keep Mary Crabtree between her and her husband. She began to talk garden. She even asked Mrs. Crabtree’s advice. Old Crabtree was facetious. He made fun of his wife’s horticultural enthusiasms.

  “Got any snails, Mrs. Strangeways? My wife is great on snails.”

  She was conscious of his intimate staring. She gathered that her legs interested him. She could see him smirking; and suddenly she felt desperate.

  “I’m afraid my husband doesn’t know much about gardens.”

  She was aware of the old man giving her a hard, cynical look. He grinned at her.

  “Frocks more in his line, what!”

  She realized that in trying to snub him, she had said the silliest thing it would have been possible for her to say.

  Husband—what! A gentleman who came down for the week-end to enjoy himself with a pretty lady who had a nice taste in frocks! Temple Towers was a man of the world, yes, sir, a man of the world! When a pretty woman like Mrs. Strangeways put up a hypothetical husband, it suggested a cock-shy and a challenge. Old man Crabtree sat down in the best deck-chair, leaving to Mary an uncouth rustic seat. He laid his hat on the grass, pulled up his trousers, and displayed light blue silk socks.