Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  Yes, he was in love with her, whatever she was and whatever she would be. Dear God, he had never thought to be in love like this! It wounded him, and he exulted. It was a kind of burning, aching tenderness. He wanted her as the parched soil wanted rain, but he did not want her as he supposed that other men had wanted her. Somehow, mere crude sex seemed rather horrible when he thought of her. Was her cry: “Oh, please, not that. Not yet.” The eyes of her spirit were open. They did not ask to be closed with fleshly kisses.

  * * *

  She leaned over in bed to blow out the candle, hesitated, and chose to let it burn a little longer.

  She too was asking questions of life, questions that can be insoluble unless emotion breathes upon them.

  She had read somewhere that the art of living is not revealed to the very clever people, because life is movement and feeling not a mathematical formula. Shabby thinking made for shabby living, and so much of modern thought is like iced water, brilliant but sterile.

  What was she to do?

  Something or nothing?

  If she had said that the woman of yesterday was dead, then yesterday must die with yesterday’s woman.

  But how?

  She was like some rather exotic plant that needed a support, a stake to which it could be attached. She had been conceived to cling, to put out tendrils.

  What a problem!

  She turned on her side and blew out the candle.

  * * *

  Wind, and the same grey, cloud-smirched sky, a shabby sky that would not rain. Yet, on this depressing morning, the day’s labour had for Ghent something of the tang of adventure.

  “All hands to the pump, Bob.”

  He could make a jest of it, even to rallying the flimsy hose-pipe upon its frailties and perversities. They trailed it out towards the plot whose turn it was to be given drink, and Ghent went down to the pumping-stage.

  The river was dull and ruffled silver, the willows unhappy in the wind. Ghent had his back to Folly Farm, but now and again as he changed hands, he would half turn and glance over a shoulder at the garden across the water. He had been pumping for an hour, and George Garland was due to relieve him, when he saw her come out into the garden carrying a little brown box and an oblong, flat object that looked like a sheet of cardboard. She arranged a chair and table, and returning to the house, reappeared with a jug of water. Sitting down with the sketching-block on her knees, she looked across the river, and raised a hand to him, a little slip of whiteness that made him think of a candle flame.

  George came down to the river on long, deliberate legs, his cap tilted back and showing a ruff of impudent hair.

  “My go, sir. No bursts this morning.”

  Ghent made way for him, and climbing the bank, walked off to join Bob at the filling-tank, but coming to a clump of English yews that stood six feet in their socks, he paused behind them, and looked back. Yes, she was sketching or painting, and he stood and watched the movements of her head and hand. Her chin would come up, and her glance rest for some seconds upon the distant scene, and then her fair head would bow itself, and her hand become busy. What was her subject? The valley, his groves of trees, or even a human figure labouring at a pump? It occurred to him to wonder whether she could paint flowers. Flowers were the most difficult of all subjects, especially in the mass. He had tried an amateurish hand at it and produced nothing but a colour blurr, sentimental jam. You couldn’t be just photographic or just impressionist and easy-arty. A flower-border was as subtle as a human face, far more so than some faces.

  The work went on. They were dealing with a plantation of choice hybrid rhododendrons, and round each plant a little saucer-shaped hollow had been scooped with a hoe so that the water should sink without waste into the root-ball. Moreover, in working through such a plantation and especially with cans, Ghent and Bob had to move delicately so as not to damage the trees, for the rhododendron is a brittle subject. They were in the middle of the plantation when Peter heard a particular sound that associated itself with hostile memories. The Crabtree motor-boat was coming down the river but with more dignity and less crashing speed than on a previous occasion.

  Ghent stood listening.

  “Here’s our old friend, Bob.”

  Fanshaw, emptying a can into one of the water-scoops, turned a laconic head.

  “Someone ought to tell him something. Heard about The Rookery, sir?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “The Council are on him to put the place in order, and what do you think he says he’ll do?”

  “Go to law, of course.”

  “No, take the ruddy roof off the old houses, and let them rot.”

  “He can’t do that, Bob, with the tenants inside. Wait a moment, listen.”

  The boat’s engine had been switched off, and they could hear someone whistling as one whistles to a dog, but since this method of demanding attention did not produce the necessary reaction, Mr. Crabtree took to shouting.

  “Hi, you there!”

  The sound of pumping ceased.

  “What do you mean by taking water out of the river? I warned young Ghent.”

  George had a quick temper and a quicker tongue.

  “You don’t own the river, do you? This isn’t The Rookery.”

  Mr. Crabtree was standing up.

  “I don’t want any sauce from you, my man. I don’t deal with underlings. You go and fetch your boss.”

  George grinned on him.

  “Fetch him yourself. We’ve got a saying in these parts, Crabtree. You can put a beggar on horseback, but you can’t make a gentleman of him.”

  Ghent had waded out of the plantation, and was striding down towards the river. He could see Mrs. Strangeways, an attentive listener under the lime trees, and old Crabtree’s Panama hat and flat and angry face. George had landed him one.

  Ghent came down to the bank.

  “Good morning, Mr. Crabtree.”

  “Ha, there you are! I’d like a——”

  “One moment, Mr. Crabtree. I shall be obliged if you’ll refrain from whistling at my men. They’re not dogs, you know.”

  The saturnine Scattergood, who was acting as motor-man, smirked exultantly behind his master’s back. This was the stuff to give ’em!

  Mr. Crabtree shouted.

  “I don’t want any impertinence from you, Ghent. I’ve warned you, haven’t I, against taking water from the river?”

  Ghent smiled at him.

  “If you would try and mind your own business, Mr. Crabtree, you might be more respected by your neighbours.”

  “It is my business, Ghent, and you know it. I’ve got land below you on the river. I’ve got a right to see that my water isn’t interfered with.”

  George Garland laughed. The words suggested other and elemental obstructions. Old Crabtree glared at him.

  “Yes, a lout like you can be taught to laugh on the other side of his face.”

  “Try it,” said George.

  But Ghent gave Garland a nod.

  “Go on pumping.”

  George swung the handle, and Ghent, looking steadily at “Temple Towers,” showed smiling teeth.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Crabtree. The trouble with you is that you have never been educated. You don’t know how to behave,” and he turned about and went back to his work among the trees.

  But Ghent continued to keep his eyes upon the river. The engine of the motor-boat came to life for a dozen detonations, which gave the craft steering-weigh. Mr. Crabtree had sat down, simmering. He had come upon other and more romantic affairs, and not to be insulted by a pauper like young Ghent. Scattergood had orders to run the boat alongside the Folly Farm steps.

  “I’ll have to give that lad a lesson.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Scattergood obsequiously, still gloating over George Garland’s country candour.

  Mrs. Strangeways saw the boat making for her steps. Surely, the old wretch would not have the hardihood to come ashore and invade her garden after that very
vulgar scene? But she did not know her Crabtree or appreciate the thickness of his skin. The boat sidled to her steps, and Scattergood stood up and held it pinned there with a boat-hook. She saw Mr. Crabtree rise on his short, thick legs. He had a basket in his hand. More strawberries!

  She did not rise to meet him. She remained there with her sketching-block on her knees. She was afraid no longer of Mr. Crabtree and his world. Her appeal to youth had put her beyond and above such barbarians.

  “Good morning.”

  He took off his hat to her, and his close-cropped, grizzled head was like his smirk.

  “Must apologize for someone’s bad manners.”

  Her reply was instant.

  “We all lose our tempers, sometimes, Mr. Crabtree.”

  “Ah, but I don’t allow young louts like Ghent to lose their tempers with me.”

  Her eyes widened. Incredible old man! Did he believe that he had behaved with dignity?

  “Yes, a man in my position has to exert authority. Discipline, Mrs. Strangeways. I know how to deal with some of these bright young lads. Thought you might like these.”

  He displayed the fruit, and then placed the basket on the ground.

  “Doing a bit of painting, what?”

  “Yes, just dabbling.”

  He sidled round and looking over her shoulder, stood staring at a piece of impressionism in colour, soft greys, blues and greens, which puzzled him not a little. He liked his colours crude, and if he saw any colour more habitually than others, it was red. Moreover, he had the commercialist’s contempt for anything that was arty, or assumed such contempt. Men of affairs hired out such people, as you might hire a troupe of acrobats or half a dozen performing dogs.

  “Very nice. But what’s that there?”

  He had discovered some sort of human figure in the study, low down, near what he assumed to be water.

  “Which?”

  He bent over and pointed, and she felt his breath on the nape of her neck.

  “That thing. Looks like a man.”

  “Oh, that’s youth.”

  “Youth!”

  “Yes, symbolical, you know, youth, in conflict with nature, and the perversities of old man river.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “That’s a song, isn’t it? That nigger fellow used to sing it.”

  “Yes, it’s a song.”

  “And who’s the fellow in the picture?”

  “Mr. Ghent.”

  “What!”

  She assumed an air of bright innocence.

  “Yes, you see, he’s part of the landscape, somehow, part of the real country, not bungalows and cheap motor-cars. He belongs there.”

  Mr. Crabtree was gazing suspiciously at the back of her neck. He did not understand her, and when he did not understand a thing he felt insulted. Someone might be trying to pull his leg.

  “Well, he won’t be long there, my dear. If you ask me, you can paint him out of the picture.”

  She raised her head and appeared to look dreamily into the distance.

  “Oh, why? I’m afraid I’m rather stupid, Mr. Crabtree.”

  She heard him grunt.

  “Well, he’ll be put out of business, and a man who’s out of business isn’t in the picture. Simply doesn’t count, you know. No ideas. I’m a man of ideas.”

  She smiled vaguely.

  “I see. Ideas. Of course, you are very much in the picture, Mr. Crabtree.”

  “I should say so. I own half the landscape.”

  “You don’t mind my painting your landscape?”

  “You paint what you please, my dear. I’ll buy it. Now, try a strawberry. Old Mother Vandeleur hasn’t any fruit like mine.”

  XIII

  Mrs. Prance of the Blue Lagoon was a jocund person, broad of hip, broad of nose, black of hair and of eye, a veritable Jocasta of a woman, whose breadth extended in other directions. She knew her world and she knew the creature man, especially so when it appeared as Crabtree, and since she had received some financial backing from Temple Towers, she was her most jocund self when the man of ideas turned up. She spread her hips and her bosom at him, and gave him jocund glances, and sat him down in her best chair, and with her own hands mixed him a cocktail.

  “Why do they call ’em cocktails, Corah?”

  “Because it’s good for the hens, my dear.”

  Mr. Crabtree chuckled. He liked his humour that way, and Mrs. Prance’s humour was as broad as her face. She sat spread before him with a voluminous opulence which she knew was pleasing to lustful old men. Meanwhile, she wondered whether his visit postulated business or pleasure, or both.

  “Well, how are houses?”

  “Laying well. Good egg, my dear. Here’s to us.”

  They clinked glasses, and drank.

  “And how’s the naked stuff, swimming-pool and all that?”

  Mrs. Prance crinkled up her broad nose.

  “Not too bad. The weather’s a bit bloody, of course. But then, this dryness.”

  “Good for wets.”

  “Or the wits, old dear.”

  “Yes, I’ve got them all right. Ideas. By the way, that young fellow Ghent any use to you?”

  “Not much. Sold me some trees for my tubs.”

  “Well, I’m getting him tied up. I’ve caught him pumping water out of the river, your water, my water. I own the bank opposite you, you know, for half a mile. That means it’s our water. I’m going for him over this. Won’t you come in on the row?”

  Mrs. Prance twiddled her glass.

  “Litigation?”

  “Yes, but you don’t pay. You just come in with me on the protest. I’m going to see Sowerby this afternoon. You see, young Ghent’s been rude to me, and I don’t allow a cub like him to cheek me. Give him a lesson. Dry him up, both ways.”

  “You’re tough,” said she.

  He was pleased.

  “I am that. I’m a bad man to quarrel with. You see, if you get a penurious pup like young Ghent tied up in litigation, when he can’t afford it, the thing’s easy. I’ve a mind to buy his potty little nursery, and when I want a thing I get it. Ideas. It wouldn’t make a bad building site. Good for you too, Corah.”

  She laughed at him and with him.

  “Yes, trees can’t bathe.”

  “And they only drink water, what! Oh, by the way, called on Mrs. Strangeways at Folly Farm?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you do. Nice little bit. You might ask her to one of your Saturday hops.”

  “And you’ll honour us?”

  Mr. Crabtree winked at her.

  “I might, if her amateur husband doesn’t cut in for the week-end.”

  The yellow Rolls and Scattergood were waiting for him, and twenty minutes later a clerk climbed the stairs to Mr. Sowerby’s room and told him that Mr. Roger Crabtree was below. The lawyer smiled a little tired smile. He had been to a dance the night before, and the jazz band had somehow reminded him of those flamboyant functions at Temple Towers where five or six insolent young men produced an insolent cacophony and called it music.

  “Show Mr. Crabtree up.”

  Listening to Temple Towers objurgations on riparian rights, and the campaign that was to be opened against that rather nice lad with the honest eyes, Mr. Sowerby seemed to hear once more the splurgings of a saxophone. Was there anything quite like the crass cunning of this old bandit? Human nature was sometimes incredible, but it came and sat in your office, and was both malicious and self-righteous.

  “You see, we should get him both ways, Sowerby. If we put him off water, his trees die, and if he’s got to beat us he’ll have to spend money which he hasn’t got. What’s the position? I’ve always understood that a fellow can’t draw water from a river if the owners below him object.”

  Mr. Sowerby would not commit himself, but he said: “Don’t you think this matter rather too small for you?”

  “Small?”

  “Yes. Ghent’s only a youngster, and——”

  “The cub’
s been rude to me, and I’ll teach him a lesson.”

  Mr. Sowerby closed his eyes for a moment. He was still hearing jazz band and hating it.

  “I’d rather you handled the matter yourself, Mr. Crabtree.”

  “What! You mean you won’t act?”

  “That is my meaning. I shouldn’t feel quite happy about it.”

  “Damn it, man, I don’t see why. It’s business.”

  “Quite so, but if I might tender you some advice, not only as a lawyer, but as a man——”

  “You mean, I’ve got no case?”

  “Ethically, I think not.”

  “Ethically! What’s that?”

  Mr. Sowerby gently smiled at him.

  “Oh, well, our ideas don’t quite tally. I’d rather you handled the matter yourself, or——”

  Mr. Crabtree looked hard at the lawyer.

  “You’re a snob like the rest of ’em, Sowerby. Is that it?”

  “Not quite that, sir, I think. Why not write Mr. Ghent a friendly letter?”

  “I’ll write him a letter, Sowerby, a letter with some guts in it. And let me tell you, I don’t like your attitude. It isn’t professional. It’s—it’s smug. I pay a lawyer to defend my interests.”

  “I should always be ready to do that for a client, but there are other interests, you know. Even a lawyer has to be somewhat impartial.”

  “Well, I don’t pay for that sort of stuff. A fellow who can’t or won’t deliver the goods is no use to me.”

  And Mr. Crabtree walked out of the office.

  * * *

  Mrs. Strangeways had put her painting-block away, and was writing a letter, balancing the pad upon her knee. It was so much more easy a letter to write now that she had confessed herself to the spirit of youth, and was ready to put off the frock of expediency. Mr. Crabtree’s basket of strawberries lay on the grass beside her like some pagan offering, and Jane, coming out into the garden to consult her mistress upon some domestic detail, was told to remove that basket of fruit.