Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “You can eat them, Jane, or take them across to your brother.”

  “Don’t you fancy ’em, m’am?”

  “No, Jane.”

  Jane picked up the basket and carried it into the house. Two pounds of perfect fruit! They might be a Crabtree product, but that was no reason why they should not be enjoyed, and Jane helped herself to half a dozen, popping them primly into her mouth, and dropping the stalks into the colander which she kept in the sink for the reception of such oddments.

  Mrs. Strangeways re-read what she had written.

  Dear Max,

  I think it must have become obvious to both of us that a certain association has ceased to be real. I have been asking myself how so personal a recession should be persuaded to make its exit. I make no claims, and ask you to make none.

  It is rather my wish that I should write you a cheque for such money as I have lying at the bank. Also, I should like to return the lease of this house and the furniture. Please do not misunderstand me. There is no pique in my decision. It is just that I have a feeling that what has happened between us should come to an end with some sort of dignity and niceness.

  I hope you are feeling better, my dear.

  Please don’t worry about me.

  Let us give each other back our freedom, and say “Thank you.”

  How strange was life! A month ago she would not have had the courage to write such a letter, and confront its implied finality. But the wheel turned, and the season changed, or the skies were opened, and you discovered unsuspected springs of chastity welling up within you. With a sincerity that was ruthless she was stripping herself of the past and its material hypocrisies, and going out naked into the world, she who was wise as to the beastliness of such an adventure. She would possess nothing, or next to nothing. She might be one of that crowd of lonely, resourceless women who have nothing to sell but sex, and for her such merchandise was no longer marketable. Yet, she was conscious of a strange peace, serenity, a tremor of exultation. She would be herself once more, free to live or die, to love or lose as the spirit of her chose.

  What did this mean? That she was still young with the passionate generosity of youth, a creature to whom shabby compromise was cowardly. She could do the mad thing. She could crucify herself for an illusion. She could go and fight in Spain like some crusading youngster whom the old men called a fool. She could play the Magdalene, and give all in tears and unguents. What would the conventionalists say of such a choice? Shrug, and catalogue it as a form of emotional self-flagellation? Well, she did not care. All the accostings of life, its shabby, oblique glances in the market-place, had become like that basket of strawberries.

  She was happy.

  She had not known such happiness as this for years.

  Even if death came it would be clean.

  Yes, she was happy.

  * * *

  In the soft, summer twilight Ghent walked twice to the crown of the Weir Bridge, and each time the spirit failed in him. He could see her sitting under the lime trees, her straw-coloured dress like a flake of sunlight in the green dusk. He stood there and was afraid, and even the familiar tumult of the weir seemed strange to him.

  * * *

  For a second time he found himself loitering in the Marplot lane. He could hear Bunter barking at the garden gate. “Why this thusness, my master? Have courage.” Yes, life was so much simpler for a dog who loved with his eyes and his tongue and his tail, and was not afflicted with supersensitive inhibitions. Why not behave like that most lovable and trustful of creatures? Why tie up your soul with insulating-tape or wrap it in cellophane? Man was more than a parcel of frustrated urges.

  For a third time he set out towards the bridge, and as the hedge gave place to parapet, and the river and the Folly Farm garden became visible he saw that her chair was empty. He stood stock-still, shocked by the thought that she had seen his previous saunterings and misconstrued them. Had she imagined that he was going to do the thing that he had flinched from doing, and that she too was afraid, and had fled into the house? She was in no mood to meet him. She—— But, then, of course, she might not realize, might mistrust, might flinch from what might seem to be just sex-adventure. He could not go blundering down into her garden like some besotted boy. It was unthinkable that he should hurt her.

  The road, rising at the bridge, remained dead ground beyond it, and Ghent, strolling on up the slope, suddenly saw her coming towards him. Again, he stood still. She had something white in one hand. There was a letter-box in a brick pillar on the Marplot side of the bridge, and he could suppose that she had come out to post a letter. But had she seen him on the bridge, and had she been waiting until she thought the coast was clear?

  What ought he to do? Turn back? But that would be absurd and churlish. Walk on and pretend that he was going to Chesters? She was very near now. She had shown no sign of faltering, and as he watched her face, it seemed to him that it had a kind of shadowless sheen. If he was like Balaam’s ass, she appeared as untroubled as God’s angel.

  “Jane told me that there is a box here.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Yes, can I post it for you? I just came out to look at the sky.”

  “I think I can walk as far as that. No rain yet, I’m afraid.”

  He was standing by the parapet with the straightness and gravity of a sentry upon duty. No, she could not let him post that letter for her. He might have seen to whom it was addressed, and he could not very well divine its contents and their significance.

  He said: “I am sorry about this morning.”

  She had paused.

  “Need you apologize for that ridiculous old man?”

  “I’m afraid he is more than that.”

  Her face became as serious as his.

  “Do you think so? At the same time I’d like to warn you that——”

  “Oh, yes, I know. He wants to stop me using water. It’s all very petty and puerile.”

  “But can he?”

  “I believe he can make things awkward. There are all sorts of legal snags, Conservators and Water Boards, and owners’ rights.”

  “I’m afraid I’m dreadfully ignorant.”

  “Well, one is. One doesn’t go about looking for trouble, until someone like our old friend tries to cross you. But you want to post your letter.”

  “Won’t you come too?”

  She saw his face and figure lose their stiffness.

  “May I?”

  “Well, it’s not very far! And these long summer evenings make one feel restless.”

  “Yes, one can see too much.”

  She glanced up at him quickly.

  “Oh! Just how?”

  “What I meant was, that you can go prowling around, looking at things you can’t alter. In winter——”

  “You have to just sit by the fire?”

  “Yes. But I’m not going to——”

  “Why not?”

  “But you didn’t know that I was——”

  “Perhaps I did. It’s your trees.”

  They had reached the box, and she slipped the letter into it.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s my trees.”

  “Do you love them very much?”

  “Yes, one does. Besides, it’s more than that.”

  “I know. We’re both up against things, in different ways. Mayn’t I see your trees?”

  “Now?”

  “Well, it’s rather dark. To-morrow?”

  “I’d love you to. I have to go out in the morning. Would you come to tea? I’m afraid things are looking rather shabby.”

  “It’s a shabby summer. Yes, I’ll come. About what time?”

  “Half-past four?”

  She turned to go back, and he walked with her over the bridge and as far as the Folly Farm gate, and in crossing the river after the posting of that letter she felt that she had put clean water between her and the past.

  * * *

  If we analyse ourselves too mercilessly we may d
iscover that we are very ridiculous creatures, and that nothing in life is really worth while; so, it would appear that the tyrant, petty or otherwise, must remain unridiculous to himself, and his appetite for power inexhaustible.

  So, two men, opening and reading their morning letters, could fly off and up into different clouds, and conceal themselves in emotional vapour. Ghent, with old Crabtree’s threatening letter in his pocket, went out to reflect upon it, and in wandering among his trees saw them as a tired physician might become conscious of poor humanity. He saw them differently, not merely as sick things to be succoured, but as poor bodies many of which were tainted, and would never be fit for life’s market-place.

  Yes, why hadn’t he realized it before? Because he was young, because this was his first experience of one of nature’s disharmonies? Not only would scores of his conifers die, many that survived would be tainted trees, and in the brutal language of old Crabtree, unsaleable. He saw it now as he wandered amid the plantations. Rusty streaks everywhere, dead branches, tarnish, green bodies that looked as though vitriol had been splashed over parts of them. He might save his trees, or rain might save them, but hundreds of his conifers would be unsaleable, lopsided, maimed specimens which could not be fobbed off on possible purchasers. People expected to be supplied with perfect trees, not cripples with dead streaks in them. Well, naturally. Nor could he, as an expert and a lover of trees, send out stuff that he would have described as rubbish.

  Yes, how was it that he had not realized that after all this fuss and fury, this humping of cans, he was yet to be nature’s fool, one of her whipping-boys? The dead trees that would stand there in sad and rusty splendour would be less significant than those that survived and were maimed. After years of work this shabby summer would leave him with hundreds of cripples, blemished things which were useless. Well, well! What was he going to do about it? Hang on, replace the cripples? And how? By propagation or by purchase? He could not afford to buy in new stock, unless it was baby stuff, and seed-sowing and cuttings meant that he would have to serve another seven years for Rachel.

  Rachel! No, her name was—— But where the devil was he allowing himself to drift?

  He sat down on the river bank and re-read Roger Crabtree’s letter.

  Old beast!

  The young man in him raged. Was youth always to be flouted and fooled by the cunning old men? No, damn it, he would fight. After all, he still had his flowering shrubs, and his deciduous stuff, and the more precious things. Life had given him a slap in the face, and there was old Crabtree waiting on the other side of the hedge and expecting him to throw up his hands and boohoo.

  Damn old Crabtree!

  He made as though to tear up the letter and throw the pieces into the river, but he put it back in his pocket.

  He was going up to see Lady Vandeleur. He would show her the letter. She was such an Olympian person. She always made you feel bigger than you were. Also, he was hoping that something might come of Sir Gavin Marwood’s presence at Thursby. Given a job like the reconditioning of Thursby—— But, good Lord, one of the big bow-wow firms would more likely swallow that! The bill might run into thousands.

  Also, she was coming to tea, and to look at his poor trees. Sybil. Yes, that name suited her. And had not she said that she too was up against things.

  He would go and see Lady Melissa.

  * * *

  Ghent’s old car turned into the south lodge gate, and he saw the great avenue before him. He drove slowly, for the avenue’s stateliness forbade crass speed; my lady loved neither cars nor aeroplanes. These splendid trees with their smooth grey trunks and their branches interlacing overhead belonged to a gracious and an understanding world. Under the high green roof of the beeches the light had a greenish tinge, and the air was exquisitely cool. Right and left the avenue’s windows gave Ghent glimpses of the park, scrolls of grass growing tawny for lack of rain. Here too were more splendid trees that in their strength defied the drought, and innumerable vistas that ended in mystery.

  Ghent drove up to the great white house which looked so cool and calm in its world of trees. Peace and assuagement dwelt here. Never had he come to Temple Manor without feeling that a tranquil and consoling hand had been laid upon his forehead. He took the car round to the stable yard and parking it there, made his way to a particular door. It was a private door, and used by the privileged few, and over its lintel it bore a Latin inscription, saying “This is the Door of Friends.”

  Ghent rang the bell, and found himself looking into the familiar and paternal face of old Sanderson the butler.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sanderson. I wonder if her ladyship could see me?”

  “I expect so, sir.”

  “I don’t want to trouble her if—— Would you ask? Say I can come at any other time.”

  Old Sanderson had two smiles, one that was polite and clipped, and one which spread to his whiskers. He gave Ghent the whisker smile.

  “Her ladyship is on the terrace. She will be going round the garden.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “No, come in, Mr. Ghent. We’ve no party.”

  Ghent followed him in.

  The great house was as cool and serene as its beech trees. It was full of beautiful things, things that said: “Look at me, and you may touch me if you have the right kind of fingers.” The great hall was paved with squares of black and white marble, and Ghent always had the feeling that you should walk delicately over this floor. The high doorway and the tall windows were full of sunlight and green distances. He followed Sanderson, and saw the back of one of those big basket chairs, like a sentry-box, with a seat.

  “Mr. Ghent, my lady.”

  Peter saw her knees and feet, and a hand, and then her profile.

  “Mr. Ghent? Thank you, Sanderson. Bring Mr. Ghent a chair.”

  She rose and stood for a moment, looking into his young face with those very kind, shrewd eyes. They could be very disconcerting eyes to people who did not please her, and the one thing she abhorred was insincerity. Almost she could respect the sincerity of old Crabtree’s crass selfishness and the stupendous stupidity of it, while despising his snobbery. If she loved youth, she loved it for its hot and magnanimous angers and its urge to set life free, though she knew that youth could be as self-absorbed as any Narcissus.

  “Sit down, Peter.”

  “Are you sure I’m not——”

  “Quite sure. Besides, I want to pick your brains about one or two things.”

  Some people used that horrible word psychic about her, but if she had peculiar powers of divination, that was for herself and the few. Besides, Peter’s very sensitive face was read so easily, like a boy’s face or a dog’s face. She hated faces that hung in front of you like bladders of lard.

  He sat down and looked across the terrace at her landscape, and then along it to the group of cypresses that had been planted for a particular purpose, to shut out the impertinence that was Temple Towers.

  “I’ve come for advice.”

  She smiled at him.

  “At my age one gives advice without expecting it to be taken.”

  “It is rather necessary, in this case.”

  Was he hard up, poor lad, and needing help? She did not like people who whimpered. She preferred the courage of the common people to the voluble pessimism and self-pity of the pseudo-intellectualists.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s my dear neighbour.”

  “Mr. Roger Crabtree?”

  “Yes,” and he passed her the letter.

  He watched her face while she was reading the letter. She began to smile. There were little crinkles of mischief round her eyes.

  “Dear old man. Really, you know, Peter, he is rather like a gadfly.”

  “Only you can’t swat him.”

  “No, but he might be tamed, or educated. If he were received into a society in which certain things were not done, he might learn to cease from doing them. I think I was wrong in not calling on Temple Towe
rs. What a conceited old woman!”

  Ghent laughed.

  “If anyone could cure him——! But what about his threat to take action? I’m quite ignorant of the law.”

  “I think he could make much trouble for you, Peter. I’ll get an opinion on it.”

  “Oh, but you mustn’t bother.”

  “It piques me. But wait a moment. There’s a way round. I have heard of it being done before. No one can prevent you from digging a surface well within a few yards of the river. Water would seep into it.”

  His face lit up.

  “Why didn’t I think of that? Ten feet would be enough. We could do it in a day, and sink our pump out of sight.”

  She folded up the letter.

  “I’ll keep this, if I may, for my lawyers. It’s such a characteristic document. And how are things?”

  “Oh, not too good. A lot of damage. The drought is going to spoil lots of trees, even if it doesn’t kill them.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter.”

  “I’m going to fight it out with nature and old Crabtree. Even if I go down, he shan’t have Marplot.”

  “You won’t go down, my dear. By the way, I am seeing Sir Gavin soon. I will do a little canvassing.”

  “Do you really think I have a chance?”

  “I do.”

  “It would help me most terribly. I don’t know why you should trouble.”

  “Just because I like to. Cynics would call it the selfish glow engendered by the exercise of patronage.”

  “Oh, damn the cynics! They would pull a butterfly to pieces and then assert that flight could not have been possible to so flimsy a creature. And they analyse motives as though they were looking for maggots in cheese.”

  “Good for you, my dear. By the way, I haven’t called yet on your new neighbour.”

  “I rather wish you would. Old Crabtree has.”