Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “You mustn’t take me up wrong, sir.”

  “I won’t. Mrs. Strangeways is coming to see you this morning. I know she’ll be terribly pleased if you’ll stay.”

  He had gone out to post a letter, which contained a request for a copy of his birth certificate; and half an hour earlier Mrs. Strangeways had posted a similar request to the registrar of a south-coast town. Neither of them had enclosed any money for the necessary fee, for neither of them knew that a fee was necessary. They were, what Mrs. Maintenance believed them to be in spite of scandal, a pair of perfect innocents.

  Peter had returned to the office, remembering that the rather unpleasant letter from his bank-manager called for a reply. Well, he would write and say that he might be expected in Loddon during the week. But, damn it, an overdraft was a nice wedding-present! He did not hear the gate-bell ring, but George, who had been at work in the Shop Window, poked his head into the office.

  “Visitor, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “A gentleman.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Never seen him before, sir.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No. Said he wanted to look round.”

  Poor Peter was living in that state of sensitive suspicion, when a man who is hard up hopes for good news, but rather expects it to be bad. Any casual stranger might have some sinister motive in exploring the nursery, so Ghent left his letter to the bank unwritten, and went out to confront the visitor and his business. He found a gentleman in a grey tweed suit, sitting on the seat, with his hat reposing beside him. The gentleman was a complete stranger to Ghent, but that was not the measure of his singularity. Peter had a feeling that he had seen that massive white head and jocund face before. But where, and when? His visitor smiled at him, and the smile did not suggest that his motives were surreptitious.

  “Mr. Ghent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought I would like to look round.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  Meanwhile, the stranger was looking very hard at Ghent, but with a pleasant scrutiny that did not become a stare. Nor did Ghent mind being looked at in this way. He was continuing to question his memory as to the familiarity of this memorable face.

  “You’ll excuse me, sir, but have you been here before?”

  “No, Mr. Ghent.”

  “Well, that acquits me of discourtesy.”

  He was smiling at his visitor, and the gentleman on the seat smiled back at him. This was a likeable lad, who had manners, and who looked you straight in the face, and who yet was sensitive. Bovine candour is not pleasing to the gods.

  “Would you like me to show you round, sir?”

  The visitor rose.

  “I should. Charming little piece, this. I suppose you do constructional work?”

  “Yes, when I can get it.”

  The gentleman in grey looked at him paternally.

  “Creating, what?”

  “Yes, it’s rather fascinating, sir, to take something that is nothing, or just blah, and dress it.”

  “Like cultivating the village maiden!”

  “Oh, I’m afraid she’s rather mass-production, sir.”

  “Same all over the world, Mr. Ghent, Bulgaria, Texas, Tooting and Berlin. Same sort of stockings, same sort of hat, same messy mouths. I hear you specialize in trees.”

  They were passing the Camperdown Elm and the Weeping Beech, and the visitor paused to look at them.

  “Quite the crinoline period, Mr. Ghent. It’s a pity the other sex now puts everything in the shop-window. The whole art of life consists in leaving something to the imagination. Well, let’s look at your trees.”

  Ghent was frowning to himself.

  “I ought to tell you, sir, that we have had a bad season here.”

  “Drought?”

  “Yes. There are a lot of trees I couldn’t send out. Wouldn’t be fair.”

  “To the customer or the trees?”

  “Both, sir.”

  The visitor was observing Peter’s bothered face.

  “I see. But I suppose you have trees that are saleable?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. If you should want trees, I would advise you as to what I could supply you with. It is no satisfaction to me to send out rubbish.”

  Was the lad a prig? No, most certainly not. He was a craftsman with the conscience of a craftsman, not a carefully trained commercial liar. Mr. White Head knew that when the ordinary trader begins to prate about honesty, he may be preparing to sell you a pup. It was not a modest age, and not always a very truthful one.

  The gentleman strolled on.

  “How long do you keep trees in a nursery, Mr. Ghent?”

  “How long? Oh, anything from one to ten years. You see, a youngster may be three years old before he is put out in a plantation. And if they get too old they are apt to become unsaleable, unless they have had special treatment.”

  “Lot of capital lying idle.”

  “Yes, that is one of the troubles, sir. You have to lock all sorts of things up in the land.”

  “Labour, and cash, and love.”

  Ghent gave his visitor a quick and vivid glance.

  “Yes, love, sir. That’s true.”

  Mr. White Head had surprised him, and there was a subtle and mutual pleasure in the feeling.

  Peter, of course, was wondering who his visitor was, and whether anything helpful would come of this pilgrimage. So many people wandered round his nursery, and asked the names of things and made notes, and were never heard of again. Some people asked for one of his precious catalogues—he had about a baker’s dozen left in the office—and sent him no order. Yet, you had to cast your bread upon the waters, even if it did not return to you stale or mouldy. Nor did he make a habit of asking his visitors for their names and addresses, and however strong his curiosity might be he had no intention of trying to pin Mr. White Head down on paper.

  When they had completed the round, and his visitor had asked a number of intelligent questions which betrayed an interest in the life of a tree, Peter led him to the door of the office, but did not attempt to lure him inside.

  “Would you care for a catalogue, sir?”

  “I should, Mr. Ghent.”

  Peter produced the catalogue and walked with his visitor to the iron gates. Mr. White Head was expecting to be asked for his name, but Ghent did not ask for it. He opened the gate and smiled his visitor out.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Ghent. I think you will hear from me.”

  Ghent closed the gate and strolled back to the office, and his visitor walked down the road to where a small saloon car was parked beside the hedge.

  “Temple Manor, Smith.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sir Gavin Marwood entered his car.

  In “The House” Sir Gavin Marwood’s genial moods had become legendary. His political opponents had had cause to know that when that great white head appeared with a smile under its bushy brows, storms were brewing for somebody. Sir Gavin, like most born fighters, could smile when he handed out devastating punches. There had been occasions when a jackal had taken one look at the old lion, and becoming conscious of inward qualms, had slunk off elsewhere to relieve them.

  Smith chose to drive his master to Temple Manor by way of Badger’s Lane, and in the very narrowest part of the lane Sir Gavin’s small run-about was confronted by the Crabtree Rolls. Sir Gavin also possessed a Rolls, but it was not painted yellow. Scattergood, knowing his master’s prejudices, and also that the old ruffian was in a nasty temper, stuck to the middle of the road as he crowded down upon the little common car. Sir Gavin’s chauffeur had to swerve on to the verge, with two wheels close to the ditch.

  Even so, space was limited, and the Rolls had to pull up, and Sir Gavin was presented with a picture of Mr. Crabtree making rude and emphatic gestures which indicated that Smith was to get off the earth. The two chauffeurs, leaning out, oiled their way slowly
past each other, watching mutual mudguards. Sir Gavin’s window was open; so was Mr. Crabtree’s, and Sir Gavin leaned out, and raising his hat, was sarcastic.

  “I see you like more than your share, sir.”

  Mr. Crabtree glared at him.

  “You mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine.”

  “Thank you,” said Sir Gavin, smiling. “I see that good manners are not included.”

  “All right, all right, take your little tin pan home.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure. Good morning, sir.”

  The two cars crawled on, Mr. Crabtree convinced that he had effaced the other fellow; Sir Gavin amused, but quite ready to remember the incident.

  “Who is the gentleman, Smith?”

  “Haven’t an idea, sir.”

  “The local Phœbus in his sun-chariot.”

  Smith had no knowledge of Greek gods, but he did know a cad when he saw him.

  “Swallowed a lot of money, and ’asn’t digested it, I should say, sir.”

  “A very good description, Smith, very good indeed. I wonder if he would have been so churlish to us had we been in the Rolls?”

  At Temple Manor Sir Gavin found Lady Melissa going over the flower-borders with a basket and scissors, snipping off dead flowers, and saving some especial head for seed. It was a task that she enjoyed, but it could be a source of irritation to her head-gardener who loved to tie up clumps of aster and helenium and phlox as though they were Victorian young ladies whose waists had to be constricted. Lady Melissa would snip the twine and set their green abdomens free.

  She turned to welcome Sir Gavin, and her eyes said “Well?” And Sir Gavin, who knew what she wanted him to tell her, became mischievous and eluded the subject until she snipped her scissors at him and shook her head.

  “I won’t have you being feline.”

  “Dear lady!”

  “Leo, if you like. Did you go to Marplot?”

  Sir Gavin offered to carry her basket, and she allowed him that honour.

  “May I begin at the end, instead of at the beginning? Coming here we met in a lane a portentous person in a canary-coloured Rolls.”

  “My dear neighbour, Mr. Crabtree. I think you have been rude to his house.”

  “Oh, Pepper-Pots! He was very rude to me. And what is his particular significance?”

  Lady Melissa made some attempt to explain Mr. Crabtree to Sir Gavin, and she added the information that his passion of the moment was the bankrupting of young Ghent. He would put his paw upon Marplot. Yes, Mr. Crabtree was really a rather impossible old beast, but he was also a dangerous one, and not easily flouted.

  “Is that so?” said Sir Gavin. “The thing intrigues me. Why does he want the lad’s land?”

  “Why do the Crabtrees of this world want anything? Because it is somebody else’s; because of the passion to exert power; also, because young Peter has stood up to him. The old idiot suffers from the illusion that we are a gang of snobs and ostracize him.”

  “And the explanation is so simple.”

  “Quite. We just don’t like him. So, you did see my tree man?”

  “Yes, and liked him.”

  Lady Melissa’s eyes lit up.

  “No Wowishness?”

  “He did not ask for my name. He did not tout for an order. Indeed, he almost put me off buying trees.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are not safe to be sold, or some of them. Drought-sick. Badly worried about things, poor lad, I should say. Nice smile. Looks you straight in the face with the gravity of a young prophet.”

  “Did you tell him who you were?”

  Sir Gavin puckered up his eyes.

  “No, I didn’t. But I gathered that he felt that he had seen me before.”

  “On paper.”

  “Yes, on paper, presumably, but I don’t think the associations connected.”

  Lady Melissa tossed her head like a girl.

  “You wicked old man! If you must be so puckish, you must realize——”

  “That one’s responsible for one’s mis-chee-viousness?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I think I shall be. Do you remember the legend of Una and the Lion?”

  “You are a lamb of a Lion, Gavin, and I’d like a lock of your hair.”

  XXVI

  Mrs. Strangeways was breakfasting on the island when she became aware of Ghent standing on the opposite bank, waving to her with something white in his hand. Surely it was not the newly-arrived copy of his birth certificate? And if it were, the document could not be expected to produce such evident excitement! Or might it? She was sitting on a cushion with a plate of bread and butter and marmalade in her lap, and her second cup of tea waiting to be emptied.

  She raised the cup to him, and swallowed. You could not hail your lover with your mouth full.

  “What is it, Peter?”

  “Something to show you.”

  “I’m still feeding.”

  “I’d swim across, but this piece of paper would get wet.”

  “Mayn’t I finish?”

  “Of course. I’m a selfish beast. But it is rather exciting.”

  “Is it really?”

  “Rather.”

  She put her plate aside.

  “Then, I’ll come across now. Second cups can wait.”

  She climbed down the bank into the punt, unmoored it, and poled across. He came down to the water’s edge, and when the nose of the punt ran in among the willow-herb and loosestrife, he sprang on board, and passed her the letter.

  “Give me the pole. You can read.”

  The exchange was made, and she sat down with the letter in her hand, while he poled the punt across to the island.

  She read:

  Dear Mr. Ghent,

  You may have heard that I have purchased Thursby. The gardens are in a very derelict state, and will need complete reconditioning. Lady Vandeleur has given me your name, and states that you undertake such work.

  Perhaps you will call on me and inspect the place. I shall be in any morning this week.

  Yours truly,

  Marwood.

  She was as excited as a child.

  “Oh, Peter, not the Marwood?”

  “Yes, the great Sir Gavin.”

  “And is Thursby a big place?”

  “Huge. If I could get that piece of work——”

  “Oh, my darling, how splendid! Of course you will get it.”

  She jumped up and fell upon him, in more senses than one, for Peter, after a last thrust with the pole, had turned to her, forgetting that the island was looming over them. The nose of the punt rammed the bank, and the impact and her sudden falling against him, nearly sent him into the water.

  “Hallo! Hold up.”

  “Oh, my darling, I’m so glad.”

  He held her with one arm, and looking down into her little flushed face, was moved to think how good life could be when your dear comrade became as excited about your affairs as a child on Christmas morning.

  “You lovely thing.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, in every way,” and he kissed her, “but we haven’t got the job yet.”

  “We. I love that. But why shouldn’t we?”

  “Well, why not? Come along. You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

  “Bother breakfast. I simply couldn’t eat another mouthful. Let’s read it again.”

  He moored the punt, and armed her up the bank, and they stood together, under a willow, she holding Sir Gavin’s letter.

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “No, except in photographs.”

  “Yes, like an old lion, but a kind lion. Lady Melissa must have—— Oh, bless her. You see he says any morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “When shall you go?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “This morning?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, Peter, couldn’t I come too? I could sit in the car.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t see why I shouldn’t take my fiancée! Rather a good advertisement for the firm.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Do I think so!”

  “You are a darling. You can call me your secretary, if you like.”

  “I’m damned if I will. Nothing so dull. Does a man look at his secretary as I’m looking at you?”

  “I hope not, young man.”

  “Well, that settles it,” and he kissed her.

  * * *

  Thursby was a period house in stone, very old and grey and lovely, with high chimneys and carved gables. It stood on a little plateau, very English in its mood and in its setting, and looking down upon parkland, great trees, bracken, yews, and ancient thorns. Neglect, or rather the lack of means to maintain the sweet texture of the place, was obvious everywhere. Scaffolding was up round one of the chimney stacks. The lawns were rough and starved, and pocked with rabbit scrapes. Snow had broken the bough of a Cedar of Lebanon, and the dead brown thing still hung there. As he brought his car up a drive that recently had been dressed with weed-killer, Ghent saw no flowers save the yellow cat’s-ears in the starved lawns. A derelict shrubbery on the west of the house seemed to struggle like a crowd of wild creatures fighting for room and air.

  Ghent stopped the car opposite the stone porch, on whose tympanum was carved a coat-of-arms and the date—1610. He was strung up and nervous, and so afraid of doing the wrong thing.

  “Do you think it will matter, parking here?”

  “Of course not,” said she. “Oh, my dear, isn’t the old place lovely!”

  He left her in the car, and turning to smile at her, rang the bell. A manservant answered it. Was Sir Gavin Marwood in?

  “What name, sir?”

  “Mr. Ghent.”

  His name appeared to be a password, for the manservant believed that Sir Gavin was on one of the lower terraces with a book and a chair. He led Ghent round the house, and across the upper terrace to a flight of broad stone steps that were green with grass and weeds.

  “There is Sir Gavin, sir, coming up.”

  Ghent did not answer the man. He just stood and stared, for the white-headed gentleman who was ascending the steps of the second terrace, was his visitor of two days ago.

  Sir Gavin came up smiling to welcome a young man who was not quite sure whether he ought to smile or stand upon his dignity.