“I knew it would happen to him one day. Come in, Gert. My man and the rest of them will want to know.”
XXX
Sudden rain, and a roistering west wind blowing the willows all one way, and ruffling the surface of the river, but the tent on Folly Island was empty and flapping its wet sides as though shaken from time to time with rollicking laughter. Mrs. Strangeways’s possessions had been rescued and housed at Marplot, but the island’s Sybil was sitting up in bed, swathed in a corn-coloured gown, and healthily enjoying early morning tea. She could see the wind playing in the Temple Manor trees, and a great herbaceous border, its colours drenched and dimmed, bending to the wind and rain under the impending branches of the cedars.
Said the little maid to her: “Her ladyship asks, madam, at what time would you like the car?”
“Oh, about half-past nine, Lily, please. And what time is breakfast?”
“Half-past eight, madam. I’ll get your bath ready.”
Ghent had been up at six, and at work in the office on the estimates that the reconditioning of Thursby demanded. Sir Gavin had told him to go ahead, and Ghent, having measured up his ground, had to sit down and calculate how many square yards of loam and loads of manure would be needed, how many trees and flowering shrubs, and how many thousands of plants. He would have to scour the county for manure, buy in loam, arrange for cartage, and pay visits to other nurseries from which he might have to draw stock for the dressing of so princely a plan. Marplot itself could supply a number of trees, but not of the larger sort, for specimen trees were expensive, and unless they had been conscientiously prepared for transplanting, would die.
Moreover, there was the day’s adventure to be enjoyed. He had purchased his ton-and-a-half light lorry, with a guarantee from Roper’s that it was in good condition, and he was driving over to Loddon to collect it. He had never driven a lorry, and he wanted to try his hand at it. Sybil was coming with him. She had no driving licence as yet, so one of Roper’s men would have to bring the old Morris home. He had asked Mr. Roper if he could recommend a man who was available as a lorry-driver, but it would appear that Loddon could supply no such person.
At half-past seven Ghent went in to an early breakfast. He had finished it and was lighting a pipe, when Mrs. Maintenance put her head into the room.
“Bob’s at the back door, sir.”
“Doesn’t he know what to get on with?”
“He wants to see you, particular, about something.”
Ghent went to the back door, and found Fanshaw standing there with something of his Sunday morning look about him. A slow and jocund smile lit up his austere face, and a smile on Robert Fanshaw’s face was so rare that it provoked comment.
“Well, Bob, looking pleased about something.”
“I’ve got some men, sir.”
“Have you? That’s quick work.”
“D’you mind where they come from?”
“Not a bit, if they are good men. But you sound as though you had engaged an army.”
“Four chaps, sir, and a lorry-driver, if you want him.”
“Where the devil did you get them?”
Bob’s smile broadened.
“Temple Towers.”
“What!”
“Old man Crabtree’s crowd. All of ’em, sir, including Mr. Tamplin the head.”
“Good God, man, what have you been doing?”
“Nothing, sir. The whole lot ’ave walked out on him. I don’t say that me and George didn’t have a word or two to say.”
“And the lorry driver?”
“Scattergood, old man Crabtree’s chauffeur. That’s the biggest joke of the lot, Mr. Peter. He and old Crabbie had words, and Scattergood gave ’im a smack in the face, packed his things and hooked it. He’s moved his family and furniture down into Farley. He’s not a bad chap, sir, if you treat him right.”
For a second or two Ghent looked infinitely serious, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
“But, Bob, there will be a devil of a row.”
“He can’t do nothing, sir. They’ve discharged themselves, and blown a month’s wages. Of course old man Crabtree can have the law on Scattergood, if he’s fool enough, but I wouldn’t go into the witness-box if I were he. Wouldn’t do him much good, I reckon.”
“But, Bob——”
“Well, sir, the whole crowd are ready to go and give evidence for Scattergood, as to old Crabtree not having a notion of how to treat a man. He’s got a black eye, and so far as I can see that’s about all he’ll get out of it.”
Fanshaw’s news had put Ghent’s pipe out, and he borrowed the kitchen matches and re-lit it.
“I can’t do anything, Bob, without consulting Sir Gavin Marwood.”
“But it’s you, sir, who’ll be hiring the men.”
“Yes, Bob, but I am not sure how the law runs. Old Crabtree might work up some sort of case. You know how he loves that sort of thing, and he’ll be as mad——”
“They say he’s in bed, sir, at present.”
“Yes, but I can’t let Sir Gavin in for some fool-row. By Jove, Bob, we shall have the laugh of the old devil.”
“I should say you will, Mr. Peter. Him trying to break us, and we getting the biggest job in the county, and all his men walkin’ out on him, and comin’ to you. Why, it’ll be gossip in the pubs for years.”
Again Ghent laughed, and again his pipe went out.
“All right, Bob. I’m fetching the lorry from Loddon. I’ll drive over afterwards and see Sir Gavin. If he has no objection, I’ll take the men on. You had better get on your bike and tell them so.”
“And what about Scattergood, sir?”
“Can he drive a lorry?”
“Guess he could drive anything after ol’ Crabtree’s ruddy circus van.”
“A Rolls and a lorry, Bob, aren’t quite in the same class. Besides, they might gaol him for a month, for assault.”
Fanshaw spat.
“I’ll bet you five bob, sir, the old man won’t prosecute. There’s too much against him, and he’ll know it. And if he does, I reckon half Farley’ll be there to hoot him.”
“Rough justice, Bob.”
“You’re right, sir. I never thought we’d have the laugh of the old devil like this. Why, it’s better than a cinema show. And I tell you he won’t find it easy to get a new lot at The Towers. Rotten fish, Mr. Peter. We chaps aren’t out just for money. If you don’t feel happy in a place, the money begins to stink in your pocket. I wouldn’t have my guts twisted by an old beggar like that, no, not for five quid a week, and for tuppence I’d tell him so.”
* * *
Ghent did not sing the Crabtree-Scattergood Saga to her until they were half-way to Loddon. She had taken off her hat, for he liked to see her hair blown about by the wind, and her hair was the colour of her frock. Nor was he a pagan lover, just because her wind-blown hair somehow stirred in him a desire to take her head in his arms, and possess those curls with his lips. She was still a creature of mystery and awe to him, and such tenderness does not fade.
He told her the story, and her lips parted and her eyes laughed.
“Oh, Peter, how lovely! It’s almost like one of those little moral stories for the good child.”
“Oughtn’t you to be shocked?”
“And why? I am sure there have been moments when I should like to have smacked his nasty old face. And all his men coming to you! It’s perfect.”
“I have to consult Sir Gavin first.”
“But he will see the joke. Look out, darling, you’re rather near the ditch.”
Ghent swung the old car back to the crown of the road.
“Sorry. I’d better attend to business, but the distraction was rather potent.”
“Was it, darling?”
“Yes.”
She put her head down on his shoulder.
“Kiss my hair.”
“Not allowed.”
“Just once.”
“Temptress. And now, I’l
l attend strictly to business.”
So, they came to the Barham beechwoods where the hollow gloom would burst into flame with the coming of autumn. The rain had ceased, and a great shaft of sunlight slanted upon Loddon town, lighting up its old red roofs and walls. The windvane on the church spire glittered. Ghent did not take his eyes off the road as he brought the car down the steep and winding hill, but there was a smile on his face, and his eyes were happy.
They found the lorry ready for them, and Mr. Roper prepared to provide a man to take charge of the old Morris.
“He can shove his bike in the lorry, sir, and ride back. How’s the car running?”
“Almost as well as ever.”
“What about one of the new models, Mr. Ghent?”
“Oh, perhaps next year. Any tricks to be learnt about the new toy?”
“You’ll have no trouble, sir. Reversing may be a bit funny at first.”
Ghent laughed.
“I hope I shan’t have to till I have had some practice in the yard.”
“Heard of a likely man?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Mr. Crabtree’s chauffeur.”
“What, Scattergood?”
“Yes, he discharged himself after smacking his master’s face.”
Mr. Roper echoed the exquisite satisfaction of that blow by smacking his own thigh.
“Gosh, did he though! That’s the best thing I’ve heard for a long time. The old man’s been asking for it. Well, I’m damned!”
Ghent suggested that Sybil should drive back in the car, but she would have none of it. She swung herself up into the front seat of the lorry. It had a cushion of sorts, a brown, shiny thing that looked as though it had been well polished by proletarian trousers. Ghent climbed up behind the steering-wheel.
“Mustn’t talk. Serious business. My first effort.”
“I’ll look at the scenery, and nothing else.”
“Better keep your hat on. Your hair distracts me, somehow. Like corn blowing.”
“I won’t say a word.”
Ghent brought the lorry out into Loddon High Street, and over the bridge to Barham Hill. He missed his gears on the hill, and had to brake and stop, and start again. Mrs. Strangeways was looking up into the green splendour of the beeches, and when Ghent restarted rather amateurishly, her head gave a little jerk and bumped against the back of the cabin.
“Sorry.”
“I thought you stopped on purpose.”
“Oh, did you!”
“To let me look at the trees.”
“Don’t tell fibs, even nice ones. I messed that gear-change badly.”
“Did you, darling?”
“Yes, and you bumped your dear head.”
“You can do it as often as you like.”
“Thanks. Just look through that little window and see if the Morris is behind us.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I must have stalled him. And if I do it again, I’ll shed tears of shame.”
“But you won’t,” and he didn’t.
* * *
When Ghent drove to Thursby that afternoon, taking Sybil with him, he had a number of estimates to show to Sir Gavin respecting the trees and materials that would be needed, and Sir Gavin, having glanced at them, marvelled that a garden could be so greedy.
Ghent had a moment of panic.
“Of course, I could cut things down, sir.”
“No, my lad, what I do, I do. There is no need for you to worry.”
“Thank you, sir. For the trees I supply from my own nursery I propose to charge you trade prices.”
“Why should you?”
“Oh, just a gesture, sir. One likes to make some sort of return. You don’t know what your kindness has meant to us.”
“I think you ought to charge me full prices, Ghent.”
“Really, sir. I’d rather——”
“Well, we will talk about that later. What about the question of labour?”
They were strolling together along one of the wild paths in a tempestuous shrubbery, and Ghent paused to put aside the branch of an arbutus that had straggled across the path.
“That’s a subject I have to consult you on, sir. I’ll hold this branch back while you pass.”
So Ghent told Sir Gavin of the epic happenings at Temple Towers, and it quickly became plain to him that Sir Gavin was enjoying the story.
“Wait a bit, my lad, does Pooh Bah travel in a yellow chariot?”
“That’s the gentleman, sir.”
“Ah, we have met. And he called on me.”
“That might be awkward, sir.”
“Not in the least. I have no intention of returning the call. Our first and only meeting will suffice. We met in your lane, and he appeared to expect me to put my car in the ditch.”
Ghent laughed.
“Did he know who you were, sir?”
“Probably he thought I was a bagman. But I take it, Ghent, that these men have discharged themselves. If you care to take them on I have no objection. I have given my head man a month’s notice. Too bumptious and bossy. What about cottages?”
“They would be very welcome, sir.”
“I shall have two vacant.”
“I dare say two of the men can find accommodation in Farley. But I ought to warn you, sir, that old Crabtree is a cantankerous old brute.”
“Let him be. Moreover, my lad, the situation seems to me to be rather intriguing. Quite a curtain for you, is it not?”
“Well, in a sense it is, sir. He wanted my place, and thanks to you he won’t get it.”
“And you get his men. Explicit. The laugh is with you, Ghent. Enjoy it.”
Sybil had been left with Sister Anne, but since that rather fierce old lady had always argued that brains and beauty do not cohabit in the same mansion, she had been interested to discover in Mrs. Strangeways elements of the exception to her rule. Not that Mrs. Strangeways was brainy. God forbid! If anything Sister Anne disliked your coldly clever woman more than she did your spontaneous fool, for a woman who has lost the child in herself is no more than a museum piece. And in Sybil Strangeways child and woman seemed to dwell together, and to have produced between them a charming naiveté spiced with humour.
Said Sister Anne, when the two young things had gone:
“Your nice lad has done very well for himself, though I understand that the child has had a past.”
“How can a child have a past?”
“That is one of our mysteries, my dear, Eleusynian or otherwise! Most men do not penetrate into that mysterious place.”
“Don’t be naughty, Anne!”
“Nonsense. One of the Drearies told me in a book the other day that all women are sensualists.”
“How universal of him!”
“Yes, my dear, the very clever people are such fools. I think I would prefer my human problems solved by the village carpenter than by——”
“Me, for instance!”
“No, Gavin. You’ve never grown up, and then grown down again. You are still terribly young. And I like it.”
“Thank you.”
“It is the decrepit attitude to life that bores me, cynicism that thinks itself final, and is just senile.”
* * *
Ghent was driving Mrs. Strangeways back to Temple Manor, and half-way up the great avenue he felt her hand upon his arm.
“Stop, just for a moment, Peter. I want to look.”
Ghent brought the car to a standstill, and between two of the smooth grey trunks the little valley world revealed itself. Holding hands they sat and gazed upon the river and Folly Island, and the white line of the weir above the old red bridge. And there lay Marplot with its companies of trees, like vines arow or archers in Lincoln Green.
“Isn’t it lovely,” said she.
His eyes turned from the landscape to her face.
“Yes, very lovely.”
“It makes me feel so secure. Do you know, darling, I can see all those meadows full of trees,
our trees.”
Ghent’s eyes turned again to the valley, and an inward voice asked a question. Was this the way success came to a man, and grew and prospered until all the little envious people would nibble with anger and cry “Luck”? But did the little, envious people matter? He had that which would conjure away all bitterness. This shabby summer had brought him other things, and as he turned again to look at his good comrade, he heard that inward voice utter wise words.
“Through me may you never suffer pain.”
And suddenly she turned her head and looked at him, and her eyelids trembled and her eyes were shy.
“What were you thinking, Peter?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. Just feeling something perhaps, more than thinking.”
“About us?”
“Yes—about us.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.
[The end of Shabby Summer by Warwick Deeping]
Shabby Summer Page 33