Nightingale Wood

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Oh no she won’t,’ said Saxon, turning the switch. ‘Mum, here’s ten bob. I’ll begin sending you regularly again when I’ve got another job. Can you manage?’

  ‘Seems I’ll have to,’ winking again at Tina. ‘Here, hi, what about the payments on the wireless?’

  ‘I’d like to settle that right up for you, if I may,’ said Tina. ‘How much is it?’

  ‘Well, that’s proper kind of ’ee, I will say. He’s got the bills for it put away somewhere, haven’t ’ee?’

  Saxon tapped his overcoat pocket, looking steadily at Tina over the top of his cup. He was happy, excited and confident. At last they were getting away! out of this one-horse place that he had always wanted to ‘show’. Suddenly he hated Sible Pelden, with all its Fatbottoms in it, and did not care if he never ‘showed’ them, nor saw them again. His boyish ambition to dazzle the disapproving neighbours had died since his marriage. Kid’s nonsense, that had been. His business now was to get a job, and make a home for Tina, and show her —— family that he was some good. And he would, too.

  So the ambition quietly took another shape; and he did not notice that it had.

  Awkward good-byes were said, then Tina and Saxon hurried off into the cold foggy night, while Mrs Caker stood at the door and stared after them with a jeering yet wistful look. She had never had a fur coat, and she never would.

  As they waited for the bus under the sickly lights of the Green Lion, where the time-tables hung against the creamy old weatherboarding, Saxon jerked his head at the pub and said:

  ‘I’d take you in to have one, only he’s in there, the old swine.’

  ‘Who – the Hermit? (I don’t want one, thanks, I’m quite warm, and I should hate being stared at; I always think the barman, or whoever he is in there, looks so cross).’

  ‘That was young Heyrick, up at Springs’, gave me a hand with the old devil,’ he went on. ‘Said he tried something on with his girl, Gladys Davies, down in the wood. So Heyrick was quite ready to beat him up. She’s a parlour-maid up at Springs’, Gladys Davies.’

  You ought to have married a Gladys Davies, thought Tina. I don’t think I’m going to be any good to you. But she swallowed the lump in her throat, and said nothing.

  He slipped his arm through her fur-clad one and peered round into her face.

  ‘Cheer up. Everything’ll be fine. You see.’

  Tina did not feel that everything would be fine. However, she answered sensibly:

  ‘Oh yes, I think we shall be all right. I don’t think you’ll have much difficulty in getting a job, and I think Father’ll come round, too—’

  ‘We’re not going to sponge on him,’ sharply.

  ‘No, I know, my dear, but it will be much pleasanter if we don’t keep up a stupid feud with the family. And I can get a job, too, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t. Not while I can work.’

  He picked up the suitcases. The lights of the bus were coming up steadily through the mist.

  ‘But, Saxon, that’s so … old-fashioned.’

  ‘You’re telling me. It may be prehistoric; it’s right. Up you go.’

  Tina, sitting dazedly beside him in the bus, understood the feelings of the late Baron Frankenstein.

  Her dear monster had certainly taken charge of her affairs. Never having had a job, she had thought that a job might be ‘rather fun’, as well as being useful. But Saxon had sat on that. Oh well, housekeeping (and she had never housekept, either) might be rather fun, too. In short, her spirits were calmed and cheered by his masterfulness.

  And waking in the night in the clock-ticking silence of their neat, impersonal bedroom at the Hotel Coptic in Bloomsbury, with tears on her cheeks from some vague, vast sorrow already receding rapidly into the dream world whence it had come, Tina found with exquisite relief her husband lying quietly beside her, and fell peacefully asleep again.

  There had been one: and now there were two: and that (as they say) made all the difference.

  Mr Gideon Spurrey, that old acquaintance of Mr Wither’s, whom we met early in the story, sat at the window of his house in Buckingham Square, feeling annoyed because his chauffeur, Holt, was dead.

  Not only was Holt dead, but before he died he had been ill for a month, and put Mr Spurrey to a lot of trouble and inconvenience. He had put Mr Spurrey to some expense, too, but Mr Spurrey did not mind that, for he was not in the least mean. What he minded was Holt dying like that, and leaving Mr Spurrey at the mercy of strangers.

  Holt had been with Mr Spurrey for nearly eighteen years, and knew his ways. Mr Spurrey was used to Holt, and he had mistrusted the fellow they sent to take Holt’s place when Holt first got ill; had sent him back again after a day’s trial. There was nothing the matter with him except that he was not Holt, but Mr Spurrey was fidgeted by that fact as he sat in his car and decided that he could not go on being fidgeted.

  And now Holt was dead and Mr Spurrey would have to spend the morning drafting an advertisement for The Times instead of going off to his club, as he usually did every morning.

  The room in which he sat was lofty yet dark; heavy curtains of tan velvet looped across the windows, with inner ones of dark creamy net, shut out most of the white glare thrown into the study by the mighty bulk of Buckingham Court, the new flats that were going up opposite Mr Spurrey’s residence, on the site of Buckingham House. The walls were covered with stamped tan leather and the ceiling was broken by heavy beams, varnished the same bilious shade, the heavy chairs wore a faded blue and tan tapestry copied from a Jacobean design, the carpet was a Turkey. The place smelled of cigar smoke, and breathed the oppressive atmosphere that only age, wealth and the daily performance of an unchanging domestic ritual can create. The room, the faint scent of tobacco, and Mr Spurrey sitting at the writing table and staring irritably out at the white block of flats, seemed to have been there for ever. Wanted (thought Mr Spurrey, staring up at the flats out of his pale grey parroty eyes), a reliable, respectable, experienced chauffeur, must understand how to drive and …

  No. Doesn’t sound right, somehow.

  Wanted …

  The door opened and the butler came in.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Mr Spurrey, not looking round. Though all his five senses were on the verge of crumbling, they were enjoying an Indian summer, and he was proud of showing Cotton that he could hear him come into the room though his back was to the door. Mr Spurrey was seventy-six, and for the last few weeks had been telling anyone who would listen to him that he had never felt better in his life.

  ‘There’s a young man to see you, sir. Name of Caker.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Mr Spurrey with satisfaction, still not looking round. ‘What’s he want? Selling something, eh?’

  ‘He said it was about a Post, sir.’

  ‘A Post? What does he mean? Send him away, Cotton; I’m busy.’

  ‘I took it he might mean the post left vacant by Mr Holt’s death, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so at first? I’ll see him. Here, wait a bit, Cotton! How did he come to know I want a chauffeur, eh? More in this than meets the eye. You been gossiping, eh?’

  ‘No, sir. I have not mentioned Mr Holt’s death outside my own circle, sir. I could not say how he comes to know, sir, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh. What’s he like, eh?’

  ‘He seems respectable enough, sir. Rather a smart young fellow, I should say. A good appearance, sir.’

  ‘All right, send him up.’

  A minute later there walked into the room that smart young fellow who had driven Mr Spurrey at the Withers’ last summer.

  ‘Hey, so it’s you, is it?’ cried Mr Spurrey, staring at Saxon, who crossed the room with deliberation and stood, hat in hand, one knee just flexed, staring respectfully yet calmly down at him. ‘But your name isn’t Caker, no, that wasn’t the name your master told me. Saxby, was it? What d’ye want to change your name for, eh? More in this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Saxon’s my first name,
sir. Mr Wither always called me by my first name.’

  ‘I see. So you’ve left Mr Wither, have you? What d’ye want to leave him for, eh? No trouble, I hope?’ asked Mr Spurrey eagerly, the parroty ones glinting in his yellowish round face as he stared up at Saxon, his little lips primmed together.

  ‘Well, yes, sir. I suppose you might call it that. The fact is, I married Miss Wither, sir. Miss Tina.’

  ‘Married her?’ exclaimed Mr Spurrey, his face expressing the strongest interest and amazement. ‘Old Wither’s gel? What, married her, d’ye mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She’s up here with me now, sir. In Town.’

  ‘Does old Wither know? But of course he does … that was why ye left, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Upset, was he, eh?’ demanded Mr Spurrey, with a glance of the purest spiteful pleasure. ‘Cut up rough, eh?’ He bent forward and added, cunningly, ‘Took it hard I’m sure. I dare say he did. Don’t want to say anything against W., you know, one of my oldest friends, but he’s very narrow-minded, eh? Stuffy. Old-fashioned – Victorian. Married her, eh? Well, well. Married old Wither’s gel. Bless me.’ And Mr Spurrey’s face suddenly split up into hundreds of tiny wrinkles, and for quite a minute he shook silently in a fit of malicious laughter, while his round pale eyes stared out glassily from between rolls of yellow fat in a disconcerting way and his little lips compressed themselves more tightly than ever.

  Saxon watched him with a respectful, serious expression. Old T – thought Saxon. Old B.

  At last Mr Spurrey bent forward and said in a low spluttery voice, his eyes watering with laughter:

  ‘Dare say she was glad enough to get you, eh?’

  And off he went again, watching Saxon out of the corner of one eye.

  The young man smiled demurely, staring down at the hat he held, but did not answer. At the back of his mind there was a thought, that Tina probably had been glad to get him. So there was no reason why he should mind what Mr Spurrey said; and he did not. As man to man, they had their private joke, and Tina need never know.

  ‘And you haven’t much money, I suppose, eh?’ pursued Mr Spurrey. Saxon shook his head. Mr Spurrey bent forward once more and lowered his voice:

  ‘She … not in the family way, eh? know what I mean?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ coolly.

  Mr Spurrey liked this. He had another fit; then he lit a cigar and became serious.

  ‘How did you come to know I wanted a chauffeur, eh?’ he said suspiciously, his eyes fixed steadily on Saxon’s face. Mr Spurrey was a malicious old bore, but he was not a fool, and people never imposed upon him; had they been able to, he might have been more popular.

  ‘I didn’t know it, sir. But you’re the only person in London who’s seen me drive, so I came to you because I thought perhaps you might know of someone who wanted somebody, and recommend me.’

  ‘Your wife tell you to come, eh?’

  ‘No, sir. In fact, she was rather against it.’

  ‘I see. Why was that?’

  ‘Well, sir, she thought it might be rather awkward, you see; you might have thought it right to … well, to see the situation from Mr Wither’s point of view, sir, you see, and not give me your name as a reference.’

  ‘But you didn’t think I should, eh?’

  ‘Well, sir, I thought that if I came to you just as a chauffeur, and asked you to recommend me, you would hardly think it necessary to say I was a bad driver just because I occasionally married my employer’s daughter.’

  ‘Occasionally “married” your employer’s daughter, eh? That’s good,’ and Mr Spurrey went off again. ‘Thinking of doing it again, eh, when you get one with a bit more money?’

  Saxon smiled, trying to put into the smile that youthful cynicism and heartless lechery that Mr Spurrey evidently wished to see. Mr Spurrey was enjoying himself by proxy, and Saxon knew it.

  ‘Well, as it happens, I want one myself,’ went on the old man. ‘My last man, Holt, been with me sixteen years, no, eighteen, nearly eighteen, died last week,’ said Mr Spurrey indignantly. ‘Went off like that,’ snapping dry yellow fingers that smelt of cigars. ‘No warning. He was getting better, in fact. And that wasn’t all …’

  Saxon had to listen for five minutes while Mr Spurrey related just how inconvenient Holt’s illness and death had been.

  But at last:

  ‘… and I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t come to me, hey? What’d old W. give you?’

  ‘Two pounds a week, sir … and I did the garden, too, for that.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no garden here, no garden or anything of that sort here,’ said Mr Spurrey hastily, as though Saxon were pining for rockeries and montbretia. ‘Two pounds eh? Not much, is it? Don’t want to say anything against W., of course, old friend of mine – but he’s pretty near, eh? Close isn’t the word. Now I’ll give you three-fifteen (that’s fifteen shillings more than Holt had, but you’re a married man, hee! hee!) and there’s your quarters, too. Down the back,’ jerking his head. ‘Two rooms and a kitchen. Use the servants’ bath.’

  ‘Live in, do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Why not? Holt did; made himself very comfortable there. Rent free. Bring old W.’s girl, too, of course. Plenty of room for a double bed,’ and Mr Spurrey had another of those fits which Saxon was beginning to find irritating.

  ‘Mind you,’ added Mr Spurrey, ‘I’d better not know anything about your being married to old W.’s gel, eh? Don’t want to get mixed up in any quarrels, no, no, don’t want anything of that sort. She’d better keep out of my way, don’t you agree? No ill-feeling. Just prudent.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be best, sir.’

  Saxon felt that Tina would not be at all sorry to keep out of Mr Spurrey’s way.

  It was then arranged that he and Tina should move into their new quarters that afternoon and that he would start work tomorrow at nine o’clock. He fluently assured Mr Spurrey that he could drive a Rolls, and knew all about Rollses. This was not true, but Saxon knew that he could soon make it true.

  So he said good morning to Mr Spurrey, and hurried away to Tina, who was sitting rather forlornly in an expensive snack-bar in the little market round the corner, and told her coolly that he had a job. Tina wished that the job had been with anyone except Mr Spurrey, but she was too wise to spoil Saxon’s satisfaction by saying so: and five minutes later he himself, cautiously prowling round this new development like a handsome tom-cat, observed that it was rather a nuisance its being Mr Spurrey, but a job was a job, and he seemed a spiteful devil who enjoyed doing his old friend W. in the eye and would probably keep on him, Saxon, just out of cussedness.

  ‘Did you see the rooms?’ asked Tina casually.

  She still felt bewildered, and as though she were living in a dream. Even the table at which they sat, and Saxon’s handsome face, were slightly unreal. But she knew that this was an after-effect of nervous strain, so she did not let it worry her, and Saxon’s eagerness, affection and reliability shone steadily through the dream and comforted her.

  ‘No. Let’s eat; and we can go round after lunch. There’ll be plenty to do this afternoon.’

  We’ll have to live with the servants, thought Tina. Well, this is life, my girl. You wanted it; and you’ve got it.

  But the rooms turned out to be a little house in themselves, separated from the back of the big house by a large paved courtyard. They were small, but the sun came into them and they had been redecorated only last year. The furniture was plain and worn, but it could be made pretty with fresh coverings and paint; and after she had opened the windows and stared down into the dirty but picturesque mews below, Tina’s spirits suddenly rose; she kissed Saxon, who looked amused, and decided that she liked their first home.

  A narrow staircase led down into the garage, where, in a dusk glimmering with the quiet shine of enamel, the wink of chromium, lived the great urbane god to which Saxon was priest. He went down at once to prowl about in the temple.

  The garage
was cold, clean and silent. All was arranged; there was even a glory-hole for the cleaning rags. The petrol, the oil, the tools, all the complex implements required by an expensive machine, were ranged in cleanly order. He knew his job, thought Saxon, squatting down to look at the underneath of the Rolls, and mentally saluting the dead Holt as a good workman.

  Mr Spurrey, meanwhile, set forth upon the routine of his day with a feeling of relief, even of pleasure. He had a smart new chauffeur; an up-to-date, go-ahead young fellow, not deaf, not short-sighted and rheumatic, like Holt was getting to be when he died. And that was a good joke on old W., too, giving a job to the chap who had run off with his gel. It was not Mr Spurrey’s fault, was it, that he happened to want a new chauffeur, and that the one, the perfectly satisfactory one, who happened to come along, was married to old W.’s gel? Surely old W. would not expect Mr Spurrey to turn down a smart, up-to-date young fellow just because he was married to old W.’s gel? That would not be reasonable. Besides, he enjoyed scoring off old W., stuffy old chap, Victorian, narrow-minded. Why, all kinds of people married their chauffeurs and footmen nowadays, wasn’t there that German princess? and nobody minded any more. Must move with the times. Gel was lucky to get a chap like that. Quite natural, too; gel getting a bit long in the tooth, and a nice-looking young fellow like that comes along … Old W. ought to have seen what was coming. Mr Spurrey would, in his place. And Mr Spurrey, having a fit, sat down in the calm of the club writing-room to write a letter to Mr Wither, casually mentioning that Holt was dead and that he had a new chauffeur, and how were things with Mr Wither? How was Mrs Wither, and the girls? Shaking silently, Mr Spurrey bent over the writing table.

  ‘Saxon.’

  ‘What’s the grief?’

  Saxon, usually so careful with his English, had a weakness for American. That mocking, curt language, flinging subtle undertones from its pebbly phrases, charmed him as music charms a seal.