Nightingale Wood

by Stella Gibbons

  I don’t suppose she’ll ever speak to me again.

  I suppose I oughtn’t to have asked her, but hell, how was I to know?

  She did cry. She wasn’t sticking it on.

  Oh blast. Better have a bath.

  He had it.

  Viola crept up the steps very quietly so that the maids should not hear her, and unlocked the front door. She was shivering with cold and her eyes were so gummed up with crying that she could only just see where she was going. The dimly lit hall with its tiled floor struck chillier than the spring twilight outside; she felt as though she could never get warm again. She only longed to creep into bed and go to sleep. He thought she was bad … he thought she was a bad girl …

  Aching as though she had been beaten, without one clear thought in her head, she climbed slowly to her room, and shut herself in.

  At half-past ten the revellers returned, having passed an enjoyable evening. If the writer knew anything about bridge, here is a grand chance for some twinkling asides, but as the writer was never able to make bridge out the reader must do with the bare bones that Mr Wither was five shillings up, Mrs Wither three shillings and twopence up, and Madge six shilling and tenpence down.

  ‘I suppose Viola has gone to bed,’ observed Mrs Wither, straightening the cushion in Viola’s chair and putting The Lad with Wings back on the shelf. ‘Left the light on too, careless girl. Well, dear, that was very enjoyable on the whole, was it not? Lemonade? or a little glass of port? It’s quite chilly.’

  Mr Wither had the port, which he sipped for ten minutes while Mrs Wither sipped icy lemonade and Madge ate a mass of biscuits, surely the most unsustaining form of nourishment known to mankind.

  The Withers felt more or less at peace. They were about to be reconciled to Tina, who was the wife of a man with a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, Madge had driven them to and from the Parsham home without mishap, the summer was coming, and they had won eight and twopence by gambling.

  Accordingly they filed up to bed at ten minutes to eleven in a mood of mild content. Mr Wither even forgot, as he undressed and tweaked the blind sharply so that the crescent moon should not peep in at him and Mrs Wither, to wonder how his money was getting on, and Madge hummed a tune as she brushed her closely cropped hair and put on pyjamas with very wide stripes.

  When Fawcuss, Annie and Cook had also gone up to bed and the house was in utter darkness because the crescent moon had gone down behind the trees of the little wood, a bedroom door slowly opened, and someone went quickly downstairs. Right down to the back door they went, which they fumbled at, cursed, and finally opened.’

  ‘Sh-sh,’ they said, warningly, to something else, that was plainly very pleased to see them. ‘Sh-sh,’ and they picked the something up, and told it to be quiet. It obeyed, and the person went cautiously upstairs again.

  Something settled comfortably at the foot of a bed and two contented creatures fell asleep.

  Three hours passed. The moon had gone, but the sleeping countryside was lit by thin ethereal starlight, rarest of all radiances, like darkness itself shining. And as last year, and the year before, and so back into the natural yet unutterably romantic shades of history – the wood rang with wild beautiful singing that no one heard.

  Suddenly Polo began to bark.

  Madge sat up in bed.

  ‘Shut up,’ she whispered furiously. ‘Shut up, Polo. Down. Good dog … quiet.’

  He went on barking. He was crouching at the door, his nose to the floor, whining, wildly excited. His body shook as Madge bent over him. There was something wrong. She had had him up in her room, every night for months, and he had never done this before.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  Upstairs, Annie suddenly sat bolt upright in bed. That dog … waking everybody up … what was the matter …

  She sniffed, staring at the darkened window, where one thin line of starlit sky showed.

  Smoke … the frightening acrid smell creeping under her door, and a queer crackling noise like sticks rattling together.

  Annie sniffed again. The dog was barking wildly now, and she could hear confused sounds on the next floor. Suddenly, staring now at the door, she saw a light out in the passage. It died and flared again in a horrifying red glare.

  Scrambling out of bed, Annie shrieked wildly—

  ‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’

  As she was stumbling to the door, having stubbed her toe in the dark and feeling (as she afterwards narrated) quite sick with the pain, the door was flung violently open and Cook stood there, screaming.

  ‘Annie? Are you there? For the dear Lord’s sake come on! The place is on fire! It’s in the old box-room – the whole place is blazing. There’s no time for that—’ Annie was tugging at the chest of drawers where she kept her few treasures. ‘Come on!’

  Snatching up a coat from behind the door, Annie ran.

  The corridor was full of smoke. The red glare came from one end.

  ‘Where’s Renie?’ (Fawcuss had been christened Irene).

  ‘She ain’t up yet. Slep’ right through it. You go and get her, I’m going down to the master. My Lord, Annie, the old box-room’s over Miss Madge! Pray heaven the ceiling don’t fall in!’

  But Fawcuss, roused by the barking and the shrieks, was already coming out of her room at the end of the passage. On seeing the smoke and the glare she gave one brief, very loud shriek, then went composedly back to her room and collected her Bible, a photograph of her mother, sevenpence halfpenny and her new summer combinations. These she swept into a face towel and pattered downstairs.

  The hall was full of people. White, alarmed faces still heavy with sleep gaped up at Fawcuss as she hurried down, bundle in hand. Thank the dear Lord, everybody was there, M’m, Miss Madge, Mrs Theodore. The master, with one slipper on, was at the telephone. Miss Madge had something funny under her arm; it heaved, and out of the blanket came an intelligent head, ears cocked, eyes very bright. It was That Dog. Well I never.

  ‘Give me the Fire Brigade. Yes … fire. Here … here. At The Eagles, near Sible Pelden, near the cross-roads. Wither is the name … I don’t know. It seems to be spreading …’

  Crash! Something fell in upstairs.

  ‘That’ll be the box-room ceiling. A blessing you was out of it, Miss Madge!’ cried Annie.

  ‘Sh-sh!’ from the telephone. ‘Yes, will you? At once.’

  He hung up the receiver.

  ‘Oh, Arthur,’ quavered Mrs Wither, ‘isn’t there time for anything … my garnet brooch? Hadn’t we better try and put it out … it mayn’t be so bad as—’

  Crash! Something else fell in. As they stood staring up at the staircase, shivering with sick excitement, a great puff of black smoke came round the corner and rolled slowly, insolently, right down the stairs. Down it came, terrifyingly unreal, into the neat chilly hall and slowly spread in a dark haze along the walls. Coughing and choking, they retreated to the front door, which Annie opened. The sweet night air blew in.

  Polo, struggling, began to bark, and Madge put him down and slipped her dressing-gown cord through his collar.

  ‘Oh, can’t we do anything?’

  Mrs Wither was weeping. Tears ran down her small face, on each side of which hung a little grey pigtail. ‘Oh, Arthur – the house! All the furniture!’

  The telephone bell rang, and everybody jumped.

  ‘Yes?’ Mr Wither’s hand shook as he held the receiver. ‘In half an hour? Can’t they? Oh, all right. Yes, it seems to be. Must have got a hold.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Madge!’ called Fawcuss, who had gone down into the drive. ‘It’s coming out of your window!’

  Everybody ran down the steps and across the drive and stood staring at the fantastic spectacle of the flames leaping like devils behind the neatly curtained windows of one of the front bedrooms. The curtains were drawn, but the hellish glow could be seen between them.

  ‘Wonder how it started?’ said Madge, who had picked up Polo again. ‘It was in the old box-room, did you sa
y, Annie?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Madge. In the old—’

  ‘Then it must have been the Men,’ said Mr Wither excitedly. ‘They must have got smoking up there and dropped ash and it must have smouldered all this afternoon and then broken out—’

  The Men had been in that morning to finish mending a leak in the roof, widened by the recent heavy rains.

  ‘Yes, that must be it,’ said everybody, staring and shivering and thinking dismally of their own little possessions shrivelling in the flames.

  ‘Mum, you must have something … you’ll catch your death,’ said Madge suddenly. Though the house was blazing, and no one could think of anything else for the moment, she did not want her father suddenly to realize that Polo had been spending the night at the foot of her bed. True, it was he who had roused the house and probably saved their lives, but one never knew how Mr Wither was going to take anything. He might say that Polo had started the fire.

  She shoved the end of his improvised lead into Viola’s hand and ran up the steps.

  ‘Margaret! Come back!’ roared Mr Wither.

  She waved and shouted something and vanished into the smoky hall.

  Two minutes later she appeared at the window furthest from the flames, which had been Tina’s room, but was now a dump for things that were going to the Church Army and the P.S.L.

  ‘It’s all right here! Safe as houses – well, safe, anyway!’ roared Madge, who appeared to be rather enjoying the fire.

  ‘Houses aren’t very safe just now, ha! ha! Vi, come up and give me a hand, will you? There’s just time—’

  She vanished.

  Viola passed Polo to Fawcuss and, ignoring the roars of Mr Wither and the whimpers of his wife, ran up the steps. She felt as if this was a nightmare, for she was still dazed from the heavy sleep Madge had roused her from, and she wore only a thin sleeveless nightgown. Her feet were bare and her teeth chattered with cold. Of course, the house must catch on fire tonight, when she felt so awful and only wanted to stay asleep as long as possible! Tears overflowed again as she ran, holding up her nightgown, up the smoke-filled staircase.

  Madge met her half-way along the undamaged corridor, carrying a load of old blankets.

  ‘Here …’ dumping them on Viola, ‘I’m going back to get a lot of Father’s shoes, we can all get into those. Is Polo all right?’ coughing.

  ‘Fine. Hurry up, it’s getting louder.’

  For the fire, up till now almost silent, was starting to make a horrifying noise, like the caverns of hell sucking. The glare crept steadily along, masked behind thick, fat, evil-smelling smoke. The old furniture, polished for thirty years with inflammable waxes, burned fiercely. As Viola waited at the stairhead, her eyes pricking with smoke, a sudden fierce wall of heat rushed at her.

  ‘Madge!’ she shrieked, terrified. ‘Oh, be quick!’

  ‘I’m coming – hold your horses!’

  Her sister-in-law’s heavy body, wrapped in a blanket, charged head down through the smoke, sending a cascade of shoes down the stairs, and they stumbled after them, stopping long enough at the bottom to collect them, then hurried down the steps into the garden.

  The women were huddled on the other side of the road, where the wood began, staring up at the now blazing second floor, the flickering red light on their pale faces, but Mr Wither had gone round to the garage to get the car. Shivering, gripping his blanket round himself, his old heart banging, Mr Wither fumbled with the garage door and thought about insurance money.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum.’ Madge put her stout arms round Mrs Wither. ‘It might have been a damn sight worse,’ patting her. ‘After all, we’re all alive’ (thankful murmurs, in which references to the Dear Lord could be distinguished, from Fawcuss, Annie and Cook). ‘We might have been burned in our beds if’ (defiantly, bursting with pride) ‘it hadn’t been for Polo!’

  But Mrs Wither was not listening.

  ‘Oh, Madgie – my lovely home! Your father and I were so proud of it … all gone.’

  ‘No it isn’t, Mum. They’ll manage to save some of it, I expect. Don’t cry, there’s a dear.’

  Everyone suddenly felt cold and exhausted. Viola rubbed her smarting eyes, and covered her face with black smears. And suddenly, far off on the Chesterbourne road, sounded the thrilling, clanging bell of the fire-engine.

  The party at Grassmere was still going strong at two o’clock. Mrs Spring had not intended that it should be so late, for the excitements of the evening had so worsened her headache that she meant to pack the guests off as early as she decently could, and go to bed: but the guests were not having any. Hetty, exhilarated by the knowledge that her fight was won, had asked if they might have champagne, and that put everybody into a party mood, and there happened to be an especially good programme of dance music that night and they danced to that until late and after London Regional had closed down they fiddled about and hit on a band in Budapest and danced to that, and Mrs Spring, though still unhappy and disturbed about Hetty’s rebellion, and dreading the fusses there were sure to be tomorrow about the broken engagement, surprisingly found herself enjoying the evening about twelve o’clock, and her headache gone. She was really very pleased that dear old Vic was not going to marry that little harridan, and perhaps the next one would not mind giving her a grandchild!

  At ten o’clock Victor came rather sulkily into the drawing-room, explaining that he had been working upstairs and was sorry he could not get down before, and drank a good deal of champagne. In his low state it had little effect on his sobriety, but it helped to pass the time and kept him from thinking, and that was something. He danced with the prettiest of the girls, and she made him laugh once or twice, and he stayed on, instead of going upstairs to bed as he had meant to. At one o’clock a lot more delicious and exciting food was discovered laid out in the morning-room, and everybody sat about, with young faces flushed with laughter and exercise, and ate while they insulted one another. Mrs Spring smiled on the scene in a dress sparkling with black sequins, and Victor sat with his arm round the prettiest girl, sharing her champagne. Everyone enjoyed themselves.

  But at two o’clock someone said they really must go home and that broke up the party. The boys collected their coats, the girls tied handkerchiefs, fisher-wise, over their carefully cherished curls, and everyone went out to the front of the house where the cars were parked.

  In one of those pauses in the ragging and laughing, someone looked up and saw a glare in the sky above the oak wood, and at the same instant, far off, they heard the clang of fire-bells.

  ‘Must be a fire somewhere.’

  ‘That? That’s the sleigh bells. Always try out the sleighs round here in the small hours. Didn’t you know there was a sleigh factory—’

  ‘Sparkling, aren’t you? Look! There – can’t you see? Over there – there it is again! It must be quite near.’

  ‘It must be at The Eagles,’ exclaimed Mrs Spring, standing on the doorstep in a fur cape and peering up at the sky. ‘Yes – look, Vic, it’s quite bright … there! It must be The Eagles – that’s the only house over there.’

  ‘I say, how about beetling over?’ suggested one amateur in thrills. But Victor was already running to the garage.

  Afterwards he said it was the champagne: then, he only knew that he felt sick. It was not an over-statement; he thought that any instant he would be sick. Of course she’s all right, he thought, climbing into the car, starting up, swerving out of the garage and tearing away up the road past the astonished faces at the gate (‘Hi! wait for baby!’) Of course she’s all right. Making a damn fool of myself … I’ll just see if I can do anything and get back. Perhaps it isn’t there, at all …

  The car, zooming round a curve, screeched as it just missed the solid back parts of a fire engine. Everything was lit with a beautiful demoniac rosy glow from the gold and black furnace that had been the house. The flames burned in enormous long golden plumes, with a solemn roaring noise. The road was flooded. Four solid hissing curves of silver
water, steady as bridges, sighed their way into the heart of the fire. A little crowd, sooty-faced and staring, stood at the edge of the wood on the other side of the road; there were two or three cars parked there, and Doctor Parsham was bounding about accompanied by Chappy, who was not being much use as all he did was to sniff loudly at people’s bare ankles and frighten them even worse than they were already. But Doctor Parsham was doing his stuff, prescribing for shock, patting people, and offering to put up some of the homeless Withers for the night, a proposal which was most gratefully accepted.

  But she was not there.

  Victor pushed his way through the little crowd to Mr Wither, who was staring dismally out of the car’s window at the destruction of The Eagles.

  ‘Where’s Viola?’ demanded Victor.

  Mr Wither was so agitated that it did not strike him as at all strange that young Spring should appear from nowhere, demanding where was Viola.

  ‘Good heavens, isn’t she here?’ cried Mr Wither, falling with fatal ease into a state. ‘She was here a minute ago, I saw her, I’m sure I did, I thought everybody was safe, Emmy, Emmy, here’s Mr Spring can’t find Viola anywhere, have you seen her?’

  ‘She was over by the path just now, sir,’ volunteered Fawcuss, speaking respectfully from the depths of a very old Church Army blanket with ironing-stains on it. ‘By the wood, sir, I mean,’ and Fawcuss retreated once more into her tent.

  Victor hurried off.

  But she was not by the path. Was that her, down in the smoky depths of the wood where the rosy flickering light faded into confusing shadows? It might be. He blundered down into the dusk, shouting, ‘Viola – are you there?’ Presently he felt the ground sloping under his feet, caught the red glare in the sky reflected in water among the dark trees, and found that he was where he had parted from her, seven hours – a hundred years – ago.

  It was not quite dark. The hollow was full of an indescribable dim light, half from the fire, half from the stars. The smell of smoke, the delicious perfume of young leaves, came in gusts. It was very cold down there, and suddenly – the strangest possible sound at that hour and in that place – a bird sang four or five very loud and beautiful clear notes from somewhere overhead in the dim, faintly reddened boughs. Startled, Victor glanced up, then down again; and there Viola was, sitting on the tree-stump where he had sat earlier in the evening, wrapped in a blanket, her face hidden in her hands.