“How interesting. Like Miles Corton—or more successful, I hope. Poor Miles, I believe, is thinking of selling up.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Toby said guilelessly.
“Oh, he doesn’t want it known. He’s an arrogant creature, and obstinate, like all the Cortons.”
“Here are the papers,” said Laura, thrusting them into Pussy’s hand. By this time Pussy was outside the gate and standing so close to the car that it was impossible to drive away without hitting her. She was determined not to let them go, and she began to make tender inquiries after Lady Masters and Mrs. Cole— inquiries which Toby and Laura disposed of with brisk assurances that they were in the best of health. Toby put his hand to the ignition switch. Pussy asked gently if he was going to do his farming at Endbury.
“It will be nice for your mother that you are to live at home,” she said. “She is so devoted that she will be glad to have you under her eye. Bramchester is not very far away, but I’m sure she used to worry about you. One hears such strange rumours, you know. All quite false, I can see, but worrying.”
She smiled sweetly at Toby, whose sensitive nature was now betraying itself in pinkness and silence.
“Good-bye,” Laura said firmly. Like one released from an evil spell, Toby started the car, revving up so fiercely that Pussy stepped back out of danger.
“Good-bye . . . come again . . .” Her parting words were lost in the speed of their departure.
“We’re going the wrong way. You’ll have to turn round.”
“Oh, hell,” said Toby. “I’ll go round by Barton Mill. It’s not much farther.”
By common consent they began to talk of things that had nothing to do with Pussy, or farming, or devoted mothers. It was a little difficult to keep the talk from drifting back to these forbidden subjects, but luckily Toby had just returned from a holiday; the Scottish scenery, even though it had been continuously shrouded in rain, had so impressed him that he found a great deal to say about it.
Chapter Fifteen
Mrs. Cole found the luncheon party rather disappointing. It was formal and dull and gave her no chance of beginning a new relationship with Lady Masters. She hoped there might be some significance in their having been asked to meet Toby’s aunt, but it was difficult to be sure of this because the Vicar of Bramton and his wife had also been asked. The aunt herself was dazzlingly arrayed in Scotch tweed, but otherwise inconspicuous. The food was as mediocre as usual. There was no haunch of venison, but as a concession to the vicar there was a small bony savoury after the sweet.
“Your husband is too thin,” Lady Masters told the vicar’s wife. “He wants feeding up.” And she gave her the name of a bedtime beverage which needed neither sugar nor milk, only a little water, and was far more nourishing than tea or cocoa.
Mrs. Cole could not pretend that she had enjoyed herself, but when Gillian made fun of the bedtime drink and Laura insisted on cutting extra bread and butter for tea, she rebuked them. This time they both noticed it. Laura felt uneasy; for an awful moment she wondered if her mother and Lady Masters could have talked things over and arrived at a secret understanding, but then she realized that this was not only improbable, but impossible. Mrs. Cole had not had an opportunity to talk to Lady Masters alone.
Mrs. Cole’s tact and cunning were no match for Gillian’s perspicacity. Gillian saw clearly that her mother wished them to think more favourably of Lady Masters, and she also saw the reason for it. But she was not certain if it was herself or Laura who was destined to be Toby’s bride.
The week following the luncheon party was wet and stormy. This was unfortunate, for the next Sunday was Harvest Festival and the decorations for Bramton Church came mostly from people with gardens but no greenhouses. There were greenhouses at Endbury, but the head gardener could seldom be induced to part with anything but a few insignificant ferns. The hothouse fruit which he grew to perfection was sold at a handsome profit in Bramchester and could not be spared for church decoration, and the chrysanthemums were never ready in time. Mrs. Cole usually had plenty of outdoor chrysanthemums, but now the rain had dashed them all to pieces, and Mrs. Worthy’s were just as bad.
“It is too bad of the vicar to have the festival so late in the year,” said Mrs. Worthy, who had called at Woodside to ask after Mrs. Cole’s chrysanthemums. “In the old days I’m sure it was always in September. Curtis says he will have nothing fit to send except a vegetable marrow. It’s a beautiful marrow, quite one of the largest I’ve seen, but then, everyone sends marrows.”
Gillian and Laura, who had been asked to help to decorate the church, agreed that there was always an abundance of marrows. After Mrs. Worthy had left, Gillian said she would write to Thomas. “Of course, he wouldn’t part with any of those alpines and things,” she said, “but that’s just as well, because they’re all hideous. He might have something large and showy and not at all valuable tucked away in those greenhouses at the back. I’ll ask him.”
She wrote to Mr. Greenley in London, since he came down to Cleeve only at week-ends. Being a busy man he did not answer her letter, but on Saturday morning a van arrived at Bramton Church with a handsome collection of plants as large and showy as anyone could desire. Gillian was gratified; everyone else was deeply impressed. Mr. Greenley’s contribution made the Endbury ferns look stunted and necessitated their removal to a less prominent place in the church. It was perhaps fortunate that Lady Masters was not present.
Gillian and Laura had been given a lift into Bramton by Mrs. Worthy, who was also helping to decorate the church. When the decorating was finished she remembered that she had to go on to Bramworthy to collect a parcel from the station and speak to the laundry about Curtis’s shirts, so she drove out by the Bramworthy road and dropped them at the corner of Wick Lane. They would get wet, she protested; if only it wasn’t for the petrol she would have run them home, but what with having to fetch the fish on Wednesdays because that was the best day for fish, she was always short. But she hated to think that they would get wet. She begged them to come with her to Bramworthy.
Gillian and Laura were quite accustomed to wet weather and they were both wearing mackintoshes, so they managed to persuade Mrs. Worthy that the rain would not hurt them. Watching her drive slowly away down the Bramworthy road, Gillian remarked that they would not have got so wet if they had not had to stand there in the rain arguing.
“I like Mrs. Worthy,” said Laura. “She’s got a kind heart. And she must have a wonderful character, too, to put up with Major Worthy and that dreary Jocelyn.”
“I grant you Jocelyn. But she doesn’t put up with Curtis—she simply adores him.”
“I suppose so.” She could not help feeling sorry for anyone who had nothing better to adore than Major Worthy. Even the dog or the parrot with which Gillian had once threatened her would be preferable to that.
“It’s a very successful marriage,” said Gillian. “But it’s a pity they don’t do something about Jocelyn.”
“They’ve tried to. At least, she has. She went to the Labour Exchange and put his name down. But there didn’t seem to be anyone who wanted to employ him.”
“Gracious,” said Gillian. “She’s more determined than I thought. Do you mean she would push him into any sort of job, however menial?”
“I think so. She was telling me about it when we were tying the corn stooks round the font. He gets on Major Worthy’s nerves.”
“We must find him a job. Now, what could he do?”
Discussing Jocelyn’s capabilities, they walked slowly downhill under the dripping trees. At the foot of the hill was the railway embankment. The lane went through a narrow arched opening under the embankment and then made a sharp turn to run parallel with the railway, past Bank Cottage, to the bridge across the river. The arch under the railway and the blind corner beyond it were considered very dangerous, but fortunately there was little traffic on the road.
It was a pity, Gillian said afterwards, that they had not been there a
little earlier. Then they would have witnessed the grand parting scene between Miss Selbourne and Miss Garrett, and might even have been able to intervene and prevent it. But perhaps, she added, it would really turn out for the best.
Miss Selbourne had slept badly, and the sight of yet another wet morning did nothing to cheer her up. She had a cold, Tiger had a cold, one of the puppies had something which might be distemper. She rose at the usual hour and went through the usual routine of letting out the dogs, lighting the oil stove, and making a cup of tea.
She called, “Tiger, Tiger,” in a hoarse croak from the foot of the stairs. But she did not wait for the response; instead she went back to the kitchen and sat down in the rocking chair, as near the stove as she could get. The rain pattered on the window. Agnes and Leo were barking to come in. But through these sounds there was faintly audible another sound, the prolonged groaning which was an indication that Miss Garrett was too ill to get up. Miss Selbourne paid no attention to the groans. She sipped her hot tea and wondered if she should take the puppy to the vet.
Presently the kitchen door opened and Miss Garrett appeared in her dressing gown. It was a man’s dressing gown, very thick and hairy, and made her look rather like a large grizzly bear. She gazed reproachfully at Miss Selbourne. Then she poured out a cup of tea and perched herself on the edge of the table.
“Good morning, Tiger,” said Miss Selbourne. “How’s the cold?”
When she had drunk her tea Miss Garrett said huskily that the cold was no better. Miss Selbourne replied that she was sorry to hear it.
“I shall hab to hab anudder day in bed,” Miss Garrett announced abruptly. She fished a repellent-looking handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose with great violence. Miss Selbourne helped herself to a second cup.
“I couldn’t sleeb,” said Miss Garrett. “Nod a wink.”
Miss Selbourne stood up. “I couldn’t sleep either,” she said. “I’ve got a cold, too.”
If it had not been such a wet morning, if she had not had a sick puppy to worry about, and if above all she had not been suffering from a cold, she would have spoken more kindly. Even as it was she meant only to remind Tiger that they were both in the same boat. But her voice had a sharp edge to it, and the words seemed to hang between them like a challenge. Miss Garrett responded to the challenge by another outburst of nose-blowing and coughing, plainly designed to show that her cold was much worse than her friend’s, and at the end of it she looked up and said mournfully:
“Id’s no good, old thing. I’mb just an old crock.”
Formerly, whenever Miss Garrett denounced herself as an old crock, her friend had been wont to reassure her, or to offer the sort of assistance that an old crock needed to help it on its way through life. But latterly the phrase had begun to irritate Miss Selbourne. She found herself listening for it and noticing how it popped out whenever there was anything disagreeable to be done. Being an old crock was rapidly becoming, for Miss Garrett, a whole-time occupation. The sympathy and help which Miss Selbourne had given so freely in the past had now become mechanical responses, and the mechanism worked with increasing stiffness and reluctance.
This morning, for the first time, the mechanism did not work at all.
Without replying, Miss Selbourne went to the back door and flung it open. For the last ten minutes Agnes and Leo had been scratching and whining outside, and now they came bounding in and at once began to shake themselves, sending showers of muddy water all over the kitchen.
“By cold!” rasped Miss Garrett. “Shud the door.”
Miss Selbourne shut the door, found the dogs’ towels, and knelt down to dry them. When she had finished with the dogs she turned her attention to her friend. Tiger had moved to the vacant rocking chair and was sitting there with her eyes shut.
“I’m going to get dressed now,” Miss Selbourne said. “I’ll light the sitting-room fire and then we can have breakfast there.”
Miss Garrett gave a prolonged groan. When this dismal sound had ceased Miss Selbourne heard her own voice proclaiming that it was quite time Tiger pulled herself together.
She had not intended to speak so harshly, but having begun she could not stop. It was not the first time they had quarrelled, but never before had they quarrelled so bitterly or said so many unkind things. The previous quarrels had usually begun by Miss Garrett’s wanting something she could not have, a bottle of whisky, a new car, a larger establishment; this one was different, it concerned their life together—the way Tiger moaned and groaned and pretended to have headaches, the way Bunty clattered up and down stairs and thought only about money.
At the climax of the quarrel Tiger burst into tears and announced that she was off; she’d stood a lot from old Bunty, but this was the limit, dragged from her bed and expected to work when she’d be damn lucky if she hadn’t got pneumonia. Coughing, weeping with rage, and groaning, Tiger stumbled out of the kitchen and retreated to her bedroom, ostentatiously locking herself in.
Then Miss Selbourne remembered the precious dogs, whose health mattered so much more than her own (or Tiger’s), and she too retired upstairs. When she was dressed she made a hurried breakfast of stewed tea and cold porridge; if Tiger wanted breakfast she could get her own. As soon as she had finished she went out to the kennels. The puppy seemed better, but there was the usual feeding and grooming to be done, and then she discovered a leak in one of the roofs and had to attend to it. She was not a good carpenter and it took her some time to contrive a little patch of roofing-felt and nail it on with battens. While she was doing this she remembered that it was Saturday and that she ought to be in Bramworthy getting the rations. And there was nothing for lunch.
She felt her anger returning. It was cold on the roof of the kennels, the rain was trickling down her neck, the nails would not go where she meant them to, and she had to keep stopping to blow her nose. Tiger was warm and dry in the house. She would stay in her room all day, sulking, and then behave as if nothing had happened.
If she had not been so occupied with her carpentry she might have noticed that something was happening. Bank Cottage was a scene of much activity. Doors banged, drawers and cupboards were opened and shut, and a watchful face appeared several times at the bathroom window, which overlooked the kennels. Agnes and Leo barked excitedly, reminding Miss Garrett that she had more possessions than a few clothes. She could hardly bear to leave her dogs behind, but the important thing was to get out—just to go, which would show Bunty what she thought of her. She could send for the dogs later.
She had not much time to think about where she was to go, but there were at least two possibilities, an unmarried brother whom she had not seen for five years, and her old pal Shrimp Fisher. Miss Fisher seemed the more promising, for she lived only a few miles beyond Bramchester—and had she not implored Tiger to come over and look her up, any day, any time? Shrimp would listen and sympathize and give her a drink. Miss Garrett decided that Shrimp would be the right person to go to.
It occurred to her that it would be much easier if she took the car. Strictly speaking, the car belonged to Bunty, but she could jolly well do without it for a few days. The car lived in a shed which opened on to the lane; she carried her luggage downstairs and then went back to the bathroom and peeped out to make certain Bunty was still busy at the kennels. Then she regretfully shut Agnes and Leo into the sitting-room, for their delirious joy at the prospect of a drive would certainly attract Bunty’s attention. She crept out and stowed her luggage in the car, started it, and drove out into the lane.
Just as she was about to drive out of Miss Selbourne’s life forever, she remembered that she had not got her ration book.
Miss Garrett had often found herself in difficulties through having left her ration book at home when she went shopping, and she saw at once that it was essential to have it with her now. Even Shrimp might not welcome a guest who arrived without one. She stopped the car outside the wicket gate and hurried back to the house to retrieve it.
&
nbsp; The wind and the rain and the noise of her own hammering had prevented Miss Selbourne from hearing the car. She was still on the roof, nailing down the last of the-battens, when she happened to glance up and saw Miss Garrett walking quickly up the path to the house. Though she was short-sighted she could not fail to recognize that bulky figure, and she also saw the car at the gate. She might have supposed that Miss Garrett was trying to make amends by going off to do the shopping, but apart from the unlikelihood of such behaviour there was something unnatural about the scene. Something out of the ordinary.
Then she realized what it was. The dogs were not there.
Miss Selbourne slithered down the roof and jumped to the ground. The absence of the dogs made it plain that Miss Garrett was trying to do something by stealth. She ran back across the paddock, and as she ran she saw Miss Garrett come out of the house. “Stop, stop!” she cried.
Far from stopping, Miss Garrett began to run too, a heavy lumbering run that was a poor match for Miss Selbourne’s athletic strides. But Miss Garrett had only a short distance to go. By the time Miss Selbourne reached the gate she was already in the car, wheezing but triumphant, with the engine running and her hand on the brake.
“Stop!” Miss Selbourne repeated. “What are you doing?” The words were a waste of time and breath, for now she could see the luggage piled on the seat, topped by a spiky German helmet which was Tiger’s dearest treasure.
“My car!” she screamed. “You can’t have my car. Come back!”
But the car bounded forward and shot away down the lane, leaving her standing there in a haze of blue smoke and diminishing noise.
The triumphant glory of her departure went to Miss Garrett’s head like strong drink, causing her to drive even faster than usual. She was going so fast that when she came to the sharp bend before the railway arch she was forced to take it very wide, and as she swung round it the German helmet was thrown off her suitcase and hit her on the shoulder. At the same instant she realized that another car was coming through the arch towards her.
Bramton Wick Page 17
