The Ivy Tree

by Mary Stewart

  ‘Well,’ said Grandfather, a little drily, as he pushed back his chair, ‘enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘We will, be sure of that! But till then,’ said Julie, dimpling at Donald, ‘I’ll let you get on with your mudlarking in peace, and put in a bit of work for Con instead. In any case, I think haymaking’s more fun, and far more profitable to the human race.’

  ‘Very probably,’ said Donald equably.

  Sure enough, Julie spent the next two or three days in the hayfield, driving the tractor for Con.

  Here I watched her rather more anxiously. It was just possible that Julie (provoked, restless, and already slightly bored with the country holiday that wasn’t answering its purpose) was hoping to try out the age-old romantic device of making Donald jealous. She had two strings to her bow: Bill Fenwick from Nether Shields, who came over now and again, ostensibly to ‘give a hand’ in the hayfield when he could be spared from home, but in reality, it was obvious, for a chance to be near Julie; and Con. Bill I dismissed without a thought, except to hope that he would not be hurt; but Con was a different proposition. He was not a man who could be used in this sort of way, or in any sort of way that he didn’t initiate. Besides, he was extremely attractive, and older and more sensible girls than Julie had rebounded before now into far less exciting arms. And if Con suddenly decided that three thirds of the Winslow money was even better than two, and seriously turned his attention to Julie . . .

  I need not have worried. At any other time, I suppose, Con would have flirted with her as a matter of course, a purely automatic reaction, as instinctive as that of a cock bird displaying to the female; but, just at present, Con had more important things on his mind. Mr Isaacs, the lawyer, had been duly summoned to see Grandfather, and had spent Friday morning closeted with him in his office. The old man had said nothing whatever about this interview, but had allowed it to be known that Mr Isaacs would call again in a few days’ time, that is, on the morning of his, Grandfather’s, birthday. The inference was obvious, and, to my eyes, the effect on Con was obvious, too. The tension in him had increased perceptibly in the last few days; he was quieter than usual, and seemed edgy and strained. We saw very little of him; he rarely even ate with us, but spent all his time in the hayfield, working with an energy and fierce physical concentration that were remarkable, even for him. This was partly, I thought, due to a genuine passion for hard work, partly to work off the tensions he was feeling, and partly, also, to keep out of old Mr Winslow’s way. The die was cast, one way or the other; it seemed likely that it was cast in Con’s favour, and Con was taking no risks.

  In this he may have been wise. Since the lawyer’s visit, there had been a perceptible change, too, in Grandfather. Where Con had grown tense and wary, turning that diamond-hard concentration of his on his job, old Mr Winslow became daily more difficult and less predictable, prone to sudden irritabilities, and even (what was new in him) fits of vagueness and absence of mind. The continued hot weather seemed to trouble him. He was very easily tired, but as he did less, so his fretfulness increased, and it seemed, wherever possible, to be directed at Con. His decision now finally made, it was as if the abdication of that will-to-power, which had been his driving force, had slackened something in him. He even seemed, physically, to have grown smaller. Where before he had been formidable, he now seemed merely fretful, and his resentful nagging at Con (over matters which previously he had been quite content to leave to the younger man) were the grumblings of a pettish old man, no longer the storms of a tyrant.

  Lisa was the only person who seemed unaffected by the tensions that snapped the nerves at Whitescar. It was as if she, too, had abdicated. It was increasingly obvious to me that Lisa, a determined enough personality in her way, lived only for Con – or, indeed, through Con. His energy and ambition charged her batteries; he steered her into a path, and along that path she ploughed steadily, undeviating, un-judging; but the decisions – and the rewards – were all his. She was more than content to help him to success, as long as she could watch him enjoying it. Her unremitting worship had certainly helped to make him what he was, but sometimes I found myself wondering if, in fact, Lisa wasn’t also his prison. It was all he had had, that mothering, smothering love of hers that had driven him so much in upon himself. Con was for Con, and Lisa saw nothing wrong, or even out of the way, in such an attitude.

  If she shared her half-brother’s wariness and worry, she didn’t show it, unless perhaps in a reflection of his relentless industry. Regardless of the heat, she threw herself into a positive frenzy of housewifery and cooking, and we were treated to a magnificent course of haute cuisine which drew only the most casual of accolades from the others, which Con, shut in his cold and wary preoccupations, noticed not at all, and which proved a great nuisance to me, who had in common civility to offer my help in whatever job she undertook.

  For me, it was something of a relief to find myself abruptly removed from the centre of attention. Con was, for the moment, no longer concerned with me, and Lisa had accepted me completely. What jealous thoughts she may have originally had of me, she had transferred to Julie, who (to do her justice), had done nothing to deserve them. Me, she seemed even to like; I had the odd feeling that, in her stolid, brother-centred way, she was even grateful for my presence at Whitescar, where Mr Winslow persisted in regarding her as something of a stranger, a sort of paid-housekeeper-cum-poor-relation; Mrs Bates with a slightly jealous Northern caution; and Con himself with a casual affection that took everything, including the most detailed personal service, completely for granted.

  Meanwhile, the heat increased, charging the air with thunder, adding this threat to the other perceptible weights in the air. Day by day the great soapsud clouds built up their slow thunder-towers in the south-west. The trees hung heavily, as if themselves exhausted by the heat, and the sky was a deep, waiting blue.

  And Con kept quiet, and watched the clouds, and drove himself and the men like galley-slaves to clear the fields before the weather broke . . . And with that same cold preoccupation, and for a closely analogous reason, he watched Grandfather . . .

  Wednesday came, still without the threatened thunderstorm. The air felt a little lighter, as a small breeze had sprung up, though without shifting the towering, beautiful clouds. But the sense of oppression (or was it foreboding?) seemed to have lifted.

  Mr Isaacs came just before midday, and Grandfather took him straight into the office. I gave them ten minutes, then went to the dining room to get the sherry.

  As I crossed the hall, Julie came downstairs, pulling on her gloves.

  I paused. ‘Why, hullo! Are you going now? My, my, don’t you look wonderful!’

  This was true. She was wearing crisp cotton, the colour of lemon-ice, and her gloves were white. The pale, shining hair was brushed into an elaborate and very attractive style that had been thought up at least two hundred miles from Whitescar. Over one arm she carried a little coat of the same material as the frock.

  I said: ‘Very nice! But why so early? I thought Donald couldn’t get away till after lunch?’

  She tugged the second glove into place, pushing the heavy gold bracelet higher up her wrist with a sharp little movement that looked almost savage. ‘Donald,’ she said crisply, ‘can’t get away at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He rang up an hour ago to say that he couldn’t go, after all.’

  ‘Oh, Julie, no! Why?’

  Her careful composure shivered a bit, like cat-ice wrinkling under the wind. Her eyes were stormy. ‘Because he doesn’t think what I want to do matters a damn, that’s why!’

  I threw a glance towards the office door. ‘Come into the dining room. I was just going to take Mr Isaacs and Grandfather some sherry . . .’ In the dining room I said: ‘Now come off it, honey. Why can’t he come? What’s happened?’

  ‘Somebody’s turned up from London, that’s why. Some beastly man from the Commission, who’s working with Donald, and Donald says he’ll have to stay and see h
im. He says – oh, what’s it matter, anyway? I didn’t listen. It’s always the same, I might have known. The one time he did say he’d leave his precious blasted Romans—’

  ‘Julie, he’d come if he could. He can’t help it.’

  ‘I know! Oh, it isn’t that! It’s just – oh, it’s just everything!’ cried Julie. ‘And he sounded so calm and reasonable—’

  ‘He always does. He would in a fire. It’s a habit men have; they think it calms us, or something.’

  ‘Well, but he seemed to think I ought to be reasonable, too!’ said Julie, furiously. ‘How dumb can you get? . . . Annabel, if you laugh, I’ll kill you!’ She gave a reluctant grin. ‘Anyway, you know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. But you’re not being fair to Donald, are you? The man’s got a job to do, and if something crops up that has to be attended to—’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. I’m not as silly as all that. But he knew how foully disappointed I’d be. He needn’t have sounded just as if he didn’t even mind not going out with me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t mean to, you know. He’s just not the type to spread himself all over the carpet for you to trample on. He’d be as sorry as the next man, but he – well, he just hasn’t got the gift of the gab.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, has he?’ Her voice was genuinely bitter. She had turned aside to pick up the jacket from the chair where she had thrown it.

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘It’s all right. I dare say I’m being stupid about it, but I can’t help that. It would be different if he’d ever – if I knew—’ she sounded all at once very young – ‘if I was sure he cared.’

  ‘He does care. I’m sure he does.’

  ‘Then why the hell doesn’t he say so?’ cried Julie explosively. She snatched up her coat. ‘Oh, what’s the use?’

  ‘Is he still coming to dinner tonight?’

  ‘He said he’d try. I said he could please himself.’

  ‘Oh, Julie!’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t just say it like that. I was really quite nice about it.’ She gave me a wavering smile. ‘Almost reasonable . . . But if he knew what hellish thoughts were churning away inside me . . .’

  ‘It’s often a good thing they don’t.’

  ‘They? Who?’

  I grinned. ‘Men.’

  ‘Oh, men,’ she said, in accents of loathing. ‘Why are men?’

  ‘I give you three guesses.’

  ‘The most harmless answer is that there’d be nothing whatever to do if there weren’t any, I suppose.’

  ‘There’d be nothing whatever, period,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got something there,’ said Julie, ‘but don’t ask me to admit it for quite some time. Oh, Annabel, you’ve done me good. I must go now; there’s the car.’

  ‘Car?’

  She gave me a little sideways look under her lashes. ‘I told you I wasn’t going to miss this play. I’m going with Bill Fenwick.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And just what do you see?’

  I ignored that. ‘But surely the play’s going to open in London soon? You’ll see it there?’

  ‘That,’ said Julie, ‘is not the point.’

  ‘No, quite. Donald couldn’t get away, so you rang up Bill Fenwick, and asked him to take you? That it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a shade of defiance.

  ‘And he dropped everything, and promptly came?’

  ‘Yes.’ She eyed me. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I hope they’ve finished leading for the day at Nether Shields, that’s all.’

  ‘Annabel,’ said Julie, warmly, ‘are you trying to be a pig?’

  I laughed. ‘I was, rather. Never mind me, honey, go and enjoy your play. We’ll be seeing you at dinner. And, Julie—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If Donald does come, don’t make it too obvious that you’re a bit fed-up with him, will you? No—’ as she made a little movement of impatience – ‘this isn’t Advice from Aunt Annabel. What’s between you and Donald is your affair. I was thinking of something quite different . . . I’ll explain later. There’s no time now . . . But come and see me when you get in, will you? I’ve something to tell you.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Julie.

  The front door shut behind her. I found the sherry glasses, and a tray, but as I set the decanter on this, the office door opened, and Grandfather came out.

  He was making for the baize door that led to the kitchen lobby, but, hearing the chink of glass, he stopped, turned, and saw me through the open door of the dining room. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then abruptly to make up his mind. He came into the room, and shut the door quietly behind him.

  ‘I was just going to bring you some sherry,’ I said. ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘I was going to get Betsy Bates and that girl Cora to witness my signature,’ he said, in a dry, rather harsh voice.

  ‘Oh.’ I waited. He stood just inside the door, his head bent and thrust forward, staring at me under his brows.

  ‘Child—’ He seemed not quite to know what he had come to say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve taken you at your word.’

  I tried not to let him see the relief that swept through me. ‘I’m glad of that.’

  ‘I believe you are.’

  I said earnestly: ‘It’s right, Grandfather, you said yourself it was only right and fair. It’s best for everyone – Con, me, the place, your peace of mind.’

  ‘Julie?’

  ‘And Julie,’ I said steadily. ‘Julie loves this place, don’t think she doesn’t, but can you see her running it?’

  He gave his little bark of laughter. ‘Frankly, no. Must confess I’ve wondered, though, with young Fenwick in the offing—’

  I said quickly: ‘There’s nothing in that. It’s Donald Seton, and you know he lives in London when he’s not on field work.’

  ‘Hm. Gathered there was something in the wind. Not quite senile yet. Decent sort of fellow, I thought. Gentleman, and so on. Only thing is, he doesn’t look as if he’s got a penny to his name.’

  I laughed. ‘His clothes and car? That’s affectation, when he’s out on a dig. I’ll bet he’s formal enough in London. He makes eighteen hundred a year, rising to two thousand five hundred, and his family’s got money.’

  ‘How the devil d’you know?’

  ‘Julie told me. She looked him up.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Grandfather, impressed. ‘Girl’s got sense, after all.’ He gave a curious little sigh, and then smiled the tight, lipless smile of the old. ‘Well, that’s that, isn’t it? All settled. But I don’t mind telling you. I haven’t liked it. Boy’s all right, don’t think I don’t know it, but not m’own flesh and blood. Not the same. Young people don’t understand that nowadays, but it’s true. A bit too much of the damned foreigner about Connor sometimes.’

  ‘Foreigner?’ I said blankly.

  ‘Irish,’ said Grandfather. I thought of Donald, and smiled to myself, but he didn’t see. He was looking past me, out of the window. ‘If your father, or Julie’s, had lived, it would have been a different matter.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said gently.

  The old eyes came back to me. ‘You and Connor should have made a match of it. Should still. I’m not raking up the past, but after what’s been between you—’

  ‘I told you, it would never have worked.’

  ‘Not then, no. Too much of the Winslow in both of you, perhaps. But now . . . say what you like, the onlooker sees most of the game. I still think it would be the best thing. For the place, for Connor; yes, and for you. Never a woman born yet, that wasn’t the better for a husband. Don’t just stand and smile at me, child. Come here.’

  I went and stood in front of him. He put up a hand, and held it against my cheek. It was cool and very dry, and felt as light as a leaf. ‘It’s made me very happy, your coming back. Don’t think for a moment that you’re no
t my favourite, because you are.’

  ‘I always did say you were never fair in your life.’

  ‘I’ve left you some money,’ he said gruffly. ‘A good sum and Julie, too. I want you to know.’

  ‘Grandfather, I—’

  ‘It’s settled. We’ll have neither thanks nor argument. I’ve done what I think fair, in spite of what you say about me. Tell you just how it stands. It’s tangled up in a lot of lawyer’s nonsense, but it amounts to this: Whitescar goes to Connor, with the house, stock, implements, the lot. I take it you won’t contest that? Or Julie?’

  ‘No.’

  A grin. ‘Doubt if you could, anyway. Isaacs’ wrapped it all up in legal jargon, with reasons stated. Seems you have to stop anyone being able to say, later on, that you were cranky when you made the Will. So there it is, all laid out: Whitescar goes as an acknowledgement of Connor’s “devoted work”, for which I’ve so far made “inadequate recompense”. True enough. Well, there it is. Then we come to the recompense for you.’

  ‘For me? What have I ever done, except run away?’

  ‘Recompense for losing Whitescar. Should have been yours. Handed over your head to Connor.’

  ‘Oh.’ I waited, hopelessly.

  ‘The money,’ said Grandfather. He had a hand on the table, and was leaning on it. He sent me a look up under the white brows, a pale counterfeit of his old, bright glance, but recognisably the same. ‘I’ve divided it into three. A third goes to Julie, outright. It’s all she ever expected, and I doubt if she’ll quarrel with Con over Whitescar. If she marries this man of hers, she’ll be well enough found. The other two thirds I’ve left in trust, to pay your income for life.’

  ‘In – trust?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Worked it all out with Isaacs as the best way. I want you repaid for losing Whitescar, and I want to see you well provided for. But I don’t want the money to leave the land outright. You said you’d not stay here when I’d gone; remember? So it’s left in trust for your lifetime. After your death it comes back to Connor absolutely, or to his heirs. On the other hand, if Connor should die before you, without issue, then Whitescar becomes yours, and the money along with it, absolutely. I take it, if he were gone, you’d look after the place . . . ? Good girl.’ His hand lifted. ‘No, wait. I haven’t finished. There’s one thing more. If you should marry Connor—’