The Flowering Thorn

by Margery Sharp

  “But how is the chill?” demanded Lesley, sniffing at her forced hyacinths.

  “On the liver—or so he says. He also says that it’s worse than gout.”

  “And I haven’t been up for nearly a fortnight! Did you tell him I was coming to-morrow?”

  To her extreme surprise, the Vicar looked suddenly distressed.

  “Do you know, my dear,” he said, “if I were you I don’t think I should go. Being ill doesn’t agree with him. He’s got into one of his hermit-crab moods.…”

  “You mean he said he didn’t want me?” persisted Lesley.

  The Vicar looked more distressed still.

  “Well—not quite that exactly, but he’d evidently rather be left alone. At that age, I supose, one feels entitled to a few crochets.”

  She listened with politeness; but in her heart she was both surprised and hurt. Sir Philip not want to see her! It was preposterous! It was inexplicable! Even out of mere courtesy, even if only for the sparing of a rebuff, he could surely have supported her company for a bare ten minutes! And concealing her chagrin, Lesley felt the hurt go deeper. For she who had believed herself—and surely after that last meeting had been right to believe herself—his dear friend, was now thus brusquely informed that he no longer wished to be amused. Or so she saw it, as she feigned indifference; and the hyacinths smelt less sweet.

  At this juncture, however, and by a fortunate coincidence, her thoughts were effectually distracted by no less an event than the simultaneous arrival of two telegrams. One was from Mrs. Pomfret, announcing her return that afternoon: the other, for Lesley, contained a long and enthusiastic acount of the 1933 Buick, ending with an invitation to lunch, the day following, at the Yellow Swan, at Thame. It was one of those communications, in fact, for which Elissa had been so long and deservedly famous.

  ‘After all this time!’ thought Lesley. ‘Elissa!’ By contrast with Sir Philip’s capriciousness, her fidelity in friendship (though, as Lesley herself remarked, after all that time) was doubly welcome; and since her duties at the Vicarage would by then be over, Lesley wired back at once a grateful acceptance. Unlike the Locks, Elissa had forgotten to prepay an answer: but it was a shilling well spent on mental distraction.

  By four o’clock that afternoon Mrs. Pomfret was back; and it speaks volumes for her character that she returned in genuinely good spirits. For the aunt, by whose will she would benefit to the extent of five hundred pounds, had against all expectation made a complete recovery. She was extremely grateful, however, for Mrs. Pomfret’s attention, and was almost certainly going to send after her, as a token of esteem, the small garden roller she had so often admired.

  With a sort of sorrowing affection, the Vicar took his wife’s hand.

  “That’s splendid, my dear,” he said, “and I expect we shall use it a lot. But the next time you’re there, do you think you could admire that small oil-painting over the dining-room sofa? I have an idea it’s a Raeburn.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  In rather more of a hurry than she had intended, Lesley set out to meet Elissa. For she had meant to dress carefully, to spend a long time over her face; but after taking Pat up to the Vicarage, putting milk for the cats, and talking to Mrs. Sprigg, there was only just time to put on her hat and run for the ’bus. She went, in fact, just as she was, in a sweater of bright daffodil yellow, brown skirt and short leather jacket; a combination pleasing enough in its way, but definitely …

  ‘Simple-minded,’ thought Lesley, considering her image in the ’bus window. ‘All I want is a buttonhole of wool flowers.’ For a moment or two the reflection depressed her (especially when she remembered the cream-and-crimson chevrons of her latest knitting. They would have impressed anyone, even Elissa); but all other emotions were soon overshadowed by the pleasure of the approaching reunion.

  Why this should have been so, Lesley did not stop to think. The gap in their acquaintance, now of nearly three years’ duration, had been supported by her with no more than the most occasional and mildest pang; and no doubt the same with Elissa, who would have supported no pang at all, not even the mildest, without doing something about it. She now wanted to show her new car, and so remembered old acquaintance; but though Lesley knew this to be so, it in no way affected her present flow of affection. For Elissa—therein lay the spell!—came from the enchanted territory of Baker Street, wherein no one could do wrong; like a magic carpet she carried that territory with her, and Lesley joyfully looked forward to stepping upon it too. Her imagination, as will be seen, was still a little coloured by the Arabian Nights; and indeed there was something about Elissa that made her by no means out of place among—for example—those ambiguous widows who came to buy silk and vamped the merchants.… So ran Lesley’s thoughts as the ’bus stopped, proceeded, and stopped again; and with every successive mile her impatience grew. This was unfortunate in a way, because as soon as she reached Thame it became gradually more and more apparent that Elissa, as usual, was going to be late.

  And she was late; she was very late indeed. Lesley could have creamed her face and changed from top to toe, and now instead found no better distraction than the pile of illustrated papers in the lounge of the Yellow Swan. She did not dare go and look at the shops, in case Elissa came and missed her; and only a strong initial impetus enabled her spirits to rise superior to one hour and ten minutes of hunger and suspense. But rise they did, though only just: and at five past two, when a brand-new Buick slid gracefully into the square, she was able to go out and meet it with genuine pleasure.

  “Elissa!”

  With a swift wriggling movement, curiously reminiscent of getting out of bed, Elissa slipped from the low seat and looked inquiringly round. Then her eye was caught, she slammed-to the door, and an instant later had flung herself over the threshold and into the arms of her friend.

  “Darling!” cried Elissa, quite in the old way.

  “Darling!” responded Lesley, quite in the old way too.

  “How lovely to see you! Come and look at my car!”

  They went out on to the pavement and examined it minutely, Elissa never ceasing to proclaim her unalloyed delight. It was the most marvellous car she’d ever had, it went like a bird, they had christened it with champagne, the upholstery of course was going to be altered, but the mascot—Lesley must look really carefully at the mascot—was really rather a gem, absolutely unique, made specially for her, Elissa, by a marvelous Latvian craftsman who was going to be deported. It represented a slim naked female embracing a policeman.

  “And so you see, darling, I never get held up. They just take one look and wave me through. Now let’s have a Martini, and then get at some lunch. I’m simply ravenous,” said Elissa; and pulling out a chair she proceeded to order a small piece of fish and toast Melba.

  Lesley heard her with mixed feelings. For the last hour and a half she had been frankly looking forward to her food, but if Elissa were really on a diet any marked display of appetite could scarcely look other than heartless. For a moment she wavered; then remembering with relief that Elissa never did eat anything, gratefully threw aside all scruples and ordered jugged hare. Or rather, to be exact, jugged hare, brussels sprouts and sauté potatoes.

  “My dear!” murmured Elissa. “Aren’t you afraid of fat?”

  “I know I ought to be,” said Lesley guiltily. As unobtrusively as possible she took a roll and butter. “But being in the open air seems to give one such an appetite. Are you on diet again, darling?”

  “No more than usual,” replied Elissa rather severely. “I hate”—and she sketched a little gesture of disgust—“I do so hate being cluttered up with food.”

  Lesley frowned.

  “But it doesn’t clutter up, you know, really. I mean, most of it one actually needs, and the rest … well, at any rate it shouldn’t clutter. Look at Pat, for instance. He eats enormously, but, roughly speaking, I know what happens to every mouthful.”

  “Pat! My dear, I never asked. How is he?”

&
nbsp; “Very well indeed,” said Lesley, still rather earnest in the defence of food. “I’ve left him at the Vicarage.”

  “Darling! How perfectly sweet! Do you mean to say you’ve got all matey with the Vicar?”

  “I’ve just been staying there, to look after the children,” said Lesley placidly. The jugged hare had arrived, looking extremely adequate: but fortunately Elissa, now furnished with her sole, was a very slow eater. She talked so much; she was talking so much now.…

  And all through lunch, indeed, Elissa’s high shrill voice chattered tirelessly on, marvelling at the Vicar, extolling her car, creating around them, as nothing else could have done, the sights and sounds of London at cocktail time: while all through lunch, obliquely in the Swan’s silvery mirrors, Lesley scrutinised her friend.

  Elissa—there was no doubt at all—had dressed very carefully indeed. Possibly it was the effect of her four years’ exile, but Lesley felt she had never seen anything quite so smart as the trim little dark vermilion sports suit, the matching cap and gauntletted hogskin gloves. And as for her face—it would need a life-long experience of beauty-parlours to gauge exactly how many hours a week went to achieve its perfection. With a sudden sinking of the spirit, Lesley remembered that it was nearly three years since she had had her eyebrows plucked.

  And meanwhile, from the other side of the table, a similar examination had been unobtrusively proceeding.

  “But really, darling, I think you’re looking very well. You’ve put on weight, of course”—Elissa’s complacent glance flickered over her own mirrored slenderness—“but they say curves are going to be fashionable. Though they’ve said that for years, haven’t they? Let’s take our coffee in the other room.”

  But after they had crossed the hall—the same hall in which Lesley had once been taken for a Country Type—conversation flagged. Even Elissa’s flow seemed suddenly to slacken, for she had already dealt with dress, drama, art and personalities; and to be the next person to speak after Elissa always made anyone else feel a little dull. Or was that too—Lesley asked herself—simply another notion born of a four-years’ absence? Surely in Town she herself, for instance, had talked every bit as fast, made just as many epigrams, and would have thought no more of capping Elissa’s stories than of criticising her clothes? Only here, she lacked material. There was Pat, of course; but he, like all her other preoccupations—of cats and gardens and Mrs. Pomfret’s aunt—was obviously far too commonplace to amuse.…

  “God, but this fire’s hot!” said Elissa suddenly. “If I don’t move my face will run.” She pulled out a mirror, looked long and searchingly at the skin round her nostrils. “And now, darling”—the powder-box closed with a well-remembered snap—“tell me everything you’ve been doing for the last three years.”

  “Nothing much,” said Lesley.

  2

  In the short silence a clock chimed in the hall. Elissa stirred.

  “My dear, you really are rather marvellous,” she said; and held up her bag to save her complexion from the fire.

  Lesley looked up inquiringly.

  “About Pat. Living in the country. Giving up everything you enjoyed. I mean, I’ve sometimes felt like giving up everything myself, but not in that way. (Only last year,” threw out Elissa in parentheses, “I tried to go into a nunner; but they made difficulty after difficulty.) You know, my dear, we none of us ever expected you to stick it.”

  Wrinkling her forehead, Lesley tried to think back to the time when living in the country was something one deserved credit for. For four years, to be sure, the thought of returning to Town had been constantly at the back of her mind; but that was not to say that they had been four years of unmitigated pain. Far from it, thought Lesley honestly: her memory suddenly selecting, as a random nosegay of favours, the herbaceous border, Pat shouting to Pincher, and Mrs. Pomfret’s home-made cake. However, in Elissa’s eyes she had apparently done something noble; and Elissa was not as a rule much given to praise.

  “Oh, well,” said Lesley, as nobly as she knew how, “it’s nearly over now. Pat goes to school in September, and then I shall be free again.”

  With one of her long flickering glances Elissa again took in her friend’s calm unpainted face, her unremarkable clothes, her general air of woman-no-longer-in-active-competition.…

  “Darling! How nice it will be to have you back!” She spoke with sincerity: she felt she had never liked Lesley so much before. “I wonder if you could get your own flat again? Or there’s a cottage to let in my mews—or lots of people are going to Chelsea—”

  For half-an-hour more she babbled joyfully on, renting Lesley’s new flat, hanging her new curtains, inviting her to Pont Street—as long as she liked, whenever she liked, and at a moment’s notice—and in short forgetting all but the passage of time in a pure effusion of friendship. Then the clock struck, it was half-past three; and with a couple of fluttering kisses Elissa fled for her car.

  A trifle more soberly, though with head still spinning from so much enthusiasm, Lesley followed across the square in the direction of the ’bus stop. Elissa would have loved to take her back, but there was a private view at four.

  3

  Returning a little wearied in the early dusk, Lesley saw Mr. Pomfret’s black coat dark against her door. So he had stood all those years ago, just before disappearing from view by the simple expedient of slipping in at the front door and out the other side! But now he had evidently come to bring Pat, and she hastened forward to thank him.

  “But you shouldn’t have troubled,” she cried. “He always runs back alone unless it’s really dark. Has the roller come yet?”

  “Not yet,” said the Vicar.

  And at once, at something in his voice, fear gripped her. Holding hard by the door-post, she said brusquely:

  “Please don’t try and prepare me. Has anything happened to Pat?”

  With equal brusqueness the Vicar answered her.

  “No, no. I’m sorry I frightened you. But it’s bad news all the same. Sir Philip died this afternoon.”

  For a moment Lesley stared at him in silence; until, moistening her lips with her tongue, she was surprised by a sudden taste of salt. She said,

  “But—but there was nothing wrong with him. Only that chill.”

  “He was seventy-five, and very frail. And—I’m afraid I’ve been deceiving you, my dear. He’s been very ill all these weeks. Only he didn’t want you, you see, to know that he was dying. He knew, I think, from the very beginning. And most of all, he didn’t want you to see him die.”

  Lesley nodded. Not to spoil it, not to leave the wrong memory! She could understand that. A thought struck her.

  “Who looked after him?”

  “A nurse from Aylesbury. I fetched her myself, with the doctor. It was pleurisy, and he … hadn’t the strength.”

  As though his words had released a flow of mechanical energy, Lesley rushed past him into the house, switched on the light, drew the blinds; until from close behind the Vicar’s hand gripped her shoulder.

  “Sit down,” he said, “sit down and cry. You look as though you’re going to faint.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Lesley. She steadied her voice, so that it made a queer dull noise in her own ears. She said,

  “You ought to have told me.”

  Very gently, the Vicar forced her into a chair.

  “My dear,” he said, “it was his one pride and consolation, that you should be spared all useless pain. He didn’t call it pain, he called it ugliness. How could I have told you?”

  Lesley moistened her lips.

  “Isn’t there—isn’t there any message for me?”

  “Yes. He sent you his love,” said the Vicar gently, “and said you were to cry a little, but not too much. And the other thing is—he’s left you this cottage.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Of all forms of property, freehold land (except of course in slum and other congested areas) demands most and gives least. Gives least, that is to
say, in the matter of half-yearly dividends: for its profits are not of the kind that can be cleared through the bank for the benefit of an absentee landlord. They are for the most part, indeed, intangible, like those tenuous exports which should, but do not, redress the balance of trade: to describe them one must take refuge in comparisons, observing, for example, that though a share in British Celanese is a precious, an invaluable thing, one cannot watch it put forth grass; or that though Government Stock offers very good security, one has not to rise at six to see at its best. In diamonds, it is said, Jews find both commercial and æsthetic satisfaction; but even diamonds look the same at all four seasons. Land changes. It is brown in winter, green in spring: it supports—we speak of land, not House Property—three separate populations, the rooted, the ambulant, and the volatile. And to command these varied profits mere ownership is not enough: that is where the land demands. Unless the owner is there, on the spot, he loses all. For one cannot by proxy smell earth after rain, or hear a blackbird whistle; or set roots of cowslips in a wet green bank.