Fruit on the Bough: A heartfelt family saga about a brother and sister

by Ursula Bloom

  ‘I did it,’ she said, and then pathetically, ‘for you.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. Sentiment hurt, he wished that she would not try to be sentimental. It made a lump come to his throat and he did not want to make a fool of himself.

  He crossed the threshold of the house unthinking.

  II

  Jill did not want him to get a job all at once. After the strenuous years of war he needed a rest. Time enough to think about employment in the autumn. For the moment Twit had no money except his savings through the war years, and he fell back on these for pocket-money. It was Jill who supplied the essentials in the shape of clothes. In exchange he gave her a companionship that she found bitter-sweet. She had wanted to tell him about Edward, but some clinging reticence silenced her. As yet they were a little strange. She had remembered Twit in his better moments. She had forgotten his lack of initiative, his unresponsiveness to the live pulse of urge within her. Memory deems it kinder to recall the most beautiful and to draw a tender twilight over petty faults. Twit had left her a boy, he returned a man. She had overlooked the fact that he was the same Twit, man or boy. Twit relapsed into sheepishness. He felt again the old bright challenge of Jill, her burnish upon his dullness, the irksome rub of her attempt to polish his tarnished surfaces.

  There was a partition between their true intimacy, there were also new conditions, new atmospheres, and the sudden birth of an entirely new regime ‒ post-war England!

  A new England raised herself from the grim emotions of battle. She spread keen, eager wings for conquest. She shook herself free from prudism, from social fetish. She made the fault of all new epochs, flying too high against the cold winds of criticism, and crushing too deeply the starkening remains of Mrs. Grundy in her very recent grave. The old precepts had suddenly gone to the wall. Shame had receded into the niche designated alone for shameful things, not for spurious pruderies. No longer was Jill forced to pretend a shame for her brave struggle at the Hippodrome and the impoverished days at St. Laurence’s. People were now permitted a natural pride in effort and the conquest of hard fact. They were even proud of lawless love, so long as it was love and not a warped sentiment. At the beginning of the war the whole codes had started changing. For the first time in history sex had come out into the open, and stood there exposed to discussion.

  Jill still felt diffident about it. Post-war England recognised her marriage as a bastardised love, whereas pre-war England would have tried to the end to shroud that blunder behind a false glamour. Jill still clung to the Edwardian precept in the rush of the neo-Georgian avalanche of thought; she tried to pretend, at least to the criticising world, a happiness that she had never known.

  It was a new burnished world that scintillated and flashed about them. A daring world breathing the very antithesis of pre-war opinions. Their new friends were alien, too. Youth eddied in the pool of life in little gay ripples. It was the new hard youth, fruit of slaughter.

  Jill’s girl friend was Olive Wilbur, tall and slight, with a sexless figure and a mind to correspond. Olive was the only daughter of an old and drunken father and a new-young mother. Jill could never look at Mrs. Wilbur without shuddering. She reminded the girl of a hundred sharpnesses in one, in the cruel manner in which she bit into life. Olive at eighteen was pretty. There was an attraction about her which lured Jill, but which Twit did not recognise. He was uncivilised by his war-time experiences. He could not understand the new scimitar of sarcasm that curled through the post-war codes and creeds. He could not understand the modern frankness. The conversations had a biting cynicism that hurt. He obstinately refused to re-fashion his views to the new order, but systematically and bluntly opposed post-war attitudes. On this point he and Jill argued fiercely. It constituted the first rupture between their amicabilities, for Jill realised that the tide of new opinion was too strong to fight, one could only swim with it, and its truth was alluring. Twit put himself doggedly against it.

  But Twit liked Dora Hine. She was an actress friend, for ever divided between her love and her art. Her husband, Dicky, adored her blonde head and delicate curves, for Dora was not so much part of the new era that she had forsworn curves. She also loved Dicky with a quick and vivid love, and grudged the moments spent from his side. Yet all the while she hated the realisation that he acted as a clog upon her ambitions. Dora appealed to Twit, inasmuch as she tolerated his untidiness and did not talk in the same razor-sharp vein as did Olive. Dora did not make him feel uncouth by contrast. Gauche as he was, he detested the consciousness of his gaucherie. Twit in war had been a primitive being, keen to take the initiative and act upon it. Among his rough companions he had radiated a certain good-fellowship, and they had known him for his true worth. They had seen the elemental virility which had rescued two men from drowning in the Indus and had brought the nurse in the ambulance through peril to safety. Only once did Twit tell Jill of those days when he had been strong with a savage and forceful strength. Then it was because, sickening for a cold, she had insisted on a whisky toddy.

  ‘I yelled like mad, and upped with the butt end of a rifle,’ he said, ‘laid about me good and hearty. One chap stooped to pick up a brick, and was just taking aim at my crumpet when I got him first.’

  ‘Twit! You didn’t kill him?’

  ‘I dunno. He went limp with his head split. It looked comic, like a pig’s head on a butcher’s slab.’

  ‘Didn’t you feel awful?’ she asked sickly.

  His animated face grinned. ‘No. Rummy, wasn’t it? I liked it. Sort of triumphant feeling, got him before he got me. Peppish, you know.’

  But in post-war England Twit was handicapped. He was handicapped by the new attitude, the forms of self-expression, and the predominance of individuality. He could not cope with the light slurring of epigrammatical conversation. It might dazzle but he scathingly criticised the cheapness of its veneer. The emotional surfaces were in his eyes too glittering, the depths remained unplumbed. He supposed that he must be puritanical. He and Jill were not of this generation, they were of old stock, and the post-war glitter was hard like glass. It had not the gentle gleam as of water rising plume-wise from the fountain of conversation of Great-Granny. You cannot wipe away the moral training of a lifetime in one abrupt sweep. You have to re-standardise yourself, however noble the new standards may be And having lived out of the world for four brutal years of elementals, it came harder to Twit than to Jill.

  The dancing craze held England in its grip. He scowled as he lounged in people’s dance halls and watched Jill. She danced exquisitely. She always reminded him of buttercups in the fields at Greenley, for there was wild-flower goldenness about her. Dora offered to teach him in her bungalow. She had a Decca and a parquet floor, and a great deal of sex appeal, but the new dancing did not attract Twit. It reminded him in a crude way of Strada Forni. He debated the point with Jill.

  ‘Walking round and round, it is so senseless.’

  ‘I like it, because I must do something. I can’t think. When I think about Edward I go mad.’

  ‘But why do you want to think of Edward?’

  ‘I don’t … not really. I can’t always help myself. If only you’d learn to dance it would be such fun, we could go about together.’

  ‘I daresay, but I’m not keen.’

  ‘It’s because you’re not trying.’

  ‘Or because I am trying. Rum language English.’

  So he remained a mere spectator. As he grew to know more people, the evenings were more tolerable, but he never could feel the same full appreciation as Jill. To her dancing was the crest of the new frothing wave which bore her rapidly along. It was a wave expressing the urgency of unhappiness, yet leaving the serenity of true happiness in its trough. But the gay flurry of froth was attractive. It did not allow you the time to remember, it was for ever breathing of forgetfulness.

  Among her partners was Nigel Clare, a young naval officer, who seemed to spend most of his existence on leave. Nigel was old enough not to
be too acutely modern, yet young enough to go with the froth of the oncoming wave. He also liked Twit. Grenville March, who was some distant relation of Olive’s, did not trouble himself at all with Jill’s brother. He could not be bothered with him. Grenville was twenty-seven and he believed in getting as much as you could out of life, because you were a long time dead, and he considered Twit a boor. Grenville thought that Twit did not wash himself too well or too accurately, and that he should have got himself conveniently killed in the war. Grenville amused Jill with his conversation, which was crude yet clever, but he hurt her with his contempt for Twit. His criticisms were unfortunately right and she could not help but realise their truth. Once when they were out in his car she took him to task. The car was a red sports model of incredible speed and hideous noise. Grenville was proud of it, and it pleased Jill as being so contrary to anything she had ever known before. In her eyes it was part of the machinery of a rapid new decade.

  ‘You are unkind about Twit,’ she accused him.

  ‘No, I’m right. He doesn’t wash. Have you ever seen him in the bathroom?’

  ‘Often. He always leaves a dirty rim round the basin.’

  ‘But not round the bath? I understand.’

  ‘You needn’t be cynical.’

  ‘My love! Truth is invariably a cynic.’

  Grenville had brought her out in the car with the intention of proposing to her. It was not that he loved her. Her beauty attracted him physically, her title socially, and her income financially. He had no wish to fetter himself with such a barbaric shackle as marriage, but he did not suppose he could obtain Jill in any other way. He had brought the car to a standstill on the top of a wide hill. Beneath them the long undulating downs flowed like broad green ribbons on to the pale line of sea. The sea was an amethyst mist on the horizon. The spot was an ideal one, with the gay spatter of gorse on either side. There were the rounded hulks of grey sheep browsing in the foreground. The blurred shadowing of a copse beyond. Everything had been auspicious, then this unhappy subject had cropped up.

  ‘It is the age of cynicism,’ he told her, ‘we left the cads with their cavalry moustaches and their straw boaters in Edward’s decade. They refused to acknowledge anything that was not quite nice, yet acknowledged themselves. So oddly inconsistent. Twit is not like you.’

  ‘No, but I love him.’

  ‘Couldn’t you disinfect your affection with a bar of Wright’s coal tar?’

  She stared at him wretchedly. If only it were not true. If only she could deny it and demand an apology. She asked herself why was Twit so casual? Grenville saw her dumb misery, and said:

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought we knew each other well enough not to wear gloves. I’m a beast.’

  But Jill was hurt and she fired up.

  ‘No, you’re the nineteen nineteen cad, without the moustache and the boater, and you excuse your caddishness by calling it outspokenness. It’s hateful of you.’

  After that Grenville knew that he could not propose to her, for she too had spoken the truth.

  It was during that summer Jill met Clive Meredith.

  III

  Twit was hunting for a job. He did not mind what might materialise, and he was prepared to pour himself body and soul into it. He supposed that it should be something in the form of engineering, because he had few qualifications to fit him for anything else. In reality it was Grenville who suggested motors.

  ‘So close to London, a garage should flourish. There is not a good one here. All you want is some mug to put the money up.’

  ‘You’ve got money,’ suggested Jill.

  ‘Delightfullest,’ he explained, ‘I said a mug! I’m not quite as muggish as that. Now old Nigel is flush. What about getting him into it?’

  ‘I like Nigel,’ said Jill.

  ‘Excellent reason for keeping him out of Twit’s garage. Perhaps a distinguished stranger would be better. Honestly, it’s an idea.’

  The idea stabilised itself in Jill’s brain, and took root. Twit was oblivious as to what form his future might take, he was too easily depressed. Once again the old indomitable Jill had him in her clutches and he found to his horror that he was content that it should be so. The war time personality was dying. Rosie and Stebonia seemed far away, his own initiative left somewhere in a Mediterranean island. He hated that lazy shirking that forced him back into this quagmire of lethargy, but he could not shake it off. He believed Jill to be capable of finding him employment and of arranging matters. It did not surprise him in the least when, a week later, she burst into the conservatory. He was trying to reinforce some rotted shelves there. She and Grenville had met a man who had bought the White Heather Garage, the London side of Morsegate, and who was looking for a young and modern manager. She and Grenville had talked to him, and she had invited him to lunch. He seemed to be a nice sort of man, save that he had a wall eye, but Jill did not see how a wall eye would hinder his career as a garage owner. When her enthusiasm had steadied a little, she saw that Twit’s hair needed cutting, and his shirt was none too clean. She also observed that he was wearing his old suit.

  ‘You’d better trot upstairs and tidy yourself,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll finish these shelves first.’ He took up the hammer again, levelling the iron bracket into its proper place. He had a vision of Jill looking rather blurred among the geraniums and maidenhairs and the pale faces of primulas in their round pots.

  ‘But you must change,’ she insisted.

  ‘He wants me to work. If he sees me all dolled up he won’t think that I can work.’

  ‘But managers of garages don’t look like coal-heavers.’

  ‘I can’t help what I look like. God gave me my face.’ He began tapping at the iron bracket, holding it meticulously in place.

  ‘He may be here any moment,’ she begged. ‘It’s such a chance, Twit, don’t be idiotic.’

  But Twit was adamant.

  ‘He’ll have to take me as he finds me.’

  She stared at him in blank despair. She felt a certain weakening of the knees as she glanced at the diamond wrist-watch and winced to see how near the hour it was.

  ‘Twit, there is no time. You must go and make yourself decent.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  There came the sound of voices from the hall. Grenville and the prospective garage man were coming inside. She tried to push Twit to the conservatory door, hoping desperately that he would disappear tactfully. But Twit was angry with her, and he stood firm. There had never been any of this fuss in the army, and he could see no reason for it now. He remained in his corner of the conservatory, while she advanced to meet the two men. Grenville caught the message of appeal in her eyes. He might be an ordinary person but he was perceptive and he was strong.

  ‘There’s that gardener of yours,’ he said; ‘you see after Mr. Bell while I get rid of him,’ and he literally pushed Twit out into the garden.

  IV

  To the surprise of everybody Twit got the job. Still more to everybody’s surprise Mr. Bell liked him. Jill had never hoped for anything so fortuitous, and she was overjoyed. Perhaps she had underestimated Twit’s ability and exaggerated his untidiness. Perhaps other people did not notice really. She was willing to believe that she was over faddy and at fault. Grenville denied it.

  ‘Of course they notice! They aren’t blind.’

  She voiced her doubts to Olive, who was indifferent. Men did not interest Olive in any way, save as a clash of opinion. She delighted in the comparison of the male and female outlook. Twit was not strong enough to strike the male chord.

  ‘He always reminds me of a pen-wiper,’ she told Jill, ‘soft, spongy, and ‒ dirty.’

  She considered the metaphor apt. Only Nigel excused Twit.

  ‘You’ve got to take the war years into count,’ he explained; ‘the poor fish has been in the wilds. Now that he has come into clear waters he’ll shape. Give him his own helm, that’s all.’

  Jill was poignantly aware of Twit’s sterlin
g qualities, she was fond of him with that femininely blind devotion that is content to suffer for the beloved. She detested the fact that he laid himself open to the shafts of their cynicism. Twit, for his part, was uneasily aware of the position. In the army people had not worried about appearances. He had forgotten the fussiness of home life, and it grated. Out in France, when clothing became scarce, and soap scarcer, all you needed was to roll in a mound of Keating’s, nothing else mattered. Mere grubbiness was an atom in a lice-infested epoch. Soiled hands had not counted when most of you were beset by bugs. Untidiness was a galling triviality, and he resented its intrusion. Four years is a long time; try as he would he could not re-shape himself to Jill’s little standards. He was busy dreaming of a certain future that he hoped might materialise. For with his homecoming he had found again his dreams. The castles in the air had never crumbled really. They had been hidden for a while behind the smoke of the great guns, but now they raised castellated turrets once more. They were his to possess. In his dream future, he had bought Bell out and was owner-managing not only this garage, but several others, scattered over three counties. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice; he was successful too. People were proud to acknowledge him. He had but to raise his little finger and men flew to obey his beck and call. This delightful dream shaped itself so engagingly while he shaved, and the result was that he emerged from the bathroom with dry soap in his ears and his neck unwashed. It was odd that he had lost his dreams when he was serving. Perhaps it was because there had been no time for them, and he could not be bothered. He had been more keenly alive then, virile and enthusiastic. He had lain down to rest exhausted by the strenuous day. But here in England the old moodiness came back, the dullness, the comatose droning along, leaning on Jill. And just ahead always the bright colourful bauble Fate might have in store for his future, and dangled just over his nose.