The Nutmeg Tree

by Margery Sharp

  Susan’s next words showed that he had not.

  “The French for ‘left-over,’ I’m afraid, Uncle William. There’s half last night’s tart to be eaten, and a cream cheese.”

  Julia heard, comprehended, and felt her heart sink back into its proper place. But her peace was once more shattered, for across the table, in that moment, she had just caught Sir William’s eye.

  Chapter 15

  1

  Julia’s rôle as young Mrs. Packett now began to present greater difficulties than ever. It had been tricky enough at first—with Bryan always giving the wrong cue, Susan on the look-out for slips, Mrs. Packett perpetually trying to introduce a sub-plot; but the presence of Sir William, as Julia at once perceived, was going to make everything ten times worse. He was as dangerous as Bryan, as observant as Susan, and would quite likely take an interest in the cakes. To crown all, Julia was very much attracted by him.

  “I would be!” thought Julia glumly.

  For the first time in her life the prospect of a new sentimental encounter—with its delicious alternations of hope and despair, its exciting approaches to intimacy, and hardly less stimulating checks—gave her no pleasure. She hadn’t the time for it. She needed all her wits, all her energy, simply to keep her end up. Her only hope, and she knew it, was to lump Sir William with the rest and make no attempt at individual attention. For she had nothing to fear from him; though he might catch her out as often as Bryan did, he wouldn’t give her away. Quite likely, now that they’d settled down again, he’d just stop taking any notice of her at all.

  Unfortunately, Julia felt that if he didn’t take notice of her she wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  Just at this time, as if in sympathy with her distress, the weather broke. Julia looked out at the streaming skies and for a moment took pleasure in the general desolation. Then she turned away disgustedly; it simply meant that they would all be cooped up indoors at closer quarters than ever. There was no ground so favourable to love affairs (someone had once told her) as a country house on a wet day; and one horn of her dilemma was accordingly sharpened. To avoid it Julia felt she would have gone on a walking-tour in the Sahara. Then Sir William shut himself up in his room with a quantity of papers, and Julia prayed for fine weather to bring him out again. She was in the most uncomfortable state of mind she ever remembered; and still it went on raining.

  It rained and rained. Anthelmine the cook, stumping up from the village under a vast umbrella, announced that it was going to last. She was in a bad temper—the umbrella, though vast, had not been vast enough for her—and dinner accordingly suffered. It rained all night, and all the next day. Even indoors, with the windows shut, one could not for a moment forget that it was raining. The sight could be shut out, but not the sound; and to the steady drumming of water on foliage the indomitable crickets added a fife obbligato. No one ventured out save Susan, who put on a mackintosh and went for a long walk. Bryan was invisible at the lodge, Sir William stayed in his room till water came through the roof, then wandered into the hall and met Julia, who at that moment happened to be taking the line of resistance. She at once bolted back into her own apartment, and Sir William retired to the billiard-room and Mrs. Packett.

  The old lady was getting on better than any of them, for she had one inexhaustible resource. Whenever she had nothing else to do, she wrote letters. She was never at a loss for a correspondent, never at a loss for matter; all she needed was paper and ink; and the result was rather like planchette-writing, disjointed yet unhesitating. She put down, in fact, whatever came into her head, and since her head was at that time full of Julia’s cake-shop, the news of this project was being rapidly spread to the four corners of the earth.

  It will be, I think, in Kensington [wrote Mrs. Packett, to a cousin by marriage who was in Australia], as Susan tells me a great many people there are forced to live in flats. Julia herself is not so certain about this, but we shall have a good look round when we all get back to town. You will know I am not touting, as you live so far away; but whenever you come home, my dear, I shall certainly take you for a nice cup of tea.…

  The only event of the morning was the arrival of a second postcard from Fred Gennochio. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” it said. “All the best, Fred.” But what touched Julia chiefly was the picture of Notre Dame. It was so beautiful and refined that she left it lying in the hall in the hope that Susan would see; and when Susan made no comment Julia went and fetched it out again to show to Mrs. Packett. The old lady admired it very much, and under the impression that it was for herself turned it over and read the other side.

  “Fred?” she said enquiringly. “Surely not Fred Trevelyan?”

  “It’s for me,” said Julia hastily; “it’s from a friend of mine”—and involuntarily glanced over her shoulder to see whether Sir William had heard. After that she was so annoyed with herself that she went back to her room and watched the rain from there.

  About four o’clock Bryan arrived from the lodge, complaining that he had lunched off rancid cheese.

  “Then why didn’t you come here?” asked Susan, whose six-mile walk had left her in a kindly, reasonable frame of mind that was highly irritating to the rest of the party.

  “Because I didn’t want to get wet, darling,” said Bryan, shaking the water from his coat. “I may be English, but I’m not mad.”

  “It’s raining just as hard now,” pointed out Susan. “Would you like a hot bath?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Bryan. “And it’s hardly raining at all.”

  After that they played bridge for several hours, until Mrs. Packett observed frankly that it was a game very trying to the temper. After that they all went to bed. Julia looked at her best satin nightgown, which she had been wearing in case of thunderstorms, then thrust it back in the drawer and put on a pair of cotton pyjamas.

  2

  Precisely at three o’clock the first mutter of thunder rolled round the hills and died away. The next crash sounded directly over the roof, and a glare of lightning lit the windows. Julia woke up, not quite aware of what had happened, and lay a moment wondering at the silence. The rain had almost stopped, not a cricket was to be heard. She got up to look out, and was halfway across the room when the thunder spoke again, almost petrifying her with fear. Oblivious of her pyjamas, conscious only of the need for human companionship, she ran to the door and out into the lobby. It felt safer there, less exposed, for the one window was tightly shuttered. Julia looked at the door opposite and wondered whether Sir William had been flooded out. If he had, he was doing nothing about it; within the house all was still. “They don’t care!” thought Julia bitterly. “For all they mind I might die of fright!” Never before, not even on the first morning in the bath, had she felt so utterly lost, so completely isolated, so much a stranger under that hospitable roof. She took a few steps towards Mrs. Packett’s door, then paused; that strong-nerved old woman was probably sound asleep, or else sitting up distracting her mind with recipes for shortbread. And Susan—Susan would be worse: sympathetic, no doubt, but faintly surprised that anyone she knew could be so chicken-hearted.… “There’s no one!” thought Julia wretchedly. The thunder rolled, and she found herself once more outside Sir William’s door. In spite of the heavy atmosphere she was shivering from head to foot; a great wave of despair, a premonition of unhappiness swept over and shook her. She could not move, she could only stand there, her shoulders pressed against the wall, waiting for the next thunderclap.

  It came at last, but from a greater distance, and followed by an appeasing, steady downpour that was the last of the rain. Julia pulled herself together, and crept back to bed.

  3

  At half-past six next morning, in brilliant sunshine, Bryan was on the lower terrace under Susan’s window throwing up gravel. The second handful brought her head out, and some of the pebbles as well.

  “Stop it!” she called. “It’s going all over my bed!”

  “Sorry,” said Bryan, dodgi
ng the shower. “I tried with roses, but they’re so rotten to throw. Are you all right, darling?”

  “All right? Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “I thought you mightn’t have liked the storm very much. I nearly came over to hold your hand.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t,” said Susan practically. “The front door was bolted and no one would have heard you. What time is it?”

  “Half-past six, and the most heavenly morning ever. Come out and smell it.” He suddenly advanced and stood close under her window; it was so low that by reaching up his fingers he could touch the sill. “Jump, darling! I’ll catch you!”

  Susan laughed.

  “You idiot! I’m only in pyjamas!”

  “What the hell does that matter? There’s no one about. Put on some slippers and a coat if you like, only mind you don’t catch on the creeper.”

  Susan’s golden head—so bright, so charming—abruptly withdrew.

  “I’ll be out of the front door in five minutes,” she called. “Go and get some proper shoes and we’ll climb the rock.”

  For a minute Bryan stood where she had left him, looking down at his sandalettes. They were soaked through, and so, as far as the knee, were his tan-coloured trousers; for he had plunged straight up to the villa without using the path. He looked down at his feet, up at Susan’s window; then turned, took a running jump on to the terrace wall, changed feet like a hunter, and flung himself down into the long grass. It was soaking, and he rolled in it. The sun was hot, the raindrops were icy, the double sensation made him want to shout aloud. But he restrained himself. Susan hadn’t come when he wanted her, now let her see if she could find him.…

  But Susan never thought to look in so damp a place.

  4

  One odd result of Sir William’s arrival was that the burden of Julia’s ill-got gains, which she had hitherto carried without much distress, became suddenly an intolerable weight. She could not understand it herself: she knew only that the remaining four hundred francs or so weighed like lead both in her handbag and on her heart. Such a state of affairs could not continue, and in the heat of the afternoon, while everyone else was resting, Julia retired to her room and there made sacrifice to an unknown god.

  It would have looked better—a lot better—had she been able to return the whole amount; but no doubt Mr. Rickaby would understand. The notes, folded in a half-sheet of paper, made at any rate a respectable wad. Julia looked at them fondly, but her hand did not falter as she addressed an envelope to the Beau-Site Hotel. The idea of writing a letter was also present in her mind; it seemed so unfriendly just to return the money without a single word; but a letter might lead to an answer, or even to the appearance of Mr. Rickaby himself, and for that she had no desire. In the end she took a pen and wrote simply “From a Well-wisher”—to which the pen by itself added a couple of crosses. Then she licked down the envelope and was unfortunately compelled to steal one of Susan’s stamps.

  “All in a good cause,” thought Julia cheerfully.

  It was a hot day, but as a final penance she determined to walk into Magnieu and catch the afternoon post.

  The village lay dozing under a sunlight that made her blink. Its inhabitants were all in the fields, and their poultry kept house for them, walking in and out over the thresholds like neighbours paying calls. In a basket at the carpenter’s door slept five particoloured kittens: their soot-black mother, one yellow eye open, lounged on the windowsill above. All was quiet—so quiet that Julia instinctively muffled her tread, stepping on the patches of straw that made sunshine even in the shade; but neither the poultry nor the cats took any notice of her.

  She crossed the square with the fountain and took the Magnieu road. Like the village, it was deserted, and before she had gone far Julia began to feel as though she were the only person moving over the whole map of France. The sensation was disagreeable to her; she had a distaste for being alone with so much landscape. On her right, the breadth of a field away, towered a tree-covered bluff, brilliantly green against a sky brilliantly blue; both tones were as bright and as flat as if a child had painted them out of a new paintbox. To the left stretched the cultivated plain, more varied in colour, but robbed of all subtlety by the downright strength of the sun. Julia’s sense of the theatre demanded a good-sized cloud or two, or at least a change of lighting; and she began to fix her eyes on a row of poplars that would presently break the monotony of the shadeless road.

  Just before she reached it, however, the monotony was broken in a different way. From close beside her, but on the other side of the hedge, came the sound of a slight scuffle, then a half-laughing, half-angry feminine protest; and out of the next gate ran one of the village girls. She had the attractive local face—pale-skinned, blue-eyed—but also the less attractive local figure; at the sight of Julia she hesitated, then marched across the road into the field on the other side. Julia continued on her way, and thus reached the still-swinging gate at precisely the moment when Bryan Relton came through it.

  “Well!” said Julia.

  With great presence of mind he turned round and waved a hand towards the bluff.

  “Grand view,” he said, “but too damned hot.”

  “You’ve been kissing that girl,” accused Julia.

  “What girl?”

  “The one who bounced out just now. You can’t put a view across me.”

  Bryan grinned.

  “You’re right, darling. You always are. But I couldn’t help it; I’d never kissed a cowherd’s daughter before.”

  This was an attitude which Julia could well understand; but she thought of Susan and frowned.

  “You oughtn’t to do it,” she said severely. “What was it like?”

  “Overrated,” said Bryan, falling into step beside her. “And how much better to have found out! Now there’s one sort of girl I shan’t want to kiss again.”

  “You oughtn’t to want to kiss any sort except Susan.”

  “I don’t—in theory.”

  “Susan expects theory and practice to be the same.”

  “But then Susan is perfect, and I’m not.”

  “I know that,” said Julia. She paused. “Perhaps I ought to have told you that I knew your father.”

  Bryan stared.

  “The deuce you did! In—er—which capacity?”

  “What d’you think?” asked Julia. “I don’t know what he was like at home, but in a dressing-room he was a fair caution.”

  “And the sins of the fathers,” quoted Bryan, “shall be visited on the children. So you’ve been holding him up against me too, Julia?”

  “No, I haven’t. I know how little difference it can make: look at me and Susan. I’d have felt the same about you if your father’d been a bishop.”

  They walked on in silence for another hundred yards, keeping close under the hedge to give room to an approaching ox-wain. When it had passed, at the next gate, Bryan came suddenly to a stop.

  “Does it ever occur to anyone,” he asked, leaning with his back to the post and his hands in his pockets, “that I may one day get a little tired of being constantly discussed and lectured?”

  Julia bit back the obvious retort. She had a strong feeling that this was the mood most favourable to her own wishes.

  “You’ll be lectured a lot more before you’re through,” she said cheerfully. “Are you coming with me to the Post Office, or are you going to sulk?”

  Bryan considered.

  “I think I should like to get tight,” he said simply. “I’ll come with you to Magnieu and get tight there. There’ll just be time to sleep it off before dinner.”

  “If there’s one thing I hate,” said Julia, “it’s showing-off. You’ll go straight back to the villa now, or—or I’ll tell Susan of you.”

  He went. With one hurt, resentful look he turned on his heel and departed, while Julia continued along the Magnieu road. It was her first attempt at blackmail, and—unlike Mr. Rickaby’s money—it did not trouble
her conscience at all.

  Chapter 16

  1

  It was now a fortnight since Julia had had her hair washed. Being dark, she could go three weeks and still look presentable; but since the arrival of Sir William, and in spite of her determination to ignore him, presentability was not enough. She wanted a good close set, and plenty of brilliantine; and after a vain attempt to draw information from Claudia (whose own style dated from 1890) Julia went looking for Susan in the garden and interrupted her morning French.

  “Where do you get your hair washed, Sue?”

  “Here? I do it myself,” said Susan.

  Julia looked at her daughter’s head—smooth, golden, with a slight natural wave—and smiled enviously.

  “You can, of course. But me with my perm’! I’d never get it set. I suppose there’s a hairdresser in Belley?”

  “Two or three,” agreed Susan. “I’ll ask about them to-morrow, if you like, when we go in shopping.”

  “I’d rather get it done to-day,” said Julia unreasonably. She had no ground for supposing Sir William more observant than most men, but he was always so beautifully spruce himself—as she had, at that very moment, an opportunity to note. For Sir William had joined them, appearing on the terrace just in time to catch Julia’s last words.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  “It’s my hair,” said Julia. “I want to get it washed. I think I’ll have to try Belley.”

  “I’ll run you over in the car,” said Sir William.

  Julia beamed with gratification. He really must like her, then! Because as a rule men hated a hairdresser’s, it made them wait about …

  “You won’t have time before lunch,” observed Susan practically. “It’s nearly half-past twelve now.”