High Rising (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  Anne Todd, in no way disturbed by this abrupt question, said, ‘Father’s pension goes when she dies. I shall have about two pounds a week.’

  ‘And what will you do on that?’ he asked, crossly.

  ‘The best I can. I am pretty sure of work for Mrs Morland as long as she goes on writing, and I shall get more work. Lord Stoke would be quite glad to have me look after the library at Castle Rising as a part-time job, and I can always write fashion articles in my spare time.’

  ‘You aren’t big enough to be so plucky,’ said Dr Ford angrily. ‘And what kind of hand-to-mouth life is that going to be? A job here and a job there till you are ten years older and the younger women crowd you out. That’s not good enough.’

  ‘One has to make things do. And I’m pretty tough.’

  ‘Yes, so long as you have your mother. You’ll keep up till you’re ninety if she goes on living. I know your type, Anne. All wire and whipcord while they have someone to sacrifice themselves to, and then a breakdown, and then trying to start again level with women of twenty-five, whose health and nerves have never been tried.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help it,’ said Anne calmly. ‘One just has to do one’s best.’

  ‘What about marriage?’

  ‘I’ve told you once that I’m not the sort that gets married. It doesn’t worry me.’

  ‘But you are the sort if you wouldn’t be such a blithering fool,’ said Dr Ford, so furiously that Anne looked up in astonishment. ‘Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been admiring and caring for you more and more, the more I’ve seen of you? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that a middle-aged G.P. has human feelings, that he can’t watch a dear creature giving up her life and youth and not want to help? Have I got to tell you, Anne, that I love you?’

  ‘Yes, I think you have,’ said Anne. ‘This is so sudden.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, fiend in human shape,’ said Dr Ford, more furiously than before. ‘It isn’t sudden at all, or if it is, it’s only because you are so silly. I know I’m not much, but I might be worse. You could go on helping Mrs Morland if you wanted to. Mrs Mallow would like to have someone to spoil. We could be very happy, Anne. Is it worth considering?’

  Anne looked at him with brimming eyes.

  ‘Oh, well worth, well worth; but not for me.’

  ‘Is it your mother? You can bring her to my house and nurse her there.’

  ‘No, it’s not Mother,’ said Anne, swallowing her tears. ‘And anyway it wouldn’t be fair to bring her to your house. She is very trying, poor darling, and I’m better alone with her.’

  ‘Your mother can’t live for ever, Anne. I will wait till you are alone if you like, and never say a word to trouble you again until that day. Will that do?’

  ‘No, no. Don’t wait for me. It would be no good.’

  ‘Listen, Anne,’ said Dr Ford, sitting down on a chair in which the revolting little dog was lying. The dog shrieked. ‘Oh, damn that dog,’ said Dr Ford, and picking it up by the scruff of its neck he dropped it unsympathetically into its basket, and sat down again. ‘Listen, Anne, and look at me. It has taken me about four years to say this, and I may never have the courage to say it again. Will you marry me? If you say yes, I’ll wait till Domesday.’

  ‘I’m very, very sorry, but I can’t.’

  ‘Is that final?’ asked Dr Todd, getting up again.

  ‘Quite, quite final,’ said Anne Todd, also getting up.

  ‘Was I right about Knox, then? I know it’s impertinent to ask, but I’ll have to know some day.’

  ‘Mr Knox wouldn’t notice me,’ said Anne. ‘He wouldn’t notice anyone.’

  ‘I see. Well, Anne Todd, that’s all. I shan’t trouble you again. I care for you a good deal too much. When I next come to see your mother, it will be as a G.P. And if you ever need me, just mention it. It couldn’t be too soon, or too late. God bless you.’

  So he took Anne Todd in his arms, pressed her rather suffocatingly against his old tweed jacket and went away. Miss Todd tidied her hair and went upstairs to her mother, to whom she read aloud till supper. After supper she played cribbage with the old lady till her early bedtime, and then she did some typing for Laura. About half-past eleven she went up to bed. As she sat before her glass, she looked into it, to see what Anne Todd looked like, who had refused a lover. Anne Todd looked much the same except that her eyes were misty, and her face blurred. Tears poured down her face. ‘Not because of loving him,’ said Miss Todd aloud to herself, ‘because I don’t, I don’t. Only because of being sorry for him and grateful for his kindness. As for what he said about Mr Knox, that is rubbish. Mr Knox wouldn’t notice if I were dead or alive.’

  And Miss Todd, who had just refused a lover whom she didn’t love, crept into bed and cried herself to sleep.

  Dr Ford spent the evening playing bridge at the Vicarage, and came home about midnight, to find sandwiches and hot coffee left for him in the consulting-room by Mrs Mallow. If life was occasionally lonely for him, with Mrs Mallow to soothe and cheer, it must be damnably lonely, he thought, for a woman who bore the burden of an ageing, childish mother, and had a penniless future before her. A woman as fine and courageous as Anne Todd deserved a better fate, but if he couldn’t please her, there was no more to be said, and good luck to any decent fellow who could. Dr Ford’s face looked worn in the unshaded light of his consulting-room, and Mrs Mallow complained next day to Stoker, whom she met at the butcher’s, that the doctor was walking up and down like a grampus for hours and hours after he come in, upon which Stoker suggested indigestion, which caused a slight coolness, till Stoker had the tact to say that it was probably the Vicarage cooking done it, and all unpleasantness was forgotten in hearty combined condemnation of the Vicarage cook.

  11

  An Author in the Sick-room

  For a few days after her arrival Laura saw nothing of the Knoxes, as she didn’t want to risk influenza with Tony and Master Wesendonck about, but she had news of them from Anne Todd, as well as a telephone message from Sibyl. Anne had been over to inquire and seen Sibyl alone. Her description of the household was distressing. Miss Grey had taken over the sick room and practically barred the door to Sibyl. George had written little daily notes to Sibyl, sending her loving messages, and telling her not to visit him till he was better. Sibyl begged to be allowed in, but Miss Grey had been so cold and forbidding that she hardly liked to ask again. The servants were furious and resented Miss Grey’s orders, but were too loyal to Sibyl to show their real feelings.

  ‘But I got in,’ said Anne placidly.

  ‘You would,’ said her admiring employer. ‘How?’

  ‘By intrigue,’ said Miss Todd. ‘I asked Dr Ford to run me over, and I stayed in the car. Then while Dr Ford, by arrangement, told the Incubus he wanted to see her in the drawing-room, I slipped out and went up to Mr Knox’s room. He was as pleased as Punch to see me. He is really all right now, but very weak and limp. He awfully wants you to go and see him, Mrs Morland, and I think it would do him a lot of good.’

  ‘But I can’t. The Incubus would be there with a Flaming Sword.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can. I made Dr Ford frighten the Incubus and tell her that she must get some fresh air, or she would be ill, and then he’d send a nurse. So when I got home, I rang her up and said would she come for a walk with me tomorrow, and she said yes.’

  ‘What luck, Anne.’

  ‘Well, I did also mention that you would be away all day, so I suppose she felt it would be safe. And it’s quite true that you are going to lunch at the Castle, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t come on to Low Rising at three o’clock and stay till four, or half-past, is it? I shall keep the Incubus to tea with me, and that will give Sibyl a good chance to talk to you, too.’

  ‘Oh, Anne,’ said Laura admiringly.

  ‘I always told you I was a bit of a sleuth,’ said Miss Todd.

  When Laura arrived at Low Rising the following day, with rather a beating heart, she was greeted by Sibyl, who
rushed into her arms.

  ‘Oh, dear Mrs Morland, this is too lovely. I was beginning to think we’d never have you here again. Miss Grey has been a wonderful nurse for Daddy, but she keeps him shut up as if he had distemper, and I know he’s been longing to see you. You are to go up to him now, and I’ll bring up tea about four o’clock and we’ll have a lovely time.’

  ‘Did Miss Todd fetch Miss Grey?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and there was nearly a scene, because Miss Grey suddenly said she couldn’t go, she must stay with Daddy. I think she suspected something. But Miss Todd was marvellous. She actually said, “Don’t be a fool, my good woman,”’ said Sibyl, her eyes shining with awe and admiration, ‘and she flattered Miss Grey so awfully about how useful she was, and how Dr Ford said she must take care of her valuable self, that she went off like a lamb. And I happen to know, Mrs Morland, that Miss Todd is taking her round by Stoke Dry and giving her tea at her own house, and she can’t possibly get back before five. Hurrah, hurrah!’

  ‘Well, I’ll go up to George,’ said Laura, taking off her coat. ‘And what about you, Sibyl? Have you sent your manuscript to Adrian yet?’

  Sibyl became pink. ‘Yes, I sent it last week,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s rotten, but I didn’t like to say so when he was so kind.’

  Laura noted with approval the way her voice lingered on the word ‘he’.

  ‘Have you heard anything about it yet?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He wrote to say he had got it, and he would read it himself and tell me when he came down to you. When is he coming?’

  ‘The week after next. Is that too far off?’ said Laura laughing, and went upstairs to George Knox’s room. George was sitting in a chair before the fire, looking all the worse for his bout of influenza.

  ‘Well, George, you do look a misery. Don’t get up,’ said Laura, settling herself opposite him. ‘How are you now?’

  ‘The better for seeing you, my dear. This has indeed been a purgatory, an inferno, where my body and brain have been consuming deliriously for days and nights; how long I do not know; I have lost all count of time.’

  ‘Well, today is the eighth, if it really interests you.’

  ‘The eighth. Blessed eighth, Laura, that brings you. I have been longing for you as pants the hart, but I have been helpless, a swaddled babe in the hands of women.’

  ‘You seem to have been very nicely looked after,’ said Laura handsomely.

  ‘The iron has entered into my soul,’ announced George Knox impressively. ‘Let me tell you, my dear Laura, that when I lay here weak and ill, unable to raise a hand in my own defence, I begged for a nurse, a hireling who would do her day-labour as a machine, and not worry a sick, ageing man. But even this was denied. Miss Grey, all kindness and sympathy and, I must say, Laura, an infernal bore, insisted on nursing me herself. Degrading enough in any case, but the worst you have not heard. Could I ask my secretary to shave me? No. As a matter of fact, I did, but she wouldn’t, or couldn’t. Imagine me, Laura, becoming more like a pard day by day, prickly and revolting to myself, mortified beyond words to be seen in this condition, but helpless.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get the gardener to do it? Or use a safety razor?’

  ‘My dear Laura,’ said George Knox in a hurt voice, ‘you do not seem to realise how weak I was, how very weak. For two days my temperature had been over a hundred, and when the fever had left me I lay powerless, as a new-born babe, and the woman triumphed over me. She would not let me shave, she fed me on slops, she would not even give me clean pyjamas till the third day.’

  ‘Don’t cry, George,’ said Laura bracingly. ‘It was a bit awkward for Miss Grey. She couldn’t very well put you into clean pyjamas, could she, if you were as ill as that? And anyway three days isn’t so very awful. And you are nicely shaved now. Count your blessings.’

  ‘I count you as one, dear Laura. But about the shaving. I rebelled at last, Laura; I revolted. Yesterday and today I staggered to the bathroom and shaved myself. Tomorrow I shall come downstairs and assert myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry for anyone who has to nurse you,’ said Laura candidly. ‘I wouldn’t. But why do you let Miss Grey bully you? She is only by the month, isn’t she?’

  ‘Nominally, yes; really, no. The month, Laura, is but a fiction, a John Roe, or do I mean Richard Doe? Willingly, after the mortification I have suffered at her hands, would I let her go, but what can I do? A friendless girl. I had found an excellent post for her with my dear old friend Miss Hocking, who requires a secretary to help her in the work of entertaining overseas students, but I have not dared to mention it to her. The bare suggestion of leaving Low Rising is so upsetting to Miss Grey, and she is so much attached to Sibyl. What can I do, a helpless pawn in the hands of fate?’

  ‘Helpless idiot,’ said Laura. ‘Send Miss Grey to see Miss Hocking next time she goes to town for you, and if Miss Hocking likes her, settle the affair at once. There’s nothing criminal in changing your secretary, and she’ll be able to vamp the overseas students and have a splendid time.’

  ‘I will, I will,’ said George Knox ecstatically. ‘Laura, you are always my saviour. I think of you as a beacon light shining calmly upon troubled waters. Your courage, your wit, your defiant best-sellers, your beauty, I adore them all. Weak, helpless invalid as I am,’ said George, getting up and walking vigorously about the room, ‘I still have the strength to worship you, as Petrarch worshipped another Laura.’

  ‘Well, that’s all very nice of you, George. But I will bet you anything you won’t get Miss Grey off to Miss Hocking. She will marry you if you aren’t careful,’ said Laura, taking the bull by the horns.

  George Knox stopped short and looked at Laura, panicstricken.

  ‘By God, Laura, you are right, as you always are. Fool that I am, it never occurred to me before. Authors always marry their secretaries. Am I compromised already by her sickroom attendance? Good God, good God!’

  ‘Sit down, George. You aren’t compromised at all and, as usual, you can’t take a joke. No one can marry you unless you ask them to. Women don’t really run at a man and force him into marriage, except in novels like mine. They wait till they are asked, though they may help things on a bit.’

  George Knox subsided into his chair again, and mopped his forehead. ‘I am weaker than I thought,’ he said, with great feebleness.

  ‘Don’t try to impress me, George.’

  ‘I can’t. I know I can’t. You always keep me straight, Laura; you support and strengthen me. Laura, there is so much to say, but I can’t begin to say it in this lazar-house, this plague-infected abode, with Sibyl liable to come in with tea at any moment and Miss Grey coming back soon. Laura, are you to be in town next week?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Laura, a little surprised. ‘I have to go up on Thursday for some business, and shall stay the night.’

  ‘Then if I go up on Thursday, will you go to a play with me?’

  ‘I’d love to. Are you going to Rutland Gate?’

  ‘No. I shall go to my club. Mamma will be away then, and the house, I understand, will be all dust-sheeted – only inhabited by the kitchen-maid, a repugnant woman who cannot cook.’

  ‘Your mother seems to like Miss Grey, George.’

  ‘No one knows, dear Laura, what Mamma does or doesn’t like. If she likes anything, it is being extremely interfering and making other people uncomfortable.’

  George spoke so warmly that Laura wondered if old Mrs Knox had been offering Miss Grey to him as a possible bride.

  ‘Thursday night, then, Laura. You will dine with me and we will go to a theatre. What shall it be?’

  ‘I suppose one ought to go to the repertory performance of King Lear,’ said Laura tepidly.

  ‘Anywhere you like, my dear Laura. King Lear it shall be, though the play is in itself inherently improbable and in parts excessively coarse and painful. But they may do it in modern clothes, or in the dark, or all standing on stepladders. You never know. King Lear it shall be. Dear Laura, i
t pours fresh life into my veins, ichor, elixir, to think of an evening with you, away from this house of disease and corruption. My mind is a foul and stagnant fen. Even Wordsworth was more interesting than I am at this moment. I should be working on Queen Elizabeth, but I cannot think, I cannot concentrate. It is all gone, gone, gone. I am finished,’ said George, groaning and clasping his massive head in both hands.

  ‘Not a bit, George. Only post-flu depression. Take Sibyl abroad. You could give Miss Grey a month’s notice and lots of extra wages and go whenever you liked.’

  ‘I could, Laura, I could. But not until we have had our evening together. To that, Laura, I look forward infinitely. With that as goal, I shall struggle towards health, making daily a little progress, sitting in the sun, if there is any, walking daily in the garden, if it doesn’t rain, fitting myself for this crown of my convalescence. And here is Sibyl, dear child, so tactlessly coming in with tea, just as I had so much, so much to say to you.’

  And in came Sibyl, followed by Annie with a tray. George Knox showed, for an invalid author, a remarkably good appetite, and enjoyed himself hugely, talking, eating large mouthfuls of teacake, and swilling great gulps of tea all at once.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your father, Sibyl,’ said Laura, ‘except that he enjoys being sorry for himself. I’ve told him to push Miss Grey off to Miss Hocking on board wages, and take you abroad.’

  ‘But not before I’ve seen Mr Coates,’ said Sibyl anxiously.

  ‘Why Coates?’ asked George Knox, in a very mouthful kind of way.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, you know he wanted to see what I was writing, and you were so keen for me to try, so I must wait and hear what he says.’