High Rising (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Oh, soon, any time. I am going back to High Rising tomorrow if I am well enough, and I’ll be there till Tony goes back to school. Goodnight, George.’

  ‘I find I shall have to stay in town for some time, unfortunately,’ said George Knox, ‘but I’ll ring you up.’

  ‘Yes, do, at any time, only for goodness’ sake go away now.’ And Laura shoved him into his coat, shook hands warmly, and pushed him out of the flat. George, to his eternal honour, went downstairs and sat for three quarters of an hour on a hard, narrow, backless bench in the hall, to await Stoker’s return. He was so used to depending on Laura that the sight of her ill and upset had upset him too, considerably. He had had some idea, not very well formulated, of feeling his way towards a suggestion that Low Rising would be less lonely after Sibyl’s theoretical marriage if Laura cared to share it with him, but the idea was as yet extremely nebulous. As he sat, stiff and not over-warm, in the little hall, reflection cooled his blood. Much as he loved and admired Laura, he was slightly in awe of her, which is not a good basis for matrimony, from the man’s point of view, at any rate. Then he began to reflect on her large family. The noble figure calling him to come in out of the dew was all very well, but flanked by four large step-sons it lost some of its attractiveness. And it was even possible that if Laura accepted him she might want him to give Low Rising to Sibyl and her imaginary husband, and come and live at High Rising, which would never do. He must have peace to work in. Sibyl’s dogs were bad enough occasionally, but Tony’s conversation and his railways, not to speak of Gerald and John and Dick coming home perpetually on leave, would make concentration impossible. If Laura, dearest and best of women, had no children and a good knowledge of shorthand, she would be the perfect wife. More like Miss Todd. It was almost unfair that Laura should have so excellent a secretary as Miss Todd as her private property. By marrying Laura he might get Miss Todd thrown in as a kind of marriage settlement. He had admired Miss Todd’s efficient handling of her mother immensely. Obviously she would be Useful – and charming – in so many ways, if only one could get hold of her. It might be worth offering her the cottage again, if and when her mother died. It then struck Mr Knox for the first time that Dr Ford was nearly always at the Todds’ house when he called, and would be a suitable match for Miss Todd; so suitable that it was probably already an arranged thing, only waiting for old Mrs Todd to die. With these and other profitless musings, not uncoupled with anxiety about Laura, he whiled away the time till half-past eleven, at which hour Stoker’s ample form came billowing up the steps.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, Stoker,’ said he rising. ‘Mrs Morland didn’t feel very well, so I have been sitting in the hall.’

  ‘Lot of good that will do,’ said Stoker, with genial contempt. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She said she had a headache and might be getting influenza.’

  ‘Well, you’d better go home,’ said the devoted handmaid. ‘You can’t do no good setting here. She’ll be all right in the morning.’

  With which bracing words Stoker shut herself into the lift and soared upwards in majesty, while George Knox went back to his club.

  Laura had gone straight to bed. She knew she couldn’t sleep, but bed was a refuge from circling harms. A very good book called The Bucket of Blood, or The Butcher’s Revenge, was helping her to try to forget her troubles, when Stoker hit the door and walked in.

  ‘Headache?’ said Stoker.

  ‘Rather,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow, but I knew it would get worse if Mr Knox went on talking, so I went to bed.’

  Stoker left the room without a word, and presently returned with a large cup of tea.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Stoker, you are an angel really.’

  ‘How long had Mr Knox been setting in the hall?’ asked Stoker.

  ‘In the hall? But he went nearly an hour ago.’

  ‘Hall downstairs,’ said Stoker briefly. ‘I told him he hadn’t no call to worry about you, so off he went.’

  Laura considered this mark of devotion silently. It was really dear of George, if rather silly, to sit in the hall because her head ached.

  ‘Well, well,’ said she for all comment. ‘Oh, Stoker, give me a crumpled-up letter out of the waste-paper basket before you go.’

  Stoker produced the letter and handed it to her mistress, adding, ‘Marleen was lovely.’

  Taking this, correctly as it appeared, to be a tribute to the physical and moral charms of Fraülein Dietrich, Laura expressed her gratification that Stoker had had a pleasant evening and said goodnight. Before trying to go to sleep, she considered again the anonymous document. It was not her first experience of anonymous letters, vicariously at any rate, for Madame Koska hardly counted any week well spent unless at least one of these missives reached her, but it had never happened to Laura herself, and she didn’t like it at all. She tried to think what Madame Koska would have done. Sometimes she would tear the letter contemptuously across and throw it into the fire; sometimes, on the other hand, she would put it away in her private safe with a slow, enigmatic smile, until such time as she could produce it for the confounding of her business adversaries. Not having a fire in her room, Laura decided on the slow enigmatic smile, and, folding the letter up, replaced it neatly in its envelope. Slumber, as she had feared, shunned her couch, and it was two in the morning before she went to sleep over the last chapter of The Bucket of Blood, with the light still on. She woke cross and tired and was glad to get down to High Rising again, with the horrid document, which she locked up in a drawer, determined to show it to Anne Todd at the earliest opportunity.

  13

  Spring Interlude

  On the Friday morning of the following week Laura received a parcel and a letter from Adrian. The parcel she immediately identified as manuscript, or rather typescript. Adrian was apt to send her novels for her shrewd if unorthodox comments, and this was probably one of them. And so indeed in a way it was, but not in the way she had expected. Adrian’s letter said:

  Dear Laura,

  You promised you would read Sibyl’s manuscript and give me an opinion. Here it is, and I am quite in despair. When you have read it, you will see what I mean. What can I say or do? It is the most appalling predicament a man could be in, and I adore her with all my heart, and nothing can change that, but I am now in terror that she will never speak to me again. From a business point of view publication would, of course, be impossible, but what can I say as a friend? If you can make any suggestions I shall be more than grateful. I have showed it to no one else – one couldn’t. Don’t write, as I shall be with you on Saturday for lunch, but if you can help me, for God’s sake, do. I’ve been worrying for days over this thing, and I can’t even write to Sibyl.

  Ever yours,

  ADRIAN

  Filled with forebodings Laura contemplated the parcel. Had Sibyl the peculiar talent of the young for producing obscene literature? Or had she caricatured all her friends so maliciously that libel actions would flow like water? Or was it so exquisite, so slight, so precious, that it could never have any market at all? The only, and obvious way to find out, was to read it, so seeing that Tony and Master Wesendonck were safely employed in making railway embankments with sand, borrowed from Mrs Mallow’s cousin the builder, and hurrying through her morning talk with Stoker, she took the parcel upstairs to her room and settled down to read it.

  Anyone who knew Laura well could have gathered from the state of her hair that she was sorely perplexed and tried. What with running pencils through it, and pushing it off her forehead, and absently sticking in pins which emotion had caused to fall, she looked, by the time she had finished Sibyl’s story, like Medusa on a heavy washing-day.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Laura, who rarely used strong language, aloud to herself and the shade of Adrian. ‘My God, my God, what are we to do? Why did Adrian have to be such a half-wit? Why couldn’t he leave the girl alone? Oh, damn, oh, damn. We shall never get over it, and I did think everything w
as going so well.’

  And now everything was going so badly. Anne Todd hadn’t been able to come up since Laura’s return, because old Mrs Todd had been weaker and more trying than usual, and the typewriting was all in arrears. George was still in town. Sibyl was getting over her influenza, but Laura didn’t care to go over and find the Incubus acting hostess. And now Sibyl’s manuscript, and Adrian coming tomorrow. There was nothing for it but to call on her creator again, which she did with some vehemence, but no result. Then she went and put a call through to Adrian.

  ‘Adrian,’ she said, as soon as they were connected, ‘I can’t talk on the telephone, but listen. You must cut your work and be down here by half-past twelve tomorrow. Sibyl is coming to lunch, and I must see you first, it’s absolutely essential.’

  Adrian’s voice sounded pale and shaken over the wires, as he briefly assured her that he would be with her faithfully by twelve-thirty. She then rang up Dr Ford, who by great good luck happened to be in.

  ‘Dr Ford, can you angelically do something for me? Could you possibly bring Sibyl over to lunch tomorrow – drive her over yourself, I mean? And come to lunch too, of course. I have got Adrian down specially for Sibyl, and I don’t want any interference from the Incubus.’

  ‘You aren’t the first on the job,’ said Dr Ford, chuckling.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Anne Todd has got the Incubus coming to lunch with her tomorrow, and I have orders to fetch her, so that she shan’t escape. I’ll fetch them both and bring Sibyl on to you. I’m sorry I can’t stop to lunch, but I’ve got to be over the other side of Stoke Dry by two o’clock, so I’ll go home for a meal.’

  ‘Thank you very much. How’s Mrs Todd?’

  ‘I don’t like it at all,’ was all Dr Ford would say.

  In vain did Laura try to compose herself for the morrow’s ordeal. The childish prattle of Tony and Master Wesendonck drove her nearly insane. Work was impossible, food a mockery. A brand-new library book called The Windingsheet of Blood had no charms, and she found it impossible to care whether the person who had cut off the gentleman’s face with a razor and burned most of him beyond recognition in the old brick kiln was the blonde typist, or Ti Lung the Parrot-faced Ape. Finally she took the little boys to a cinema at Stoke Dry and, merely to pass the time away, sat with them through two and a half hours of slapstick and horrors which they rapturously enjoyed.

  Saturday morning dawned fair and bright. The sun shone, the cuckoo bellowed from a copse hard by, other birds less easy to recognise made suitable bird noises. In the little wood primroses grew in vulgar profusion, a drift of blue mist showed that bluebells were on the way, glades were still white with wind-flowers. All the trees that come out early were brilliant green, while those that come out later were, not unnaturally, still brown, thus forming an agreeable contrast. A stream bordered with kingcups made a gentle bubbling noise like sausages in a frying-pan. Nature, in fact, was at it; and when she chooses, Nature can do it.

  But what avails the sceptred race, or indeed anything else, when the heart of man is oppressed by care? If icy winds had blown from dark storm clouds, if thunder had crashed, if sleet had stripped the fruit trees of their blossom and broken the fritillaries in the meadow, Laura could not have felt more depressed. Tony, attempting to read her a detective story of one page which he had recently composed, was savagely snubbed and accused of base plagiarism and a commonplace mind. Stoker was told to be quiet and give them what she liked for lunch. Even Master Wesendonck, who had only brought, with considerable personal exertion, a bucketful of coal to put in the goods yard to make it look more real, was harshly told to pick it all up off the grass and put it back where it came from.

  As the hour of half-past twelve approached, Laura was prowling up and down the drawing-room like a mad panther. Luckily for her sanity, Adrian drove up to the gate with perfect punctuality, jumped out of his car, slamming the door, shouted an injunction to the little boys to leave it alone, and rushed into the house. In spite of a toilette to which he had evidently devoted considerable attention, he looked worn, haggard and sleepless.

  ‘Laura!’ he cried.

  ‘Adrian!’ shrieked Laura with equal fervour. ‘My dear, I’m so thankful. Nothing so awful has ever happened to me in all my life. Here it is, and I don’t know what we can do about it.’ She pointed to Sibyl’s typescript upon a table, but Adrian made no movement towards it, gazing at it as if it were a snake which had hypnotised him.

  ‘Isn’t it ghastly?’ he managed to get out.

  ‘Too ghastly for words. Sit down. Adrian, when I read it, I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

  ‘Nor could I. Laura, it’s hell. What can I do?’

  ‘There’s only one thing,’ said Laura, with immense determination, ‘you must tell her the truth.’

  ‘But how can I? How can I? I asked her to send me the thing. I feel responsible.’

  ‘Rubbish. We’ve hardly any time, Adrian. Listen: as soon as we’ve finished lunch you must take her into the wood and tell her the whole truth. You’ll be quite alone there.’

  ‘Laura, it will be like murder. To tell that darling creature that she hasn’t the ghost of an idea of plot, or style, or grammar, or spelling, or anything!’

  He wrung his hands in despair.

  ‘You’ve got to,’ said Laura. ‘She’ll take anything from you, Adrian. When I read it, I thought I’d gone mad. That our Sibyl should be such an incapable, doddering, half-witted, sentimental, sloshy school-girl was too much for me. I read it three times, to try to find something good in it, and not one thing could I find. It might just do for a junior girls’ school magazine, but I doubt it. The only kindness you can show is to squash all her hopes at once. If you don’t, I’ll tell you what will happen: Johns and Fairfield will get it and they’ll make a joke of it, and it will have a huge circulation, and people will think Sibyl is being funny, while the poor child is perfectly serious. Her father would see through it at once and go mad. If she had shown him what she was writing, he would have stopped it, but like the great blundering idiot he is, he insisted that she was clever and what not. The only sign of grace I can see in the whole thing is that she has imitated some of my more offensive mannerisms. Adrian, I am devoted to her, and I am devoted to you in a suitable way too, and I tell you quite seriously that this has to be nipped in the bud, now and at once and for ever. She never wanted to show it to you, and you would persecute her, and now you’ve got it, and you must face the situation. If you don’t, I shall tell her how you proposed to me, though I believe,’ she added immediately, touched by Adrian’s mute misery, ‘it wouldn’t make any difference. She has never seen you beating starving authors down on royalties, and she believes in you.’

  ‘No,’ said Adrian, ‘it wouldn’t make any difference to her.’

  ‘Though it’s hardly for you to say it,’ snapped Laura, whose heart and temper had been severely tried.

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t mean to sound conceited, I was only judging by my own feelings. Because, though I have gone through hell about this business, it doesn’t make the faintest difference to me that Sibyl is a literary nincompoop. In fact, I think I love her all the more for it. It is so adorable of her to be so silly. It is only the hurting her that I can’t bear.’

  Laura looked at him with a mingling of kindly contempt, affection and envy, thought of saying something, thought better of it, left the room, and returned almost immediately with a glass.

  ‘Brandy,’ she said. ‘Drink it. I hear Dr Ford’s car with Sibyl.’

  Adrian raised the glass to her. ‘Laura,’ he said, drinking, and began to choke.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said his exasperated hostess, thumping him on the back. ‘No one can love a spluttering idiot.’

  By the time Sibyl had come into the room, followed by the boys, Adrian had recovered and, fortified by the brandy, was able to pull himself together. As her lunch party threatened to be embarrassing, Laura allowed Tony to take part in the
conversation, which was equivalent to allowing him to monopolise it. The interest of the moment was an exhibition of model railways which was going on, though, alas, in London. Tony and Master Wesendonck read and talked of nothing else, and their highest ambition, in no way encouraged by Laura, was to go up to town for the day and see it. At any other time Tony’s detailed account of an electric signalling system on a six-inch model would have driven the grown-ups to frenzy and led to his speedy downfall. Nor were the supporting remarks of Master Wesendonck, who was the electric expert, of any more interest. But all three grown-ups, extremely nervous and ill at ease, were only too grateful for the flow of talk, and rewarded Tony and his friend with a degree of attention to which they were quite unaccustomed.

  As soon as they had had coffee, Laura looked wildly round.

  ‘My head is splitting and I hardly slept last night,’ said she in a sepulchral voice. ‘Sibyl, darling, I must lie down. Will you very sweetly take Adrian down to the copse? The boys have gone to Stoke Dry station for the afternoon, so I can be quite alone and rest. If I hear you talking, I shall go mad.’

  Sibyl, looking rather scared, got up at once. Refusing all offers of help, Laura went up to her room and, from behind the curtains, had the pleasure of seeing the young couple go down the garden and through the gate into the wood. With a deep sigh of relief she kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed. In a few moments The Windingsheet of Blood had slipped from her hand, and she was deeply sunk in well-earned repose.

  If one wanted a perfect setting in which to offer one’s heart to an adored creature, this coppice on this warm April afternoon would have been the place. But to Adrian, as he walked down the narrow path behind Sibyl, the sunshine had no light, the birds were whistling in peculiarly unpleasant derision. ‘Juggins,’ they said, ‘it is all your fault. You might have seen that she was all affection and not much else. What she wants is things to love. Now she has her father and the dogs. If you hadn’t been such a fool, she would have had you as well. You have bullied her into showing you her little story. She was cleverer than you are. She knew it was no good, and she was right. Now, what are you going to do about it? Cuckoo, jug-jug, you be a silly fool,’ they concluded in rapturous chorus.