Nothing

by Henry Green

  “Jungle law,” the man agreed.

  “And some of these debs,” she went on. “Since you were speaking of their generation weren’t you? Why I could tell stories but I’m simply not that sort of person. With sleek heads and skins and no knowledge of the world, of how people can count to one another I mean,—well some of them are no better than goats there you are, than farmyard goats.”

  “Remember I passed two common women once outside a pub and one said to the other ‘you filthy Irish git.’ ”

  “What’s a git then?” she enquired.

  “Goat,” he replied.

  “How truly curious,” she agreed. “But you do see this my way?” she proceeded. “Oh Richard it is so rare to find a man who looks through the surface as you can, deep down to what really’s there.” She lowered her voice, glanced over to Jane and John still engrossed in themselves then hitched her chair closer to Mr. Abbot’s. “Life,” she continued, “is not all going back on one’s tracks, ferreting out old friends to have a cosy chat with, one simply can’t for ever be looking over a shoulder Richard to what’s dead and gone. Such a blind view of life. No, you have to look forward, face the future whatever that may bring.”

  “No friend like an old friend,” he claimed.

  “You’re not on to what I mean,” she said. “Take John now. There are times I could shake him, just shake him. You know what they were once supposed to mean to one another and never will again those two, well as if that wasn’t enough he’s always going back. He won’t admit if you ask him but he’s got an idea that once he’s had anything in his life he’s only to lift his voice to get that back once more and dear Jane’s too sweet to let him see.”

  “Wonderful woman Jane.”

  “Isn’t she?” Miss Jennings sighed. She drank down a full glass of wine. “Too sweet and wonderful. Sometimes. Any other woman would say ‘Now look John dear I admit we once meant everything to each other and you practically broke your wife’s heart over me, but all of it’s been finished a long time now, happened many lovers’ moons ago and can’t come to life again, these little things never do.’ ”

  “I say Liz you know, none of my business,” Mr. Abbot warned.

  “But what does she say?” his companion continued. “Jane’s forever calling Penelope ‘her little saint’ but Jane is the saint if you get me or isn’t she?”

  “Oh a saint yes undoubtedly.”

  “How can Jane put up with him in one of those moods! Now I, I think it’s bad for John all this rehashing of what’s dead and gone, I try to take his mind off which is the reason I’m such a good influence. I truly am the man’s guardian angel.”

  “Tremendously lucky fellow.”

  “Not but what it can’t be a great strain at times,” she murmured with a tragic expression. “No one in the whole wide world can have the least idea. I get the feeling occasionally, oh to tell the utter truth because I know you are like the grave it is more than that, I wouldn’t say quite often but continually I have to lug poor John back to the present by main force and I’m not very strong. It wears me out.”

  “Shouldn’t let yourself get upset like this, a splendid little woman like you young enough to be his daughter.”

  “I suppose it’s like so many men,” she gave judgement aloud, “who imagine no girl can look at a male older than herself. But you’re wrong, think of history, anything! As a matter of fact to tell you a little secret about me which I truly trust you not to breathe, I’ve always been attracted to older men.”

  “Have you by Jove!”

  “Yes, isn’t that strange. But I don’t like little old men, they have to be great big hussars if they are older. So now you know!”

  “Not for me,” he said. “I go for the young ones.”

  “Oh no you can’t mean little girls,” she cried. “Pig-tails and tunics!”

  “I say what must you think Liz,” he expostulated. “Nothing of the sort. I should hope not. No to tell the truth it’s young women of your age, young but old enough to be women if you get what I mean.”

  “Jane,” she enthusiastically cried, “Richard’s just paid me the sweetest compliment! He’s said what he likes about me is I’m young but with all the allure of experience!!”

  “My dear how clever of Richard,” Mrs. Weatherby drily rejoined.

  “No not all that,” Miss Jennings appealed to the wine waiter who was filling her glass to the brim once more only she didn’t lift it to stop him. Mr. Pomfret slightly raised his eyebrows, then Jane and he descended back into their own conversation to the exclusion of all else.

  “But I think it’s one of the nicest things have ever been said to me,” she purred at Mr. Abbot. “I feel just like one of your cats when you’ve given her cream.”

  “True right enough,” he stoutly averred.

  “It had the ring of truth,” Miss Jennings said. “Everything you say has, I think that’s my real reason why I like you so. You’re such a wonderfully honest person Richard.”

  “Can’t understand people saying what they don’t mean. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “And honest about yourself,” she continued “which is the rarest thing in the world, pure gold.”

  •

  It was almost as if, in time, the party had leaped forward between those mirrors so much had been recorded only to be lost, so much champagne had been consumed while, as day passes over a pond, no trace was left in any of their minds, or hardly none, just the vague memory of friendly weather, a fading riot of June stayed perhaps in their throats as the waiters withdrew though three or four remained to serve coffee brandy and port.

  This was the moment chosen by Philip Weatherby to make his empty tumbler ring to a stroke of the knife, to rise with one hand of Mary’s in his own while she stayed seated, to look so white as he examined the guests from the advantage he had taken, that of surprise and the five foot ten of height.

  “Oh the dear boy,” his mother said to John Pomfret. “He’s going to propose my health, or so I do believe the saint.”

  “I—ah—er” her son began while Miss Pomfret squeezed Philip’s fingers.

  “But who put it in his sweet head?” Mrs. Weatherby asked entranced. “Darling was this your idea?” she demanded and had no answer.

  “I—well you see—that is . . .” Mr. Weatherby began again while all the older people looked up at him with smiling faces, with that kind of withdrawn encouragement we use by which to judge how much better we could do this sort of thing ourselves, and Jane beamed as if in a seventh heaven. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he tried once more, “we are here tonight to celebrate my twenty firster.” He now started to speak very fast. “My mother which is kind of her gave this party,” he went on, “and I’m sure we’ve all very much enjoyed things, the festive occasion and so on, but Mary and I thought now or never which is why we want to announce that we’re engaged.”

  He sat down. A hum of fascinated comment was directed like bees to honey in his direction. Mary hardly glanced at her father but darted quick looks about the room while Jane turned to John Pomfret, one hand pressed on the soft mound above her heart and hissed,

  “Is this your doing? Did you know of it?”

  “Good God good for them. First I’ve heard,” he said.

  “Oh my dear,” she cried. “I feel faint!”

  Not that Mr. Pomfret appeared to pay heed. A pale smile was stuck across his face while he looked about as though to receive tribute. But the attention of almost everyone in that room was still fixed on the awkward happy couple, and Elaine Winder smacked their backs and generally behaved as if she were in at a kill.

  “Oh my dear,” Mrs. Weatherby groaned rising majestically from her place.

  This movement repeated a thousand thousand times on every side brought each one of those present to his or her feet, except at Philip’s table where they sat on transfixed in their moment and Miss Winder’s exuberance. Mr. Pomfret stood up also. As Jane began to make her way towards Mary he followed and t
he guests started clapping.

  A naturally graceful woman Mrs. Weatherby was superb while she crossed the room afloat between one tall mirror and the other, a look of infinite humility on her proud features. The occasion’s shock and excitement had raised her complexion to an even brighter glow, a magnificent effulgence of what all felt she must feel at this promise of grandsons and, at that, from the daughter of what most of them knew to be an old flame with whom she had continued the best of old friends.

  Tears stood in many eyes. Some men even cheered discreetly.

  And when Jane came to their table she folded Mary Pomfret into so wonderful an embrace while the child half rose from her chair to greet it that not only was the girl’s hair not touched or disarranged in this envelopment, but as Mrs. Weatherby took the young lady to her heart it must have seemed to most the finest thing they had ever seen, the epitome of how such moments should be, perfection in other words, the acme of manners, and memorable as being the flower, the blossoming of grace and their generation’s ultimate instinct of how one should ideally behave.

  Mr. Pomfret pumped Philip’s hand.

  Jane was whispering to Mary, “Oh aren’t you clever not to have said a word, you clever darling.”

  One or two of the male guests called for a speech.

  Mrs. Weatherby disengaged herself with infinite gentleness, held her future daughter-in-law at arm’s length as a judge holds a prize lily at the show, then turned to Philip. She leant forward offering a cheek. When he pecked this once, she did not push it smartly back at him. She held firm while John kissed his daughter on the chin. Next she linked arms with both the intended while Mr. Pomfret hung at the edge. A fresh storm of clapping greeted this group and now most of the men called for a speech.

  Mrs. Weatherby nodded like royalty right and left. She wore what might have been called a brave little smile.

  But once the appeals for her to say a few words with many a “yes do darling” from the ladies, the moment this clamour grew too insistent Jane whispered to Philip and, with an arm still under Mary’s she walked through the uproar back to her table. Philip and John followed, each with a chair. It was noticeable how frightened the girl looked, as was perhaps only natural.

  Liz kissed the four of them in turn, the applause rose to a crescendo, and the family group, if Miss Jennings could be said to be of the family, sat down. Once they were all seated it was seen that Richard Abbot had effaced himself, had joined Elaine Winder and her young man at their table where, however, he was now without a chair. This a wine waiter fetched him.

  John was first to speak.

  “Champagne,” he cried to another servant. “We must all have a toast.”

  “My dear the bill!” Jane said in a low voice.

  “Oh will you ever forgive us?” his daughter tremulously asked.

  “This is on me,” Mr. Pomfret explained. “Bring the champagne glasses back,” he ordered. “Order another dozen bottles. We shall have to toast ’em,” he shouted to the room. Cries of “Good old John” greeted his yell. One of the male guests, rather drunk, seemed about to become dazed.

  “Oh my God where’s Richard?” Mrs. Weatherby demanded in the same low tones.

  “He’s sat himself down at our table Mamma.”

  “I still feet quite faint, John.”

  “You’ll be right as a trivet Jane when you’ve some more wine,” Mr. Pomfret reassured. “You’ll see if you aren’t.”

  “But oh my dear aren’t toasts unlucky?”

  “Well my boy your mother’s a bit bowled over. Ah here we are, and fill them up. All round the room, mind! Now haven’t you been a minx keeping this to yourself,” he said to his daughter.

  “Oh I did worry,” she cried to Jane. “But you see it was Philip’s twenty firster and people marry younger these days you know, if you see what I mean?”

  Mr. Pomfret rose to his feet.

  “I’m going to ask you all to rise, be upstanding, and to—ah—lift your glasses and drink to—ah—the happy couple.”

  Which, when done, set the party off again. And such a number of people came up to their table to offer congratulations, to twit Jane with not having dropped the least hint, to kiss Mary and to slap John on the back, that it was not for some time later they were able to have private conversation.

  •

  When they did find themselves alone once more at this table, John Pomfret incoherently took control,

  “Well what’s it to be?” he cried to the four of them “a white wedding Mary my love with the old organ and a choir of course?”

  “We hadn’t got that far yet Daddy.”

  “But when, how soon? Now you know the party we were to have, you remember I told you Jane, we’ll make that into an engagement one, cocktails or something with the few intimate friends to stay over to dinner?”

  “How wonderful for you both,” Liz cried. “What a bewitching minute this is!”

  Jane smiled a trifle sadly, gazed at each in turn. “Isn’t it?” she agreed with Miss Jennings. “So much in the one wonderful evening. Oh dear very soon I really quite simply believe I shall have to go home to my bed.”

  “Jane you’ll do nothing of the kind,” John Pomfret insisted. “Besides we none of us work tomorrow, we can lie in all day if we wish. It is a terrific occasion! I’ve been wondering the whole of my life what this moment would be like.”

  “Dear boy,” Mrs. Weatherby said to Philip but in tragic tones as she laid a white hand on his arm, “if you only knew how your poor mother had dreamed and prayed, yes prayed!”

  “But where are you proposing to set up house?” John demanded.

  “We haven’t actually discussed that have we Philip?” The young man did not answer, moistened his lips with a tongue.

  “When I went to see Arthur Morris he told me once he was out of the clinic the doctors had advised him to get away in the country. So his flat at least will be on the market,” Miss Jennings suggested.

  “Good Lord Liz poor old Arthur has three whole rooms. They’d never be able to afford it.”

  “The sweet things mustn’t start life in too big a little way,” Mrs. Weatherby approved. She gave her son’s arm a squeeze. The young couple frowned what could have been a warning at one another.

  “Bless me I don’t know when anything ever before in all my time has given me such a crazy lift,” the father exclaimed. “Who’s to be best man Philip?”

  “I couldn’t say I’m sure.”

  “And the bridesmaids Mary?” John Pomfret insisted. “We’ll have to be very careful there you know. Of course Liz here must be chief one. You’ll do that won’t you Liz?”

  “Oh John dear you are sweet but you should be serious once in a while,” Mrs. Weatherby interrupted dolefully and fast. “He simply doesn’t understand about these things,” she explained to Miss Jennings then seemed to catch herself up. “Oh goodness listen to me,” she laughed “the interfering mother-in-law just like you hear about all the time! No John the darlings will have to settle that for themselves.”

  “I’m too old,” Miss Jennings wailed. “Besides poor Liz’s been bridesmaid so often. And I always seem to bring such rotten bad luck. They invariably divorce after I’ve been in the aisle.”

  “But now we are on the subject,” Jane announced “Philip I’m certain your father would’ve liked you to hold the wedding under our rose window, darling, if he were alive. I know we have practically no connection with the village now but in a way it’s still our very own precious church. I shall be buried outside under the yew by his side, I’ve put that in my little will.” She brushed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Now Jane,” Mr. Pomfret expostulated, “this is no time to speak of mourning, top hats and side bands. What next good God? But where are you choosing for the honeymoon?”

  “We hadn’t quite got round to that yet either,” Mary answered.

  “Well you haven’t thought of much then have you?” he said.

  “Really John,” Liz
exclaimed. “When you’re in love you can’t make plans about one’s plans.” She drank another full glass down.

  “I don’t know when else you plot things out,” he replied in obvious delight.

  “John,” Mrs. Weatherby cried. “You’re a changed creature! I hardly think that’s quite nice do you darling?” and she turned to Liz.

  “He’s so thrilled,” Miss Jennings explained.

  “No but to talk of children, nurseries and so on at such a moment,—why my dear you’ll be positively indecent in a second!”

  Philip Weatherby stifled a yawn.

  “Who said a word about nasty sprawling brawling brats Jane?” John Pomfret demanded.

  “You did my dear,” she said in a dry voice. “Not more than a minute ago. Didn’t he darling?” she asked of Liz.

  “It’s all sho wonderful I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my toesh,” this lady explained.

  “All right then we’ll hold a ball, a dance.”

  “John there’s so much to discuss,” Jane said.

  “I realize you’ll say I’m crazy me dear,” Mr. Pomfret said to his daughter “but ever since you were grown up I’ve wondered what it would be like talking over marriage settlements with a middle-aged stranger and as I’ve often told you there’s so little in the old kitty that I thought I’d have to take your future father-in-law out and make him drunk. And now good Lord it’s going to be Jane that I’ve known all me life. I can’t get over it.”

  “John do behave yourself,” Mrs. Weatherby sadly smiled.

  “Well we shall be bound to have a chat one of these days won’t we Jane?” he demanded.

  “I expect you’ll know where to find me,” she replied and Miss Jennings winced, only she did so very slowly.

  “But we shan’t want any money,” Miss Pomfret claimed with a weak show of determination.

  “Nonsense monkey everybody does,” her father said.

  “Then hadn’t you better discuss it with me?” Mr. Weatherby asked.

  “Philip darling do think before you speak like that,” Jane cried.