‘Them trousis,’ murmured an insinuating voice in her ear.
‘Never worth five bob, they ain’t. Got the moth ’ere — and ’ere.’ The garment was stretched out, and indelicately displayed. ‘Two bob I’d give but not a penny more.’
Sighing, Amy bent her head to the yoke.
At five, Dinah, reluctant but resigned, arrived to take over. Amy, whose headache was now an unhappy fact, made her way to the tea tent, where, in the atmosphere of an oven, she at length received a cup of tepid and straw-coloured liquid together with a crumbling slice of slab cake.
‘There’s richness for you,’ said a voice at her side.
She looked up with a start to see the surprising figure of her neighbour. In deference, she imagined, to the heat, he had changed his corduroys for a pair of grey flannel trousers. With these he wore a garment of white towelling, short-sleeved and far enough open at the neck to expose a very hairy chest. Despite this light and pleasing attire he was plainly very hot.
‘What on earth,’ said Amy faintly, ‘are you doing here?’
‘Ah!’ said Mark, with a large wink.
He lifted the slice of cake from his own saucer and observed it closely. ‘No,’ he said, and put it down again. ‘What am I doing here, you ask? I am taking notes.’
Amy became conscious that their conversation too was being noted, and with deep interest.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘I am thinking, you see,’ said Mark, taking a gulp of tea, ‘of writing a book on village life. Tense, powerful (whatever that means) and very perceptive. All, therefore, is grist that comes to my mill. There’s a chiel among us taking notes, and saying he’ll print ’em — always supposing,’ he added carefully, ‘that said chiel can find a publisher misguided enough to abet him in his fell work. Why does this so-called tea taste of mould and corruption?’
His voice was querulous. Amy felt that the question required no answer, though having tasted her own tea, she could not deny that the root of the matter was in him. She finished her cake and rose.
‘Let me take that for you,’ said Mark courteously. ‘Anything else you’d like? Ah, well, I daresay you’re wise.’
He carried the relics of their meal to the trestle table, where Mrs Oliphant, drooping over the tea urn, received them.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, rejoining his companion.
‘I’m going home,’ said Amy shortly.
‘Home?’ echoed Mark, in a rising tone of blended incredulity and hurt. ‘But I’ve only just come!’
Amy saw that such heads as had not turned their way hitherto now did so. Mrs Richards, talking to a group of ladies at the other side of the tent, seemed to nod with deep significance. Oh well, she thought, with a sudden burst of most unwonted defiance, what did it matter, after all? Let them look, the whole boiling lot of them. This man might talk like a lunatic when he thought fit, and appear in garb that was disreputable, but at least he could keep a secret. And, surprisingly, since his coming her headache had gone.
‘Well!’ said Mrs Richards, unable to control herself as the oddly assorted couple moved away. ‘Did you see that?’
‘And did you hear what he said? About a book—’
‘There must be something in it, after all.’
The heads went together. The tongues wagged.
Outside the tent, and in a heat scarcely less breathless, Mark grinned cheerfully at his companion.
‘Ready to show me the sights?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ snapped Amy.
Mark halted and surveyed her, smiling to himself. Never, he thought, had he seen a woman who paid less attention to her personal appearance. Miss Faraday’s hair, flattened by the departed hat, hung limply round her tired face. Her flowered dress, unfashionably short and skimpy, could not well have been more unbecoming in pattern or cut. She looked more than her age. All this Mark saw and wondered at his own behaviour.
‘What an ungrateful woman you are,’ he said.
‘I am far too hot and tired to answer riddles. And I haven’t the remotest idea what you mean.’
‘“When lovely woman stoops to folly”,’ began Mark, adding in a different tone, ‘listen, and don’t be cross.’
‘Well?’
‘Believe it or not, I’m only trying to help. Truly.’
‘Go and help someone else,’ said Amy rudely, turning away. ‘I told you, I’m going home.’
‘Just as you like. Only don’t blame me.’
‘Why should I? What on earth are you talking about?’
Mark moved a little nearer and grinned into her unresponsive face. He dropped his voice.
‘Anonymous letter-writers don’t find their material in public meetings. You did me a good turn and suffered for it. I thought if we promenaded here in full view of the community it might put a spoke in the wheel of our unpleasing friend. Now do you understand?’
‘Oh,’ said Amy vaguely.
She looked around her at the sweep of lawn dotted with figures, busy or bored. Strange to think that amongst their number might be the one who had flung anonymous filth at one so innocent of offence as herself; stranger still to think that the man beside her should trouble his head over her affairs. It was true enough that she had been ungrateful, and after he had dressed himself for the occasion, too. A smile trembled on her lips. It was rather a pretty smile, and Mark observed it with interest. It seemed that for once virtue might be its own reward.
‘Come along,’ he said persuasively. ‘Give the so and so’s something to talk about.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss Faraday meekly.
From the grisly recesses of the jumble stall, Dinah observed them pacing decorously side by side. A pleased smile crossed her face.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ she said.
Sighing, she returned to her task.
‘* * *
The weather,’ said Mrs Oliphant, speaking in prose, ‘will not hold out much longer.’
As she spoke, a gust of hot wind agitated the bushes bordering the lawn, sending a raffish collection of paper bags and ice cream cartons leaping and bounding across the patch where a few self-conscious couples revolved to the strains of a violin (Miss Margetson) and a piano (Dinah). Although barely eight o’clock, it was growing ominously dark, and despite the wind which had so suddenly arisen, the heat was still oppressive.
‘Tired, my dear?’ asked Mr Richards, appearing at his wife’s side.
‘A little. Mr Grey has gone, George. Some trouble with one of his special cows. And his wife will not be singing for us tonight. Her head is troubling her,’
‘Dear, dear. Did she go with her husband?’
‘No. The headache did not appear until after his departure. I must say,’ added Mrs Richards, rather reluctantly, ‘she certainly looked far from well. She was getting a lift home, she told me — with whom she did not say.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Mr Richards vaguely.
‘Do you know, George,’ said his wife, abandoning Laura Grey, ‘I have a most peculiar feeling — as if something utterly dreadful is going to happen.’
‘Nothing more dreadful than a thunderstorm, I trust. But that is most certainly on the way.’
As he spoke a flash of lightning pierced the sullen sky. A rumble of thunder drowned the music, and a second gust of wind sent the pianist’s sheet of music gambolling across the grass.
‘My friends,’ intoned Mr Richards, stepping forward with uplifted hand. ‘The clerk of the weather most unkindly puts an end to our festivities in the open. Dancing, however, will continue in the Sunday School hall. Before we adjourn, might I ask for helpers — muscular helpers — to return this piano to the vicarage? Thank you. Thank you so much.’
Four or five youths, greeted by cries of encouragement, moved sheepishly forward and laid hands on the instrument. The thunder rolled again.
* * *
In the Sunday School hall, with Old Testament worthies gazing reproachfully down, the
festivities, as Mr Richards had merrily termed them, limped on. At the piano, Dinah found herself much hampered by the efforts of Miss Margetson, who, no brilliant performer at the best of times, was rendered positively appalling by her nervous dread of thunder. With every crash, now nearer and more frequent, her bow trembled more, producing a variety of wails and shrieks quite awe inspiring. Dinah muttered under her breath and ploughed on. The Sunday School piano was bad enough, without Miss Margetson’s assistance. She crashed a final chord with vicious emphasis and sat back with a sigh of relief. Her gaze wandered over the sparse gathering and became focussed on a tall figure which had just appeared in the doorway. Brian Marlowe, as if drawn by her regard, turned his head and looked unsmilingly at her.
Dinah wrenched her eyes away and found that her heart had begun to thump unevenly. I shall be as shaky as Miss Margetson now, she thought disgustedly; the next dance should be a riot. What had brought him here, anyway? Surely he had not expected to find Laura Grey treading the light fantastic amongst this gathering . . .
A crash of thunder which seemed completely overhead made her jump. There was a chorus of squeaks from the assembly, and Miss Margetson turned on Dinah a face of pale green determination.
‘I’m going home,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘If I don’t I shall be sick.’
‘Can you go alone?’
‘My friend is here. He’s got the car. Oh . . .’
She hastily put her violin into its case and made for the door.
‘Gone, has she?’ remarked the Master of Ceremonies, coming over to Dinah. ‘Will you carry on, or what? Strikes me we might as well pack up. Not that she’s any great loss. That last one was like a bee on a hot shovel.’
‘Thunder upsets her,’ explained Dinah.
‘You’re telling me!’ said the MC.
He cast an eye over the hall, saw that two or three groups were making preparations to leave, and reached a decision.
‘Last waltz!’ he roared, in the voice of a bull. ‘Take your partners, ladies and gents, for the last waltz.’
‘Bit early, ain’t it, Teddy?’ objected a plaintive voice.
‘Early enough if you want to get home with a dry shirt, my son,’ the MC retorted. ‘Now then — drum effects supplied by the elements. What more do you want?’
Mechanically, Dinah strummed out the waltz from ‘Bittersweet’. The MC left her side, clasped a stout lady to his chest and revolved with her. The thunder crashed, and as it faded gave place to a new sound — the rattle of monstrous raindrops on the roof.
‘Too late, Billy,’ said a youth, laughing heartily.
‘I might ha’ knowed,’ said Billy resignedly.
Dinah, pressing the well-known chords, became conscious that Brian was crossing the room towards her. She played more loudly against the increasing clamour of the rain.
‘Dinah,’ said Brian at her side.
‘I can’t talk when I’m playing.’
‘Very well. I can wait.’
He seated himself on the edge of the platform. She played on, conscious in every fibre of his nearness.
With relief, she repeated the refrain for the last time, slowed the tempo, and stopped. Responsive to the MC’s nod she broke immediately into ‘God save the King’.
She took her time over collecting her music and closing the piano. People were crowding to the door, looking out at the rain and uttering dismayed comments. Dinah and Brian were, to all intents and purposes, alone.
‘The car’s outside,’ he said, when she could no longer delay turning to face him. ‘I’ll run you back.’
Dinah recalled her last trip with him and thought bitterly that walking through the storm would be preferable.
‘It’s very good of you,’ she said distantly, ‘but—’
She broke off suddenly. For the first time she had seen him closely, and resentment faded in a shocked pity. A queer grey shadow hung over his face; his eyes were darkly ringed, and even his lips had lost their colour. The good looks remained; Brian could never appear other than a matinee idol, but this was a matinee idol face to face with tragedy.
She said impulsively, ‘Brian. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘Why?’ He spoke, she thought, defensively, but without anger.
‘You’re the most peculiar colour. And you look half dead.’
‘Thunder. I’ve a filthy headache, but I shan’t pass out on you. Are you coming? Even my company should be preferable to a soaking.’
‘Very well,’ said Dinah. She added, after a pause, ‘Thanks. It’s very kind of you.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? For God’s sake, don’t bother to be polite. I know what you think of me, and I don’t blame you. Let’s skip it and go.’
She glanced at his altered face, opened her lips and closed them again without speaking. They went out together.
The violence of the rain had somewhat abated, and there was a general movement along the dark and narrow path which led to the road where Brian’s car was standing beneath the dripping trees. The air was fresher, with a new scent rising from the drowned grass, and in the western sky another flash of lightning pierced the night.
They got in without speaking, while the thunder, farther off now, rumbled menacingly. As they started off, the rain, as if refreshed by its rest, poured down with renewed violence. Peering ahead, Dinah could see nothing but the torrent cascading over the windscreen.
‘Damn,’ muttered Brian. The car swerved, skidded, bumped on to the bank and down again, and was still.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dinah, raising her voice against the clamour of the rain.
‘Windscreen wiper out of action. It is all this dry spell. I can’t see a thing. We were on the bank then.’
‘l guessed that much. What will you do?’
‘Hang on until the rain stops. It’s only a storm. Sorry but I can’t help it.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Dinah.
There was a pause. Enclosed by the streaming darkness, she was again vividly conscious of his presence. Brian. Brian, who had brought her happiness and pain. The dark figure, so close that the warmth of his arm was communicated to her own, and she could feel every movement of his breathing. The bundle of emotions so securely enclosed that even here, in their close and complete seclusion, she could have no inkling of what his thoughts might be. Some inexplicable urge had brought him in search of her, after weeks of neglect; here they were, together again, as they had been so often in the past. Yet there was no happy communion of the spirit. Their bodies might be warmly touching, but loneliness enveloped her, so that she felt cold, lost, and afraid. She shivered suddenly and felt tears prick her eyes.
‘Cold?’ asked Brian.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and put his arm around her, quite gently. Her head fell against his shoulder as if it belonged there; for a moment the old and lovely sensation of utter contentment was hers again. Then, like a dream, it had gone.
She stiffened and pulled herself away. Instantly he withdrew his arm.
‘Like that?’ he said, in a queer voice. ‘Well — I might have expected it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Dinah untruthfully. Most unfairly, she felt a sense of guilt. Brian had come to her, hurt and unhappy, and pride had made her add to his hurt.
‘Brian . . .’ she began, throwing pride to the winds.
A crash of thunder drowned her voice. He started the car.
‘We’ll risk it,’ he said in his normal tone.
They drove on unsteadily through the streaming rain.
* * *
The thunder passed over at last, but the rain continued. It filled the ditches, so long dry, until they overflowed and made rivers of the lanes. It found a weak place in the thatch of Corpse Path Cottage and made its way through the ceiling and down the wall. Cruelly, by force of violence, it beat down the standing corn. And it fell upon something lying limply outstretched by the entrance to the little wood, washing the stain from the pale hair, a
nd soaking it into the ground.
CHAPTER XIV
‘FIVE WICKS,’ SAID MRS COSSETT gloomily, ‘and what to do wi’ you all that time I do not know.’
‘If we lived in Lake—’ began Johnny, morosely giving utterance to his theme song.
‘Well, we don’t, so for God’s sake stop kippin’ on about it,’ snapped his mother. She spoke with unwonted asperity, for, dearly as she loved her son, to have him under her feet for the five weeks of the summer holiday was a severe test of her devotion. Johnny absent during the day made the heart grow fonder than Johnny on the spot — or than Johnny released from school and wandering free to find the mischief ever present for his idle hands to do.
‘What school teachers want wi’ these ’ere dratted long hollerdays beats me,’ said Mrs Cossett, peevishly voicing the classic grievance of those who do not teach. ‘Taint as if they worked — not to call it work — while they be in school. And for how long? Five hours a day! — and that’s what we pay rates for.’
Johnny remained unmoved. He had no desire to take up the cudgels on behalf of his pastors and masters, but on the other hand he did not himself feel that a holiday of five weeks was a day too long. The holiday itself might not be all enjoyment, but its close meant a return to school, and this he anticipated without enthusiasm.
‘Be you going to Miss Marlowe?’ he asked.
‘Course I be. ’Tis Thursday, bain’t it?’
‘Ah.’ A gleam of pleasure lit Johnny’s ruffianly countenance. ‘Gimme sixpence.’
‘What for?’
‘Ice cream,’ replied her son briefly.
Mrs Cossett opened her purse and found the sum required.
Johnny dispensed with thanks, placed it in his pocket, and lurched towards the door.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’ demanded Mrs Cossett. ‘Ice cream van won’t be ’ere, not afore eleven. Taint no more than ten to nine now.’
‘I know that, don’t I? So what? I’m going round to Ken Marsh. Maybe,’ said Johnny, sneering, ‘him an’ me can do somethin’ to liven up this joint.’
‘Don’t you get up to no nonsense,’ said his mother warningly, ‘else yer dad will leather the lights out o’ you.’
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