“It's not as if it was doing any good hanging up in your closet,” Nina said. “After all – the condition your hands get into with your flowers –” She turned and looked at her sister, and her young forehead wrinkled. “You never go any place that matters.”
Lucy said nothing.
“Oh, Lucy – can't you see what I mean? It's different for someone like you. But I've got to have some fun. If you'd ever go out and meet people – if you'd ever in your life met a man like Steve Lassiter for instance, you'd know what I mean.”
Lucy opened the screen door and paused, holding her basket by her side. Her large eyes were calm. There was relaxation in her face, partly amused, partly affectionate, as she regarded her sister.
“I've already met him, Nina,” she said, and then she went into the darkness of the hall and let the door fall shut behind her.
AS SOON as Lucy entered the house she heard the sounds of Jane's piano. The opening bars of the slow movement of the Apassionata broke into the stillness. Jane was playing to herself. The rich cellar tones of the first bars vibrated through the dark interior air, and the moment Lucy heard them, she knew her older sister was disturbed by something.
Lucy carried her basket down the narrow hall to the kitchen, closed the door behind her, and began to prepare lunch. She arranged the food on a tray: a bowl of salad, a plate of bread and butter, three glasses of milk, three bowls of fresh berries with cream and sugar. Jane was still playing when she opened the door, ready to call her sisters. It was strange music for a summer day, but natural enough for Jane. In spite of her efforts to appear like everyone else, to think, say, and do nothing which the better people in Grenville would not consider completely normal, Jane had always seemed to Lucy a strange woman. The music continued, and with it the revelation of a deep, indignant passion of which Jane herself was obviously unaware.
Lucy leaned against the kitchen door and listened while the sombre chords throbbed through the house. She could see her sister's back rising stiffly from the piano stool in the living room where she gave her lessons. She was a small woman, neat, very plainly dressed, and she looked considerably older than her thirty-seven years. Hearing the music, noting how well she played Beethoven, Lucy marvelled for the thousandth time that it was possible for Jane to love music so much and still to consider that in itself music was not particularly important. Sometimes she even told the parents of her pupils that music lessons were useful because they kept small boys from wasting their time in the streets.
Since the death of the girls’ father, Jane had been the principal support of the family. She believed quite simply that her father had been one of the best men who ever lived, and she felt that few people had appreciated him. Yet, Lucy had always suspected, Jane's genuine love and devotion for her father were the main reasons why she disliked and despised men in general, for in her heart Jane must have known that she had more real force and practical sense than John Knox Cameron had ever had. Living in a small town, she judged the entire male sex by the specimens of it she found in Grenville, and she knew that in a contest of wills not one of them could stand up against her. Jonathan Eldridge, the lawyer; Jim Craig, the factory manager; Donald Fraser, the doctor; Dr. Grant, the minister – these and all the others had to be humoured by women, made to feel important by women, led surreptitiously by the nose for their own good by women. Yet Jane had never uttered a single word against men in general and would have condemned any other woman who did. The memory of her father remained sacrosanct with her. She was sure he had recognized her ability and put a special trust in her because the girls’ mother – at least, so Jane thought – had been a frail and rather timid woman. When John Knox died, Jane felt that the family and the house had been left to her as a special trust.
She struck out the final chords. Her hands dropped to her lap and for a moment she sat erect looking up at the over-sized, walnut-framed print of The Light of the World which hung against the tan wallpaper above the piano. Then she laid her music aside and with a brisk movement covered the keys. She swung around on the stool, saw Lucy at the door, and rose.
“You should have told me lunch was ready,” she said.
“There's no hurry. I enjoy listening to you.”
“Well, you've heard me often enough.” Jane crossed the floor. “Where's Nina?”
“She was outside on the lawn fifteen minutes ago.”
“I must say,” Jane remarked as she mounted the narrow stairs that bounded one side of the hall, “two years of college have made Nina lose whatever sense of time she ever had. She's never ready for anything any more. I don't know what Father would have said.”
Jane kept on talking, but the rest of her words were lost as she rounded the corner into the upper hall.
Long before Nina appeared, Lucy and Jane were sitting in their deck chairs in the back garden on either side of a round wooden table under an apple tree. The lunch rested on the table. Heat brooded in the garden, which ran in a long rectangle behind the house, bounded by high hedges. In one corner at the back of the garden was a small greenhouse. It was in this garden that Lucy grew her best flowers, the ones for which she sometimes won prizes. White and carmine phlox dominated the beds, the yellow of hyperion lilies glowed at rhythmic intervals between them, there were clusters of snapdragon, nicotiana drooped closed against the sun, and here and there cerise splashes of clarkia balanced the blue of larkspur. In a separate bed four dozen rose bushes stood in solitude showing only a few between-season buds, and petunias bounded a modest kitchen garden near the house.
Jane's fingers drummed idly on the table. “I can't imagine what's keeping her.” And then, a few minutes later, “There's terrible news in the paper this morning. I can't bear reading it.” And a moment later, “We're so lucky here. We've never really wanted for anything, have we? Who would have thought one could count on having so many music pupils in Grenville?” A cicada screamed in the vacant field behind the garden. “Father was right. He knew if we stayed together we'd manage.”
Lucy sat in silence. Glancing at her sister's face, she wondered with mild curiosity what thoughts had troubled her when she was playing Beethoven, but at this moment Jane's face had no marked expression, and whatever it was, she had probably forgotten all about it now. Her nose and chin were somewhat pointed, her mouth small and straight. Her features were sharp enough to give her an air of decision, though they were not gaunt. Her dark hair, severely drawn back, formed a widow's peak at the top of the forehead. It was a heart-shaped face, and a vain woman would have made much of it. But nothing about Jane invited admiration; everything about her demanded respect.
“I saw Uncle Matt today,” Lucy said.
“Where did you see him?”
“In town. He's lost his job, I'm afraid.”
Jane's lips pursed, but she said nothing.
“He told me he intends to go north again.”
“That disgusting, dirty old man!”
“Jane,” Lucy said quietly, “he's not that. You know he's not.”
“I think it would be just as well if you took care not to be seen with him anywhere in town.” Her voice dropped and became quite calm. She sounded like a sensible, pleasantly reasonable woman. “After all, everybody knows what kind of a man he is. It's not our fault that he happens to be connected with us, but it would be just as well if people weren't reminded of it. After all, my work depends to a great extent on what people think of us.” In a moment, she added, “You know, Lucy, you read too many novels. I don't think it's good for you to read so much. You seem to think Uncle Matt is interesting because he's like those disgusting characters so many American writers are putting into their books these days. Real life is not like that – not even in the States.”
Lucy was silent as restlessness broke over her in waves. She remembered what McCunn had told her. Incongruously, she remembered the bold expression on Lassiter's face. And for an instant, as she glanced at Jane, she thought in sudden terror that in ten years she herself mi
ght look like her sister.
“There's something I've been wanting to ask you,” Lucy said slowly. “That field behind the garden – you know it hasn't been used for years. I'm sure I could rent it. It wouldn't cost much.”
“What do you want it for?”
“It's good land. I've tested it. For about a quarter of a mile along this section of the shore the land is really marvellous. I've often wondered why houses were built on land so rich. If that field could be ploughed and harrowed it would make a wonderful cutting garden.”
Jane became quietly intent, and Lucy knew she was on the defensive. These two sisters understood each other more by felt undertones than by the actual words they used.
“But what on earth could you do with more flowers than you've got?”
“I could sell them.”
“But anyone who wants flowers in Grenville has his own garden.”
“I was thinking of selling them in Toronto.”
Jane smiled. “Really, Lucy, to hear you talk a person would think we were desperately poor. I know we have to be careful, but after all!”
Lucy heard crickets chirping among the flowers. She saw the white blossoms of the nicotiana closed against the light and drooping on their stems. She felt the pressure of her sister's will like a physical weight against her own. It had always been like this. First her father, and then Jane. They had always had their own idea of her. They had also had their own idea of themselves.
“We've got years to look forward to, Jane. It's quite silly of me to go on growing flowers just as a hobby when I know I can do so much more.” She began to speak more quickly. “It wouldn't change anything, you know. I'd start very gradually. But flowers sell for large prices now, and it would be simple to ship them from here to commercial florists in the city. I could get a man to help me with the heavy work. I've really thought it all out.”
Jane's fingers continued to drum on the table. “Have you thought out where to get the money?”
“If it was successful it would pay for itself.”
Jane smiled again. “Oh, Lucy, as if you knew anything about business! Even Father lost money buying land. And look what happened to Uncle Matt! No, Lucy – really!”
Lucy leaned back in her chair. It was not necessary to mention that the initial outlay for this project would have to be advanced by Jane. They both knew it. It was not necessary to mention that it was impossible for Lucy to obtain another kind of job in Grenville. They both knew that, too.
“You mustn't let yourself worry just because you don't happen to be bringing in any money,” Jane said. “You've made this garden very nice. People always admire it when they see it.”
Lucy's face looked tranquil, but Jane was aware that she had not yet won a victory.
“You know,” she said, “if there was money to be made in a business like that in Grenville, someone else would have thought about it long ago.”
Again Lucy remembered the bold, alien self-confidence she had seen in Lassiter's face. A flash of rebellion shot through her.
“We don't have to be so cautious! We really don't. Other people aren't.”
Jane smiled, and her voice still sounded quiet and pregnant with common sense.
“But Lucy – we aren't other people, are we? We're just three women. Mr. Eldridge told me the insurance statistics prove that more than eighty per cent of women lose every cent that's left to them within four years. It's seven years since Father passed away and we're still as well off as we were then. That's only because we've been careful.”
A cicada screamed. There was a sudden clawing at the screen of the back door and Pan came out, followed immediately by the cat, and finally by Nina. Nina was brushing back her yellow hair with one hand. Her cheeks looked as if she had just rubbed them with a towel. Her lips were less natural in their rosiness. Seeing her, Jane turned with relief to a problem more specific.
“It would be easier for Lucy if you'd be on time now and then.”
Nina collapsed into the third deck chair. “Salad again today?”
Jane picked up her napkin. “And another thing. I wish you wouldn't use all that lipstick. It really isn't nice.”
“Oh, Jane!”
“Nina, you know I practically never speak about it. But if anyone else had as much on as you have now, people would think she looked cheap. Besides, it stains the glasses and dirties the napkins and makes everything quite disgusting. Lucy has to wash and wash them.”
Nina glanced at Lucy's natural lips, only faintly coloured by the noon sun. “Oh, well, the colour does come out, doesn't it?”
Jane picked up her plate and began to eat. After a few bites of her salad she put it down again and spoke in her mild voice. She smiled at Nina as she did so. “Do you remember that girl who was Mr. Eldridge's secretary a few years ago? The first girl in Grenville who painted her nails? I must admit at the time I thought some people made too much of it, but look what happened to her!” Jane glanced toward Lucy, who now became aware that she was being addressed as well as Nina. “A lot of books these days make fun of people like us, but we'll soon see who was right and who was wrong. The world has changed a lot less than some of these clever people think it has. You know, Father never objected to people smoking, but he used to say that his experience in the schools had made him absolutely certain of one thing. The first boy who smoked cigarettes in any class always went to the bad. It was one of those little things you could be absolutely sure of.”
Jane began to eat. Nina scrambled out of her chair and served herself with a large wooden spoon and fork. Her easy, rhythmic restlessness was all the more vivid against Jane's preciseness and Lucy's physical calm.
“Cheese again,” Nina said. Before Jane could make a remark she went on, “I'm not complaining about it. It's just that I don't like cheese and Lucy knows it.”
She hunched forward on the edge of her chair, holding the plate on her knees. Her hair fell forward as she put a forkful of salad into her mouth with no regard for Jane's twinge of discomfort as she did so.
“Umm, this isn't bad!” she said in pleased surprise. “What did you season it with?”
Silence fell as they went on eating; silence the more complete because it was filled with the multitudinous insect noises of a summer noon. A bee circled into the salad bowl, balanced on the edge for a moment, then shot away toward the flowers. Lucy's eye followed its flight, lost it as its colour blended into the bell of an hyperion lily. Her eyes continued to rest on the garden. Now all the thoughtless world was busy fulfilling innumerable life-cycles, most of them with such savage cruelty that Jane would have been appalled if she understood what they meant. Lucy watched the lilies eager toward the sun, the nicotianas standing in the heat like white-faced women with closed eyes, the phlox crowding each other in their struggle to live. It was odd that gardening was supposed to be the gentle occupation. Any garden was an arena of frantic strife. She thought of the armies of ants that carried aphids down to the queen at the roots of the rose bush so that she had to destroy the ants, and then destroy the remaining aphids with nicotine. She herself had poisoned more living organisms than Nero had ever dreamed of.
Her eyes came back to Jane, who now was talking about the public library. Jane was on the library committee and she took her duties seriously. Nothing about Jane seemed more remarkable to Lucy than the way in which she got on with people in the town. They thought of her as a quiet woman who knew her own mind; a woman of excellent good sense. With strangers Jane was always tactful. She had a real skill in suggesting her wishes to other people so indirectly that they thought them their own.
“I've got to find a way of getting someone to second my motion in the committee,” Jane was saying. “Nobody ever seems to want to make the first move. And what can you do with a man like Dr. Grant? He says there's no harm in modern novels. Of course there's no harm for him. My point is that they're a waste of money for a library like ours. Nowadays all the decent novels are badly written, and all the well-written
ones are indecent.”
“Jane,” Lucy murmured, “you're being ridiculous!”
Her sister seemed not to hear. It was strange, Lucy thought, it was incredible to remember that Jane was only thirty-seven. She wondered how old her sister felt.
Nina was leaning back in her deck chair with both hands clasped behind her head, looking up at a solitary cloud. It was like a furry white cat, sleeping huge and upside down in a lake of blue. Nina had not appeared to be listening, but in the silence which followed Jane's final remarks she spoke casually. “What was that novel you were reading last week, Lucy? Something by Aldous Huxley. I took a look at it myself, and I must say!”
Lucy leaned back in her chair and her eyes also sought the cloud.
“What must you say, Nina?”
Jane finished her salad and leaned forward to put her plate on the table. “Oh come, Nina! After all, Lucy is practically twenty-eight. I don't like the books she reads, but – one book I absolutely insist that we get for the library is that new life of Lord Tweedsmuir. Dr. Grant was telling me about it only last Sunday, and…”
Neither Nina nor Lucy appeared to have any thoughts on John Buchan whose stately and inexorable progress from a Scottish manse to the House of Lords and the Governor-General's mansion in Ottawa seemed to Jane a justification of her own father's entire point of view.
“He proved that a man can be a great writer today without even mentioning sex.”
She continued to talk, and further details of Lord Tweedsmuir's greatness took their place in the garden along with the slow hum of the insects, the twitching of the cat's ears, and the noiseless, countless, senseless crawling of microscopic life along the stalks of the plants and the grass.
“Jane?” Nina said after a bit. “You know that blue chiffon dress of Lucy's?”
Jane indicated that she did.
“Well –” Nina hesitated. As Lucy seemed to be paying no attention, she grinned mischievously. “Well, I simply have to have a new dress and I don't want to be spending any more of your money.”
The Precipice Page 7
