The Quivering Tree

by S. T. Haymon

  ‘Helen!’ Miss Gosse cried, and then, to me, with that mixture of dismay and indulgent affection which I had come to recognize as her usual reaction to one of Miss Locke’s enormities: ‘Pay no attention, Sylvia. Mr Denver’s an old friend of my father’s. He lives in a hotel at Cromer and he’s coming to see us. It’s only Miss Locke’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘No joking matter.’ Miss Locke shook her head and her short curls jumped about engagingly. She always looked her best in the morning, tending to grow progressively more severe and Ancient Greek as the day wore on. This particular morning she looked particularly good, having herself visited Mr Johnson in Dove Street after school the day before to have her hair cut.

  It was a relief to me that he had done it so well. There could not be many customers in Norwich who wanted their hair cut in Miss Locke’s style, and I had been anxious lest he make a botch of it and I be held responsible. ‘Since he washes your hair so superbly that you turn down all my offers to do it for you for nothing,’ Miss Locke had said in her mocking way, ‘he must be the best hairdresser in town.’

  Thank heaven, he had cut it beautifully. Thank heaven and my father, that is, whom I had asked to put in a private word with God to endow Mr Johnson with the special skills needed to do a good job; Miss Locke, as I was only too well aware, having that disconcerting tendency to put people off their stride. She looked young and mischievous, as if having her hair cut had somehow, at the same time, improved her complexion, which was what usually made her look not exactly secondhand but a bit shopsoiled.

  ‘His name is Mr Maurice Denver,’ she announced. ‘He is handsome, clever, immensely rich, and he has been dying to lay his fortune at Miss Gosse’s feet ever since she was a child, as young as you, if not younger. But always – can you credit it? – the foolish woman has spurned his honourable advances, can you possible think why?’

  ‘Helen!’ Red-faced, Miss Gosse cried out again, her boot-button eyes shining. I was blushing as well, it was something Miss Locke was always making me do, but not out of embarrassment this time, not really: more out of pleasure at being invited in on a family joke. Well fed at last, thanks to Mr Betts’s darling generosity, I had settled down at Chandos House. I had got used to Miss Gosse’s and Miss Locke’s little ways, as I hoped they had got used to mine. After the strains and stresses of school, the prick of ambition, the minefield of play-ground friendships, I rode home each afternoon savouring in advance the gentleness that was left of my day: tea with a favourite book propped against the tea cosy; the garden to wander about in, the piano to play, homework which I enjoyed – being, except for arithmetic, good at school; the quivering leaves, their round faces innocent of guile, welcoming me to my bedroom. It was a peace to which even Mrs Benyon, in her odd way, contributed: an ogress as in the fairy stories, to be kept sweet with frequent poultices of ‘Pale Hands I Loved’ her strange, scented breath puffing over my shoulder.

  I could not tell how clever Mr Denver was just by looking at him, nor how rich, though certainly, with his malacca walking-stick, his shantung suit and his panama hat which had a ridge, very precise, running from front to back across its top, he looked prosperous enough. He did not look at all as if he had just come from Cromer, but rather from much further away – from planting tea in Burma or rubber in Malaya or whatever else they planted in the stories of Somerset Maugham. One thing, however, was beyond question: handsome he was not. Miss Locke must have got him mixed up with someone else, unless, of course, being her, she was jealous that Miss Gosse had a suitor when she had none. On second thoughts, I doubted that she was jealous over Mr Denver who was an old man whose cheeks hung down and whose stomach stuck out, egg-shaped. He moved along the hall polished by Mrs Benyon to an extra degree of slipperiness with careful slowness, shuffling one foot after the other as if he feared to crack the precious shell.

  He relinquished his hat to Miss Locke with some reluctance, I thought, looking quite sad to see it hung up, abandoned, on one of the knobs of the hallstand. I could sympathize with his feelings, for it had given him a certain consequence. Without it he was a king without his crown, his head, for the most part, bald and splodged with large freckles out of each of which a few white hairs sprouted irresolutely, like house plants it was time to harden your heart against and consign to the dustbin since they were beyond help.

  Miss Gosse, who greeted him affectionately and seemed genuinely glad to see him, suggested that I be sent outside to let his chauffeur know that a meal awaited him in the kitchen; but luckily for the chauffeur Mr Denver replied that that would not be necessary. The chauffeur already had his orders, which were to drive the Rolls into the city and procure his lunch there, returning to Chandos House by 2.30 p.m. on the chance that the ladies – ‘and this little lady as well,’ he added, including me with an old-world courtesy which made me quite warm towards him – felt like taking a drive. I was sorry to hear Miss Gosse say it was so hot, they would be better off after luncheon resting in the garden under the shade of the apple trees and having a nice chat about old times, than driving about for the sake of driving. I should have enjoyed telling Alfred that I had been for a drive in a Rolls-Royce.

  Mrs Benyon had outdone herself. The new potatoes, the creamed spinach and the baby carrots that went with the roast lamb tasted so deliciously fresh she must have gone down to the vegetable garden earlier that morning and picked them herself, since Mr Betts did not – officially, at any rate – come in on Saturdays. This surprised me, as I had never before known her to venture further into the garden than the paved area outside the scullery where she hung out her tea-towels and her dusters: but even she, apparently, subscribed to what I had grown up accepting as a Law of the Medes and the Persians – namely, that one went to special trouble for men.

  There was summer pudding to follow – gorgeous, except that I could have done with three times as much as I was offered. However, thanks to Mr Betts I no longer got neurotic about being hungry. More than money was now kept stashed away in the funny little nest of drawers in the bothy. With the gardener’s permission I had cleared the seed packets out of some more drawers to accommodate my stores, and there, I was now comfortably aware, they always awaited me in a moment of need, give or take an occasional bun or biscuit pre-empted by the ingenious mice who knew how to get into drawers that were shut tight and who also called the bothy home. I did not begrudge them their commission. It was heavenly to feel that from now on my lovely victuals were safe, no longer hidden in the book box where Mrs Benyon might come upon them at any time.

  Mr Denver enjoyed his food and did not hesitate to say so. He asked for a second and a third helping of the roast lamb and expressed astonishment at ladies’ bird-like appetites. Heartened by his example I almost opened my mouth to say that I too would like some more, please; but then I saw Miss Gosse and Miss Locke exchanging glances, and my courage failed me.

  After dessert, and as a great treat, coffee was served, though not to me; poured into dear little cups which, it appeared, had been a gift from Mr Denver to the Gosses centuries ago. The sight of them made Mr Denver’s eyes water. ‘How Agnes loved those cups,’ he said, making me wonder if Agnes was the name of Miss Gosse’s mother. Of course I did not dare to ask.

  Whilst they sipped their second cups Miss Gosse suggested that I entertain the company with something on the piano. As both she and Mr Denver seemed in a rather goofy mood of reminiscence and even Miss Locke was smiling at me for once with an expression of unsoured encouragement, I got ‘Clair de Lune’ out of my music case and played that – not very well, often missing a note or two out of chords that have to be played whole or it isn’t moonlight at all but drizzly day. With no more music lessons to keep me up to the mark, since coming to live at Chandos House I practised much less than I had done in St Giles. As I played I felt sad to hear myself slipping away from a standard I had worked hard to achieve: sad for me, sad for Debussy, sad for the clapped-out sound of Miss Gosse’s piano, even sad for Mr Betts who had omitted to
back ‘Clair de Lune’ for a place and lost his money. The odd thing was that all my little sadnesses were somehow so caught up and enmeshed in Debussy’s heavenly notes that, although I played badly, I also played well – something which happens occasionally, especially when you are young, and is one of the mysteries of piano-playing.

  When I had finished Mr Denver clapped his elderly hands together and exclaimed first ‘Bravo!’ and secondly, ‘Encore!’ He was still saying the second when Mrs Benyon came back into the room to ask whether any more coffee was wanted. Feeling bold the way music always emboldened me, I interposed, before Miss Gosse had a chance to answer if they wanted more coffee or not, to say that Mrs Benyon was awfully good at singing ‘Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar’. Though she had told me she never sang anywhere, perhaps she would do it today, just for once, as it was a party.

  ‘“Pale Hands I Loved!”’ Mr Denver echoed. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘How many years is it since I heard anyone sing that!’

  To avoid having to field one of Mrs Benyon’s looks, I concentrated all my attention on fishing ‘Indian Love Lyrics’ out of the piano stool and settling it, open at ‘Pale Hands I Loved’, on the music rack. My back to the room, I began the introduction with no idea of what was going to happen. Not until the last possible moment did I feel the housekeeper’s hands bearing down on my shoulders, making my own hands tremble and my fingers reach for the notes desperately, a charm to deliver me from evil. Her strange scented breath blew lustily past my ear, my nose, before, for once, passing through the mauve-lined fretwork on the front of the instrument, to be absorbed for ever by the felt that coated the tiny hammers within. I was certain that Miss Gosse’s piano would never sound the same again.

  ‘Pale hands, pink-tipped, like lotus-buds that float

  On those cool waters where we used to dwell,

  I would have rather felt you round my throat

  Crushing out life than waving me farewell.’

  Mrs Benyon came to the end of her strange song, her strange, unflinching tones vacating the air with the abruptness of a crocodile snapping its jaws shut. Mr Denver blew his nose again and said ‘Splendid!’ Miss Locke exclaimed in her jolly voice, ‘Mrs Benyon has been hiding her light under a bushel!’ I busied myself with putting the music away, not daring to look round in case the corners of Miss Locke’s mouth were turned down, ironical. If they were, and the housekeeper saw it, I knew that, one way or the other, I would be the one to suffer for it. Miss Gosse said with unaffected enjoyment: ‘That was lovely, Mrs Benyon, and I think we’ve all the coffee we want, thank you.’

  After lunch, Mr Denver went to sleep in the garden. At his request I had brought him his panama hat and his beautiful walking-stick from the hallstand, and he had nervously lowered himself into one of the deckchairs which Miss Gosse, that morning, had set out under the apple trees. Miss Gosse and Miss Locke had accompanied him outside. I stood at the open french window watching, not out of nosiness but because I was, as usual, unsure of what was the right thing to do. Would they think it cheek if I joined them? Would they think me rude if I didn’t? Behind me I could hear Mrs Benyon clearing the table. One thing I was quite sure about not doing, and that was turning round and risking having her speak to me.

  The talk that was going on under the trees seemed desultory and languorous – it was that kind of day, the summer air sparked with insects swerving from here to there and back again as if testing out in a practical way that the square on the hypotenuse really was equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. It wasn’t long before Mr Denver, his hands clasping his stomach like a child’s clasping its teddy bear, was gently snoring. Miss Gosse and Miss Locke conferred together, their foreheads almost touching. They seemed in very good spirits in their flowered dresses, Miss Gosse’s with a lot of frills and fullness, Miss Locke’s straight-skirted with a narrow belt. Then Miss Locke got up from her deckchair and, in exaggerated mime, came tiptoeing over to where I stood looking out.

  ‘Miss Gosse and I are going for a little walk round the garden. If Mr Denver wakes up, call out “Yoohoo” in your most ladylike voice and we’ll come tearing back.’ She put her hand under my chin and brought my face close to hers – not as close as hers had been to Miss Gosse’s, but closer than I cared for. But then, I knew she was short-sighted and had gold-rimmed spectacles which she seldom wore, as I could well understand and sympathize with. They did not go at all well with her Ancient Greek look.

  ‘You little imp!’ Miss Locke said. ‘All these years and we never knew Mrs B sang! How on earth did you find out?’ And when I had explained how the housekeeper had come into the room whilst I was playing and launched into singing without any help from me, ‘You little imp!’ she said again; bent forward and kissed me lightly on the lips before I could find any tactful way of turning my head away. ‘What do you think of Miss Gosse’s sweetheart? Isn’t he yummy? Why on earth doesn’t the woman say yes and put him out of his misery? Don’t forget to yoohoo!’ And she was off, to where Miss Gosse stood waiting for her on the grass, eager, bouncy, like a puppy waiting to be taken walkies.

  I went upstairs to my room and brought down a book to read: Barnaby Rudge, which I had won as a prize at Eldon House the term before I changed schools. It did nothing to stop my being bored and lonely, which was my own fault because it was a book I did not much care for, and I had only picked it out to impress Mr Denver in case he inquired what I was reading and then I could say, looking sweetly demure, ‘Barnaby Rudge, by Charles Dickens.’ I soon put the boring old book down and went outside, walking on the grass as far as I could get from Mr Denver. I did not want to be held responsible for waking him up. I would have popped down the garden and got myself a whipped cream walnut out of the nest of drawers in the bothy, if I hadn’t been afraid of running into the two mistresses. Well, not afraid exactly, but I had, after all, been left on guard. Miss Locke would be sure to say something in her inimitable way about deserting my post.

  There were a lot of windfalls under the trees, and for want of anything better to do I began to kick an apple about very quietly, until it broke open and there were maggots inside. I had squatted down with moderate interest to get a better look at them when Mr Denver called out in his pleasant, old-fashioned voice: ‘Have I stopped you from going out to play with your little friends?’

  ‘Oh no!’ I answered, springing up and bringing out one of my winsome smiles. I would have gone to the edge of the lawn to yoohoo if the old man had not called me back. I explained: ‘Miss Gosse and Miss Locke have gone for a walk in the garden.’

  ‘Capital!’ Mr Denver said. ‘Don’t disturb them on any account. They need the exercise after being cooped up in school all week. In the mean time –’ patting the grass by his side – ‘you and I can have a little conversation. First of all, though –’ With some difficulty and at some risk to the stability of his deckchair he succeeded in getting a hand into his trouser pocket and withdrawing four half-crowns, which he held out to me. ‘Two of these are for you, for playing me such a nice piece so nicely, and two are for Mrs Benyon, for singing and also for cooking such a delicious luncheon. Please give them to her after I have left, with my compliments.’

  A moment earlier I had been wondering what on earth Mr Denver and I were to talk about. But five shillings! Not for the first time I discovered that there was nothing like money to lubricate conversations. We got along like a house on fire.

  Unlike most grown-ups who seemed to think they were showing a praiseworthy interest in children by peppering them with a fusillade of personal questions which they would have accounted a great impertinence if directed at themselves, Mr Denver, it quickly became obvious, proceeded on the assumption that confidences, even those of the most trivial nature, were gifts to be proffered, not forfeits to be demanded willy-nilly. Thus, although he must have known all about the death of my father – it was, after all, the raison d’être for my being at Chandos House in the first place – he ma
de no reference to it, sparing me that display of compassion which grown-ups seemed to consider mandatory; one that demanded in return that I feel instantly guilty for smiling, for laughing, for being alive.

  It hardly seemed possible that such a nice old man could ever have been a great friend of Miss Gosse’s father, that dire image which haunted the drawing-room, a feeling confirmed when Mr Denver mentioned that although he had, of course, been acquainted with the late Mr Gosse – ‘a remarkable man,’ he said, with, it seemed to me, a certain ambiguity – he had known Miss Gosse’s mother better. Having first blown his nose, he said: ‘I knew Miss Gosse’s mother before she was married. We were children together.’

  How romantic! What a darling old man he was!

  Mr Denver continued that he had known Lydia – Miss Gosse – since she was a baby. ‘She is a fine woman.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I agreed enthusiastically. I really did like Miss Gosse, even if not quite as enthusiastically as I made out. But when Mr Denver, though with somewhat less passion, went on to say that Miss Locke also was a fine woman, an awkwardness entered our discourse. In the half-understanding way of children faced with the decoding of adult signals, I became aware that what Mr Denver really wanted was to say something about Miss Gosse in particular relation to myself; something he was having difficulty putting into words.

  To help him over a bad patch I agreed that Miss Locke was a fine woman also.

  ‘She and Miss Gosse have been together for several years now. Miss Gosse is very fond of her.’

  ‘I’m very fond of her too.’

  Too late I saw that this was not the right thing to have said, quite apart from the fact that it was not even true. The best I could have said about Miss Locke, truthfully, was that she was all right. I was, however, too shy to make a correction. Besides, it would have made me look such a fool.