Long Summer Day (A Horseman Riding By)

by R. F Delderfield

  They set off together for the nearest farm but this proved all of three miles and when they got there the farmer, an unobliging fellow, declared that he had a market-day ahead of him and needed a fresh team for the twenty-mile journey to and from the city. He sent them on to another farm but they could get no response to their knocking and as it was now past eleven o’clock Grace said they had better return to the car and try in the opposite direction at dawn. She made very light of their dilemma, although Roddy was depressed by it and a little anxious about her reputation. When he mentioned this, however, she laughed and told him not to be stuffy, adding that both Paul and John would rejoice in the triumph of horse over motor.

  Fortunately it was a fine night, with stars blazing and no breeze but under the trees, where they had left the Benz, it was pitch dark and they had to grope their way down the long lane towards the owlish glimmer of the lamps. All the way Roddy stammered apologies; he was an idiot, he ought to have set out before; he ought to have been capable of restarting the blasted car; she would think him a fine kind of escort to get her stranded in this ridiculous fashion, until at last she said, ‘Oh, stop accusing yourself, Roddy! It’s my fault as much as yours and anyway, I don’t care that much! It’s a long time since I had any kind of adventure and if you want the truth I’m rather enjoying it.’

  He was very thoughtful at this, interpreting it as meaning she found little joy in her life at Shallowford, or in marriage to that hectoring fellow Craddock who was such a crashing bore about politics. His experience with women, although fairly wide, did not include anyone like Grace who was calm, competent and beautiful but also so much wiser than any of the girls he had met voyaging round the Empire. She was essentially English but without the helplessness or the coyness of the average English country girl. She treated him as an equal but she did not try to flirt with him, as so many married women had done in the past and she was, moreover, genuinely interested in the really important things of life, such as petrol-driven engines and heavier-than-air-machines. Looking back on the past two weeks it seemed to Roddy that they had known one another for years, that she was a kind of heaven-sent sister, but a sister who was able to disturb him in a way he had not yet been disturbed by a pretty woman. She had a stillness that he had not found in another human being, man or women, and also a self-sufficiency that, in most girls, would have intimidated him but in her could be dissolved by a single light-hearted remark so that she was both attainable and unattainable. He could even marry a woman like that and decided that Craddock, who did not seem to appreciate her uniqueness, did not deserve his luck. He supposed she had married him for his money and he did not blame her for that, for he too intended to marry for money and yet, as he continued to reflect on their relationship as man and wife, he could not help wondering whether Craddock would be capable of rousing her as he felt himself capable of doing, given the opportunity.

  His musings had made him very thoughtful during their progress back to the car and it was only when they arrived there, and had made one more unsuccessful attempt to start the engine, that he realised the open Benz would afford inadequate shelter for the night and suggested sitting under the bank and lighting a fire to ward off the night chill. She said this was a good idea but that it had better be at a safe distance from the car. A hundred yards back they had passed a shelter of the kind used by sportsmen on a winter shoot and she suggested they should return there and seek help at first light. He was just the slightest bit shocked by this suggestion but accepted it eagerly enough so they took the unscrewed lamp and retraced their steps to a three-sided shelter built on the edge of a wood above the level of the road. Here, in the glow of the lamp, they got a small fire going and in its light saw that the hide was carpeted with dry bracken. They went inside, sitting with their backs to the log wall and watching the fire flicker in the opening. She refused the loan of his coat, declaring that she was quite warm and when he suggested that she should try and sleep she said that she did not feel sleepy and would rather talk. As she said this she came a little closer to him, leaning some of her weight on his shoulder, so that he began to think benignly of the obstinate ignition of the Benz.

  She had taken off her hat, tying her scarf about her neck and the scent of her hair mingled with the pleasant tang of resin and burning twigs, so that he found it very easy to convince himself that all she awaited was his seizure of the initiative. Yet the courage to take it eluded him and he wondered if he was losing his touch, as they talked of one thing and another and the scent of her hair stole upon him like incense, so that he found himself growing vague and leaving her questions unanswered. At last, when the fire had burned low, he made a rather clumsy essay to get things going. Turning, he tilted her chin and kissed her lips. He kissed them expertly, or so he thought, but the kiss did not seem to give him the license he needed, so he kissed her again, this time extending his arm round her shoulder and slipping his hand under her breast. Gently she disengaged herself saying, with laughter in her voice, ‘You can have my lips, Roddy, but no more! I’m very comfortable here and not inclined to spend the remainder of the night wrestling with you!’

  He was very piqued at this, muttering, ‘I don’t know what to make of you, Grace! You put a fellow in an intolerable situation!’ and she laughed again, saying, ‘Come, be fair, Roddy! I didn’t get us in this situation, I’m just making the best of it, so why don’t you?’

  ‘Because you obviously don’t intend to let me,’ he said, his sense of humour reasserting itself.

  ‘No, I don’t, Roddy, but not for my sake, or even Paul’s.’

  ‘Whose then?’

  ‘For yours and your father’s.’

  ‘Now where the devil does the Guv enter into it?’

  ‘Because he’s proud of you and very fond of Paul! In addition, he doesn’t wholly approve of me although I believe he is beginning to!’

  ‘Then he must be senile,’ Roddy said, ‘because any man between twenty and sixty ought to approve of you! I did, the moment I set eyes on you and now … well, now I’m very much in love with you, Grace!’ He felt her shrink a little at this so he went on, hurriedly, ‘I know I don’t stand any sort of chance and that you aren’t in the least in love with me but you can’t blame a chap wanting to make something of an opportunity like this! I’ve never met anyone the least bit like you before, Grace.’

  He waited, feeling that he had said enough and she was silent for some time. Finally she said, ‘You aren’t in the least in love with me, Roddy! Paul is, but you aren’t and I don’t think you’ll be capable of loving anyone until you’re about thirty-five! Then you might, when you’ve had your fill of gadding about. You might even make someone a very charming husband!’

  ‘How can you know that?’ he demanded, irritably.

  ‘How? I imagine because I’ve never been in love myself and that gives me a rather special kind of detachment. I made a misjudgement, Roddy, and my only excuse is that I didn’t, as you probably imagine, marry Paul for money. I really did think myself capable of making a success of it and in a way I suppose I have, or still could! What I won’t do, however, is to make a fool of him the conventional way, or console myself by imagining that I can still try elsewhere and involve somebody I like, such as you. You don’t understand love, Roddy. You could make love to me here, and persuade yourself it was extra-physical, and as for me, well—I’m sensual enough to enjoy it more than you but what could it lead to but self-deception on your part and cheapness on mine? No, Roddy, my dear, we shall have to behave I’m afraid, whether we like it or not!’ and she settled herself comfortably against his shoulder and half-closed her eyes, looking out at the dull glow of the fire and the blue blackness of the trees on the opposite bank.

  Her bland summarisation had a finality that divorced this from any parallel situation in his past. He had never thought deeply about anything but her honesty appealed so strongly to his commonsense that he remained silent, and present
ly (incredibly when he looked back on the occasion) he dozed but she remained awake, half-aware of the night scuffles of hunters in the wood behind them and the blaze of stars in the gap of sky between the belts of trees. She thought, ‘He’s just another Paul but he’ll never suffer like Paul! All the men I met when I was capable of being hurt were so-called men of the world, who enjoyed putting the screw on women, but now that I have learned to give as good as I get all I meet are boys with men’s bodies! There ought to be some kind of half-way house between these extremes but there isn’t. One has to settle for one or the other. If Paul could see me now he would never believe how innocent Roddy was and would still be if I did let him take me in his arms but thank God he’s kind enough not to exploit the situation.’ She found that she could think of Roddy Rudd objectively, as she had often thought of Paul in the last few months, and of how he would have behaved had she given him the chance. The speculation amused her a little, for Roddy, thinking himself such a ladies’ man, would surely pride himself on a fancied technique but his love-making would probably lack Paul’s masculine approach, which was something she had deliberately fostered knowing that Paul Craddock would always need an injection of confidence in everything he attempted. She half wished it was possible for a woman like herself to experiment with men. It would be interesting, she thought, to really know men, all kinds of men, and acquire knowledge in such a simple way. All they needed to persuade them that they were godlike was a little physical flattery and one could practise in gratifying them in this respect. The fire was a heap of red ash now and disengaging herself from the sleeping Roddy she moved to the entrance of the hut to replenish it, sitting there watching the sky pale and wondering what she should tell Paul and John Rudd of this escapade. Perhaps it would be better to lie and pretend they had spent the night with Roddy’s friend, Branwell. He was an ex-sailor and could easily be persuaded to back the story, and thinking this she was relieved that she would not have to comfort Paul with real lies.

  It was almost light when she heard the far-off jingle of harness and returned to the motor to see a startled carter whose horse had shied at the Benz blocking its path. The man was delighted to accept a half-sovereign for a tow to the main road and she left him attaching a drag rope to the motor. After washing herself in a brook and brushing the bracken fronds from her coat she woke the snoring Roddy.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said, ‘a man is giving us a tow and you can probably get her started when we can get to a slope.’

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes, looking so bemused that she laughed.

  IV

  Paul, although reluctant to admit it, was beginning to be disenchanted with politics. He believed what he preached, and desired most earnestly to send Grenfell to Westminster, but his commonsense bucked at the racket and claptrap of the campaign and the ranting of half-intoxicated supporters of both candidates who swaggered about shouting their silly catch-phrases at one another. The business of government, he told himself, ought not to depend upon this kind of thing, upon the moods and impulses of leather-lunged yokels marching up and down with their banners and chanting doggerel like:

  ‘Vote, vote, vote for Jimmy Gren-felllllll!

  Kick Verne-Jonesy out the door …!’

  But obviously it did so depend, and scenes like this were repeated all over the country at a General Election. Later, he supposed, all the Jimmy Grenfells and Verne-Joneses who had out-shouted and out-postured each other at the hustings forgot their rivalry in the genteel atmosphere of the House of Commons, where real policies were formulated in cold blood. The more strident the campaign became the less he could identify himself with it, and at last he was obliged to carry his misgivings to Grenfell who, as it happened, had a rational explanation on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘It’s simply the price one has to pay for the use of democratic machinery, Paul,’ he said. ‘Under an autocracy you could dispense with it. A man would become one of the legislators by reason of wealth or position in a particular locality but now that all adult males have the vote this farcical nonsense is inevitable! It’s really quite harmless, you know, and it does jolt some of the more thoughtful into making an honest and deliberate choice. I’ve heard people like you ask why we need parties at all or why a man like me can’t judge every issue on its merits but whenever you get more than a score of men together they tend to divide into groups thinking roughly along the same lines. Then, hey presto, you have a political party and all the trimmings!’

  Half satisfied with this Paul went back to his canvassing and stumping, drawing comfort from his belief in James Grenfell’s integrity, for Grenfell did indeed practise restraint, rarely resorting to platform tricks and it now looked as if his careful nursing of the constituency was bearing fruit, for he was said to be leading the Tory Bernard Verne-Jones by a short head and the odds were five to four in favour of a Liberal victory. Once or twice, in his movements about the country, Paul’s path crossed that of Gilroy and on one occasion, on a Paxtonbury market-day, he saw the crusty old patrician drive his brougham through a milling crowd about Martyr’s Cross, on the Cathedral Green. He could not help admiring the old man’s bearing, as contemptuous as that of a French aristocrat in a tumbril. The crowd surrounding the carriage was part hostile and there was a good deal of catcalling and booing but the expression on Gilroy’s face remained impassive. He might, thought Paul, be taking a drive across Blackberry Moor, or paying an afternoon call on a duchess. He sat erect, enclosed in his aloof, glacial cage that was proof against plaudits, and insults. Grenfell, standing beside Paul, said admiringly, ‘Well, Paul, there goes the last of eighteenth-century England! You want to take off your hat to it, don’t you?’

  It was that same day that Paul had his brief and rather mystifying conversation with Farmer Venn, pot-bellied supporter from a farm a mile or so north of the city, whom he had met in the early stages of the campaign. He was eating a sandwich lunch at The Mitre when Venn waddled in, his broad chest half-covered by a huge yellow rosette and he greeted Paul heartily as he ordered ale and pasties.

  ‘A rare ole fix your good lady was in t’other mornin’,’ said Venn jovially. ‘’Er an’ that young shover o’ yourn an’ their ole motor! Crawling along behind Ned Parsons’ cart they was, an’ at two mile an hour all the way to Norton Edge bevore they managed to get ’er goin’! ’Twas news to me you’d got yourself one o’ they old stinkpots, Squire!’

  ‘I hadn’t heard of their breakdown,’ Paul said, so far only slightly puzzled, ‘but I haven’t been home lately. And it isn’t my car, Venn, it belongs to my agent’s son, a naval lieutenant. Where did you see them?’

  ‘Coming up the hill, towards Norton Edge backalong,’ Venn told him. ‘Early on, it was, as I was comin’ in to market, an’ both lookin’ pretty sorry for ’emselves! Tiz a rare come-down to be towed home by a grey mare when they’m all so pleased to talk about “horse-power”, baint it?’

  Having heard nothing about the incident Paul’s impulse was to question Venn further but then it seemed to him that this would make him look ridiculous in Venn’s eyes and perhaps start a rumour about Grace’s relationship with that young idiot, Roddy, so he drank his beer and hurried away but found it difficult to give his mind to the chairmanship of meetings during the afternoon and excused himself at teatime, telling Grenfell that he had an accumulation of work at home and wanted to clear it before preparing for the eve-of-poll meeting.

  He learned, on arrival at the lodge, that Roddy had left for London earlier in the day but Rudd was evasive when he asked about the breakdown, saying, off-handedly, ‘Oh, I believe they had several about the country, Paul. Motors aren’t all that reliable, you know, but I daresay we shall have to have one in the end!’

  ‘Over Snowdrop’s dead body!’ Paul told him and sought out Grace, less disturbed by the realisation that she must have spent a night away from home without telling him than by Rudd’s implied championship of the motor. He found he
r alone in the rose garden, absorbed in her work and when he walked round the lily pond she looked up saying, ‘Hullo! I didn’t expect you until after midnight!’

  ‘I decided to take an evening off,’ he said and wondered how a husband began asking the kind of questions he wanted to ask whilst leaving room to manoeuvre. He said carefully, ‘A farmer came to me today with a silly story about you and Roddy having to be towed home one day last week,’ and found himself watching her eyes for signs of guilt. She gave a shrug and dusted earth from her gardening gloves.

  ‘It wasn’t a silly story, Paul, it was quite true. We were stranded overnight and a cart towed the Benz half-way to Paxtonbury.’

  He was startled and showed it. ‘When was this?’ and she told him last Friday, the night he sent a message saying that he would be staying with Grenfell.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me about it?’

  ‘Why? I suppose partly because I didn’t have a real opportunity, and partly because I thought you might put a wrong construction on it, as you seem to be doing now.’