Long Summer Day (A Horseman Riding By)

by R. F Delderfield

  Paul himself was not surprised by the news. It had been obvious from the first days of her sojourn among them that Maureen O’Keefe had bewitched the agent, who had trotted up and down the Valley behind her like a big collie, blind to the smirks and deaf to the innuendos of his beloved’s patients. The doctor made a great joke out of his subjection, sniping at her fiancé’s dignity without mercy but in some mysterious way warming a place for him in the hearts of tenants and their dependants. As soon as John had proposed she drove up and down the Valley broadcasting the news like a town-crier and very soon, on a sunny September morning, the marriage was solemnised in the parish church. Every pew was crammed and the entire population of Coombe Bay, including freeholders who had no dealings with the groom, assembled in the churchyard to witness the event. The bride arrived in the Squire’s waggonette, attended by a male cousin and the two Derwent girls as bridesmaids, for Maureen O’Keefe, declaring that she had never expected to be a bride, had announced that she intended making the most of the occasion and doing the Valley full justice.

  Paul was already inside with the groom and much relieved to get him there, for John’s natural phlegm had basely deserted him when Paul called at the lodge an hour before the ceremony. In the act of fastening his high collar the agent had dropped both hands and exclaimed, ‘Damn it, this is bloody ridiculous at my age! Why can’t we slip out of the Valley and marry in the Paxtonbury Registry Office?’ Paul had replied, laughing in spite of himself, ‘Look here, John, it’s her day and you damned well do as you’re told! As soon as you’re properly dressed I’ll get you a stiff drink and the moment Parson smells it he’ll gabble through the service at top speed in order to get across to the house and drink his quota!’

  After his favourite toddy John calmed down somewhat and as there was time to spare he sat on the edge of a chair puffing away at his pipe and ruminating on the present situation in terms of mild astonishment.

  ‘Now who the devil would have thought of anything like this that day I waited for you to get off that London train, Paul? Did you know that I hated you before I set eyes on you? And I made sure the first thing you would do was send me packing? Damn it, it’s like a crazy fairy-tale and this is a fitting climax I must say! Me, sitting here in a frock coat and a Come-to-Jesus collar, waiting for you to steer me down the aisle and be sniggered at by every yokel for miles around!’

  ‘Well, it’s improbable, I’ll grant you that,’ Paul admitted, ‘but as for getting married in a registry office you thank your stars you didn’t! I have no choice in the matter, for the Church won’t marry a divorced man and that’s a big disappointment for Claire, I can tell you. I daresay she’ll be thinking of it today and I wouldn’t wonder if she doesn’t plague me to have a go at Parson Bull about it if we ever get around to marrying.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll marry the girl all right,’ said John, ‘and if you ask me …’ but Paul decided this was not the time to involve the nervous groom in his own problems and said quickly, ‘Will you have one more before we leave?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ said John, ‘for God knows I need it,’ and then, glancing at his watch, called to Chivers who was waiting with the trap in the drive and asked if he thought the cob would make it comfortably in under the half-hour. Paul said, ‘Were you as jumpy as this on your first wedding-day, John?’ and the remark must have steadied the older man for he smiled, relit his pipe and replied, ‘Do you know, I’m hanged it I can remember? I’ve been trying to ever since I woke up this morning but I can’t, it’s all too long ago—three years before you were born!’

  ‘And that’s strange too,’ Paul said, ‘for I seem to have known you all my life, John,’ and he poured himself another small drink to make up for the groom’s excessively large one.

  ‘There is one thing I would like to say,’ John said, suddenly, ‘and since we’ve still got five minutes I’ll say it before we get caught up in the clamour awaiting us yonder. You aren’t under any obligation to renew my contract. I told Maureen only the other day that you don’t really need me any longer and you could save yourself three hundred a year and plough it back into the estate. I’d manage well enough, I’ve saved, you know—and my first wife left me a little money. I wouldn’t be idle either. I can always drive Maureen around and do her accounts.’

  ‘You’d prefer that?’ Paul said, looking at him sharply, and John said, ‘Well, no, I don’t say I’d prefer it but …’

  ‘Then don’t make a fool of yourself on your wedding-day! I can afford three hundred a year and anyway you earn it and always have! I’ve got plans for next year, John, and you’re included in them. It wouldn’t be the same without you. You’re the best friend I ever had and certainly the most honest!’

  ‘Thank you, my boy,’ John said sincerely, ‘you couldn’t have said anything more calculated to steady me!’ and raising his glass, added, ‘I daresay there’ll be a lot of gaff talked before the day is out, Paul, but this is my toast—to you and what you stand for in the Valley!’ and as though fearful of seeming over-sentimental he tossed down the drink, cleared his throat, picked up his hat and gloves and marched out into the drive where Chivers helped him on to the box as though he had been a chronic invalid.

  The gathering in the big marquee erected in the paddock was the most representative since the Coronation soirée four years before and many of those present recalled as much. There were over sixty official guests and about a hundred unofficial ones but after the first glass of champagne, and the cutting of a spectacular cake baked by Mrs Handcock, the two categories intermingled for this was as much a Shallowford event as the wreck and the funeral of Tamer Potter that had followed it.

  All the farmers, their families and employees, were present and most of the estate and Coombe Bay craftsmen and fishermen, and when the honeymoon drag arrived from Whinmouth to convey the couple to Sorrel Halt everybody surged into the forecourt for the send-off. By this time, however, several casks of beer had been broached and many of the unofficial guests, together with several of the official ones like Henry Pitts, were in fine fettle. The bride’s appearance on the porch steps was the signal for so much scuffling and shouting that the beribboned greys harnessed to the drag would have bolted had it not been for Sam Potter and young Willoughby, who hung on the reins and shouted for Paul and others to clear the drive. When this was done John stood up on the box and made a little speech, pointing out that the age of those gathered to wish them well covered a span of over a century and it was a point well taken. Among those on the verges were Marian Eveleigh’s six-month-old baby and old Floss Timberlake, who disgraced her chapel-going daughter-in-law by reciting a traditional wedding toast that had not been heard in the Valley for three generations. As John concluded his speech of thanks she bellowed, for all to hear:

  ‘Yer’s to the hen who never refuses,

  An’ lets un tread whenever ’ee chooses!’

  a couplet that produced a frenzied ‘shhh!’ from her family but laughter so immoderate from Henry Pitts that he came close to choking. Then the drag was off, trailing its string of tin cans and old boots but the professional greys expected nothing less and were well in hand by the time John reined in at the lodge where Paul, Rose and Claire waited to remove the garbage. As Chivers (charged with bringing the vehicle back from the station) took his seat Paul said, ‘Well, John, this isn’t a day we’ll forget in a hurry! Good luck, and all the happiness in the world!’ but this did not satisfy Maureen, who thrust aside his proffered hand, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him half-a-dozen times, after which she climbed back in the box and threw her bouquet at Claire who caught it so expertly that Paul was half-persuaded the gesture had been rehearsed. Then Chivers cracked the whip and the drag moved off at a bowling trot along the river road, best man and bridesmaids returning to preside over the meat tea provided for the invited guests. Rose was excited and talkative but Paul noticed that Claire seemed thoughtful and when, on reaching the house, sh
e excused herself and went upstairs, he said, looking after her, ‘You don’t think she’s having second thoughts, Rose?’

  ‘She’s enjoying every moment of it,’ Rose replied, equably, ‘and she’s perfectly reconciled to having a very quiet wedding if and when things are sorted out. However, there is one thing you could do and today seems a very good opportunity, for I’ve seen to it that father had plenty to drink. Could you … well … could you try and explain the situation to him? He’s terribly old-fashioned, and neither Claire nor I have had the nerve to do it, although I daresay he’s heard all kinds of rumours up and down the Valley.’

  ‘I don’t mind telling him,’ Paul said, although by no means relishing the task, ‘but wouldn’t it be better to wait until I’m actually free to marry?’

  ‘No,’ said Rose, ‘it would not! He’d far sooner hear it from you than from outsiders, so if I were in your place I’d get it over and done with right now. I know Claire would be very relieved if you did!’

  He said, squeezing her hand, ‘Very well, I’ll be guided by you, Rose. He’s talking to Arthur Pitts now. Get Arthur out of the way and I’ll bring him in here.’

  They went out on to the terrace and Arthur was skilfully detached with news of a new snaffle Rose was using on the half-broken trap pony. Paul said, approaching Edward Derwent with a glass of champagne in his hand, ‘Do you think we might have a private word in the study, Mr Derwent?’ and was relieved to note that the farmer’s stolid features assumed a slightly startled look as he followed Paul along the terrace and into the house, standing with his feet planted well apart and looking as if he envied Paul his full glass.

  ‘It’s about Claire,’ Paul began. ‘Rose thought it proper that I should tell you precisely how things stand between us, if only to anticipate the gossips. You will have heard that I’m suing for a divorce?’

  He was glad then that he had not waited to replenish Derwent’s glass for he had him at a slight disadvantage, but then he suddenly felt sorry for him, reasoning that he must find it damnably embarrassing to be bearded by his landlord on the latter’s home ground and added apologetically, ‘I’m assuming you had heard Claire and I hope to marry when I’m free?’

  ‘Aye,’ Derwent said, or rather growled, ‘I heard that right enough and who hasn’t? Well, she’s twenty-three now and has usually gone her own way no matter what but there’s limits, Squire, as to what a father is prepared to put up with! Notwithstanding you owning the land I farm I’d see you in hell before I let you drag my Claire’s name through the Courts!’

  His truculence, Paul thought, did him credit but it was plain that Rose’s suspicions were well founded and that some of the more extravagant rumours must have reached him. He said, quietly, ‘There’s absolutely no question of that, Derwent! I’m divorcing my wife, my wife isn’t divorcing me. The lawyers are dealing with it now but it will take time, these things always do. What I should like you to know is that, if and when I’m free, Claire and I want to marry at once. Would you have any objections?’

  Derwent frowned, biting his dark moustache and looking, Paul thought, less embarrassed than exasperated. Finally, however, and with what appeared to be considerable effort, he said, gruffly, ‘No, Squire, I wouldn’t stand in your way and I don’t mind saying why. Time was when I would have set my face against any girl of mine taking up with a man in your position, and him with a wife living into the bargain but most people about here realise Mrs Craddock’s capers were no fault o’ yours, and most of us were right sorry about it at the time! I never held with divorce. If you make a mistake you bide by it, or you did in my time but times are changing and, as I said, she’s not a girl and can earn her living independently! If she’s set her heart on you I’ll neither say nor do anything to turn her aside.’

  It was not, Paul thought, a particularly gracious answer but it was a more conciliatory one than he had anticipated and it amused him slightly to hear the unsmiling master of High Coombe dismiss Grace’s desertion as ‘a caper’. The man’s unexpected tolerance, however, tempted him to press the subject further and he said, ‘Well, that satisfies me, Derwent, but I’m not sure it will satisfy Claire! She’s always had respect and affection for you and she’ll want your blessing! Would you give it to her?’

  Since the day, more than four years past, when Rudd had first taken him over the Bluff to High Coombe he had seen Edward Derwent in a variety of moods, all the way from brusque civility to downright truculence but he had never, until now, seen him humbled. Derwent’s face, dark under his suntan, flushed as he stood looking down at his large, well-polished boots.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at length, ‘I reckon I could do that for her mother would have given it soon enough,’ and then, meeting Paul’s eyes defiantly, ‘The fact is, Squire, I was badly wrong about you and a man of principle oughtn’t to mind admitting a bad judgment when it’s come back on him, as mine did the night o’ the wreck. They others about here, they’m flippety-gibbets for the most part—anyway­ for a pint o’ cider as they say, but me—I’m not easily taken in and I don’t mind admitting it always seemed to me you were a young man wi’ too much money playing the fool at farming! Well, I was dam’ well wrong, as I saw wi’ my own eyes when you and Potter took that cockleshell to sea in the cove! If I don’t admit a fault I’m under an obligation and that’s something I don’t care to be to any man, not excepting my landlord!’ Paul murmured acknowledgement of this apology but Derwent went on, relentlessly, ‘Wait now, there’s more to it than that! Before you came, and many times since, I wanted badly to be a freeholder but now I’m not so set on it, particularly as you want to marry my girl soon as you can! Maybe I’m too old and too set in my ways or maybe I’m content for my boy Hugh to take it up with you later, but seeing what you’re bent on doing in the Valley I’m well content to let things remain as they be. From now on, whether or not you take my girl, I’m your man, Mr Craddock!’

  There had been many occasions since he had come to Shallowford when Paul had been heartened by individual recognition of his intentions. Arthur Pitts and Henry Pitts had always encouraged him, and so, in a more roundabout way, had John Rudd and old Honeyman. Eveleigh, and his wife Marian, had never ceased to show their appreciation of his faith in them whereas Sam Potter and Will Codsall had been his partisans from the beginning. But this blunt statement from the tight-lipped Edward Derwent was something different. It was the conversion of a man whom Paul had always recognised as the hard core of opposition to his policy and because of this it touched him far more deeply than the loyalty of men like Henry Pitts, or even a farmer like Eveleigh, who had plenty for which to thank him in the material sense. He reached out and clasped Derwent’s hand and for the first time he felt he had gained a powerful ally, not as a prospective father-in-law but as a friend whose weight counted for something in the Valley.

  They went back into the hall just as Claire came downstairs and called, as though it had been she who had been kept waiting, ‘Oh, there you are, Paul! Really, we ought to be getting them seated. Some of them have a long way to go before dark!’ and Edward Derwent looked at Paul with an expression that could not, under any circumstances, have been called mischievous or even sardonic, but somehow suggested an alliance between men who, from time to time, would be called upon to suffer jointly the maddening illogicality of wives and daughters.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  Less than an hour after sunrise, on the last morning of April, 1908, Claire slipped out of bed without waking Paul and went downstairs, through the big kitchen and across the stable-yard to climb the path that led through the orchard to the cart-track dividing kitchen garden from the first trees of Priory Wood.

  She walked barefoot as she usually did on these early morning expeditions, enjoying the sensation of the dew passing between her toes and savouring the smell of the long grass, and the great clumps of late primroses and early bluebells that grew all the way up the slope. Up here, look
ing down on the great sprawling house, was a favourite viewpoint, for here she could take out her life and prospects and examine them, as a craftsman might examine a half-finished piece of work; here, in the past twelve months, she had spent her most complacent moments.

  Today, her wedding anniversary, was especially propitious and she was glad that Paul had been late to bed the previous night, having ridden across the Whin to look at a pair of cart-horses. He would sleep on, she decided, until about seven-thirty and the next ninety minutes were her own, for even Mrs Handcock and Thirza would not stir for another half-hour and Chivers, the groom, rarely appeared until eight.

  The scent of wild flowers and pine sap came out of the woods on a westerly breeze and she sniffed it like a pointer, deciding that it was among the most evocative scents in the world, along with the smell of the sea and the whiff of autumn bonfires. It had stillness in it and promise, and so far most of its promises had been kept for she had wandered up here to listen to them in the very earliest days of her marriage and could look back on no more than a single disappointment, an early miscarriage more than six months ago but now forgotten in the certainty of a second pregnancy. For the last two months, ever since Maureen O’Keefe had confirmed that she would have another child at the end of August, she had been able to view her disappointment with detachment, reflecting that Maureen must have been talking sense when she had said that Claire had no one to blame for the miscarriage but herself. She had been too exuberant and too active, continuing to ride and swim, stay up late, overtire herself entertaining, and join Paul in all his political jaunts and market researches. She would not make the same mistake this time, although she knew quite well why she had made them last summer. She had been so eager to be the kind of wife he wanted and needed, resolving to share all his enthusiasms and achievements and had laughed at Maureen’s warnings until it was too late, but youth and natural vitality had limited her depression to a matter of weeks and ever since Christmas, by which time she suspected that she was pregnant again, she had been serene and cheerful, although this time she had been careful to follow Maureen’s advice in every particular.