The Greengage Summer

by Rumer Godden

  “Eliot doesn’t wear those sort of clothes,” said Hester.

  “I know,” said Willmouse exasperated. “That’s why.”

  “Why?”

  “Why it seems funny when he does.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Hester.

  “Don’t I know about clothes?” said Willmouse in a terrible voice, and Hester subsided.

  “He went off the path just above the bulrushes where it has a side path into the wood.” Willmouse wrinkled his forehead again. “Do you know, it looked—I thought—but he couldn’t have . . .”

  “Couldn’t have what?”

  “Come off the new barge.” Willmouse sounded oddly positive, but what would Eliot have been doing on the Marie France?

  We liked barges with their black hulls and clean scrubbed decks, and had all been up to look at this one. We often looked into barge cabins to see their shining brass, their curtains and pots of flowers; often there was a cat or a bird in a cage, a mother and lots of children, but the Marie France did not seem to have a woman aboard. Her brass was not polished, there were no curtains or flowers. She was a dingy barge and we saw only two men, in the cotton trousers Willmouse had described, but they did not wear jerseys, even cotton ones; they were naked above the waist, with black sailor caps.

  “It wasn’t Eliot,” I said, and that seemed positive when Eliot came back at nine o’clock that night.

  “Did you have a good day?” Mademoiselle Zizi asked anxiously.

  “Damnably hot,” said Eliot. He looked exhausted.

  He had brought Vicky a box of chocolates such as we had never seen or imagined; it was a pink satin box painted with roses and tied with wide velvet ribbon, and inside, where most boxes have paper-lace edgings, it had real lace. It was marked Dorat. “One of the most expensive chocolate shops in Paris,” exclaimed Madame Corbet.

  “You see he was in Paris,” I told Willmouse.

  “Yes,” said Willmouse, but he did not sound convinced.

  Eliot stayed at Les Oeillets next day, but he did not sit, as he usually did, reading in the garden. First he took the Littles to see Mother; when he came back he asked Hester and me if we would like to go with him into the town. We passed Joss on the river bank, but she did not turn her head, nor did Eliot say anything. In the town he bought postcards, giving them to us, and then some grapes for Mother, which we took to the hospital, calling on Monsieur le Directeur, who called out, “Á ce soir,” when we left.

  “Why à ce soir?” I asked.

  “He is coming tonight. There’s a big dinner,” said Eliot. “Didn’t you know?”

  “We are not told things,” I said.

  As soon as we got in Eliot coaxed Mademoiselle Zizi out to the Giraffe. “That’s three times,” said Hester.

  “That Eliot has gone into the town?”

  “Yes. Isn’t he fidgety?” said Hester.

  He could not have had very much lunch, for just after twelve he came to the cove where Hester and I had taken our picnics and turned us out. “Keep away,” he said. “I want to sleep.”

  “But we haven’t eaten our picnics.”

  “Well, go and eat them somewhere else.”

  There was no one about. Monsieur Joubert had gone in, he lunched at twelve. Joss could not accompany him; she ate her picnic humbly in the orchard; after that they both went to their rooms to sleep. Willmouse too, after his picnic, would take a nap under his cherry tree; like the little old gentleman he was he would cover his face with his handkerchief. Vicky was still at the age when she was put to rest and was collected by Joss on her own way up. Monsieur Armand, when the luncheons were over, would read the newspaper on the kitchen table, Mauricette lazed in the kitchen or garden, Mademoiselle Zizi lay in a long chair on the terrace, and I think even Madame Corbet nodded in the office. Hester and I had meant to bathe, immersing ourselves, coming out now and again in the sun, going back; the water would have been cool, but now we could not bathe.

  Eliot must have divined this, for he asked, “Did you want to bathe?” and he suggested, “Go to the Plage for once.”

  “We should have to pay,” said Hester.

  Eliot laughed. “You little skinflints.”

  That hurt us. “Ever since we have been here,” I said in a muffled voice, “we haven’t had any money.”

  “Why not?” asked Eliot.

  “Nobody has given us any.” Hester’s voice was muffled too. It was from the remembrance of the times we had looked over at the Plage, read the list of ices, gazed in at the sweetshops in the town, at those wonderfully coloured sucettes and, in l’Eglantine, at the gladioli we had wanted for Mother; it was the remembrance of Vicky not having any birthday presents, of wanting to buy ‘Moi et Toi’ and something for Uncle William that made us sound choked.

  “Usually we have pocket money every week,” I explained.

  “Good Lord! I’m sorry,” said Eliot. “Why didn’t you ask? Look. Have three weeks, now,” and he took out his wallet, fat with French notes, and peeled off seven. “One for Hester, one between Vicky and Willmouse, two for Cecil and three for Joss.”

  We looked at them stunned and neither of us moved. “Take them,” said Eliot; he sounded impatient, but we shook our heads. “What’s the matter now?”

  “It’s too much,” said Hester, and I added, “More than a pound each.”

  “If I say you can have it.”

  “We can’t,” said Hester, shocked. “You see, Vicky has sixpence, Willmouse has ninepence, I have a shilling, Cecil has two, and Joss has another arrangement.” I would not have told all this, but Hester never minded exposing the family. “She has ten shillings, but she has to pay her bus fares and buy her own stamps and soap and toothpaste and handkerchiefs and stockings.”

  “Don’t. You make me giddy,” said Eliot. “Well, have this for now.” But we still shook our heads.

  “Must you be so appallingly honest?” He said it so harshly that we stared.

  “I suppose,” said Hester, wavering, “that Mother would pay for us to bathe.”

  “Look,” said Eliot, “I’m tired.” He did not seem tired but . . . was it excited? Why? I wondered. Why should he be excited on this hot sleepy afternoon? “Take this.” He gave us a note. “Go and bathe and we will settle the rest this evening.” We still hesitated and he shouted, “Go! If anyone comes near me before five o’clock I shall skin them alive.”

  In fairness we ought to have gone and fetched the others when we had finished our picnics, but, “They are probably asleep,” said Hester. “They can go afterwards. There’s heaps of money.” And so we went to the Plage we had looked at and yearned after so often. We walked over the white bridge, past the railing with the life-belt, in at the gate, and took our tickets from the sleepy caretaker; we rented one of the red-and-white cabins and used all three pools and the low-, the middle-, but not the high-diving boards. I could dive, though sometimes I hit the water with a slap; Hester simply jumped off, holding her nose. It was blissfully cool and for an hour or two we were like a pair of porpoises playing. At last we came out, and after we had dressed we bought strawberry ices from the kiosk and ate them at one of the white tables. “Eliot is good!” said Hester reverently as she licked her cardboard spoon.

  The ices were spun out as long as we could. “We had better not have another one, had we?” asked Hester, but in the end we had another between us. We spun that one out as well. Four o’clock struck, but, “I don’t want any goûter,” she said; nor did I.

  We left the Plage and walked back along the bank; it was then that Hester said, “Let’s creep up on Eliot.”

  “For what?”

  “Just to love him,” said Hester. Another Eastern idea of which Father had told us was the taking of ‘darshan’, that even to look on anyone good or great would feed the soul.

  “He told us not to.”

  “How will be know?” asked Hester.

  Les Oeillets had taught us to be as adept as Red Indians in stealing up on what we wanted
to see and we came up to the cove without a sound. Eliot was lying, as he always lay, face downwards on the sand, his length pressed into it, his head pillowed on his arms, the old cap tilted over his eyes. Behind the bulrushes we crept up on him. He was lying with his head towards us. “Fast asleep,” breathed Hester.

  That must have made a sound, for he stirred, stirred and lifted his head and . . . it was not Eliot.

  In Eliot’s clothes, under Eliot’s cap, we were looking into the face of a dark unknown man. I do not know why it was so frightening, but, for the long moment he looked, we froze as rabbits do and the river seemed to be running in my ears. When his head went down again we retreated backwards through the bulrushes so fast that we were covered in bulrush dust. Then we ran. We reached Joss’s box and I sank down on it while Hester fell on the grass. My neck and the backs of my knees were clammy and cold; her chin was shaking.

  We sat there a long while without speaking and the sun did not make us any warmer.

  At last, “Do you think it could be us . . . after the ices?” asked Hester.

  “No.”

  “It was another m . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Then . . . ?” The question seemed to go on and on.

  It was some time later that Hester said, “Hullo! Monsieur Joubert’s things have gone.” There was no umbrella, no easle or stool, and Joss’s box, alone on the river bank, looked small and lonely.

  The light grew deeper, swallows were beginning to skim the river as they did when the insects flew down; five o’clock struck from the Hôtel de Ville and we got up to go in. As we reached the blue door it opened and Mademoiselle Zizi came out.

  She was in white and carried a deep mauve sunshade, the colour of heliotrope. She was freshly powdered and made up and her scent came to us in waves. “Are you going out?” we asked stupidly.

  “Only to the cove, to meet Eliot.”

  We looked at one another, opened our lips, and shut them.

  “Why didn’t you tell her?” said Hester after she had gone.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  We did not go in but stayed in the orchard. We talked to Willmouse, admired Miss Dawn’s new hat, and played with the dogs. We did not say it to one another but we were waiting to see, and after what seemed a long while the blue door opened again. Mademoiselle Zizi came through, and behind her was Eliot.

  CHAPTER 13

  AS SOON as we came into the house we knew that Madame Corbet had sent Mademoiselle Zizi to meet Eliot because she wanted her out of the way.

  Madame Corbet was efficient; when anything had to be arranged at Les Oeillets, a dinner, two or three chars-à-bancs of tourists for luncheon or an early breakfast, it was made ready quietly and swiftly. “But not if Mademoiselle Zizi is there,” said Hester. Mademoiselle Zizi gave contradictory orders to Mauricette, upset Monsieur Armand by suggesting last-minute changes in the food, took Paul away from his work, and quarrelled with Madame Corbet. It was wiser to send Mademoiselle Zizi away and now the house was being quickly transformed; we could see it was for a much bigger occasion than any since we had come.

  “Is it a banquet?” asked Willmouse.

  The tables in the dining-room had been moved to make one large T, the whole covered with white cloths and laid with silver and glass. “Ninety-four places,” whispered Hester when she had finished counting. The flowers were not being done as usual by Mauricette; Madame from l’Eglantine and her two Mademoiselles in green overalls were arranging them—carnations, asparagus ferns and white flowers like small lilies on one stem; they had a strong, sweet smell. “Mauricette says they are tuber roses,” I said.

  “I have heard of them,” said Willmouse gravely.

  In the bar a platform had been made; we knew it was only of boxes, but, laid with a carpet and palms, it looked impressive. There were more flowers in the hall and bar, and a carpet had been put down from the front door to the foot of the stairs, “Because the Sous-Préfet and Monsieur le Maire are coming,” said Vicky, who had joined us from the kitchen.

  We had seen the Mayor of Southstone at the Armistice parade; he had worn a red-caped cloak, a cocked hat and a great chain. “But I did not know one had mayors to dinner,” I said in awe.

  “It is a banquet,” said Willmouse certainly.

  “It’s the Brass Instruments Ball,” said Vicky, who had been in the kitchen most of the day and knew everything.

  Not quite everything. It was the Brass Instrument Factory’s centenary dinner, but it remained for ever in our minds as the Brass Instruments Ball.

  We had often passed the factory when we were exploring across the river and spelled out the lettering on the long notice-board along its wall. ‘Emile Perrichaut, fabricant d’instruments de fanfare. Trompettes. Clairons. Médaille de l’Exposition de 1895. Fournisseur de l’Armée.’ Now all the thirty workers, with their wives—and husbands, for some of the workers were women—their grown-up sons and daughters were coming and, as well as the Sous-Préfet and the Mayor, the Town Clerk, the Commissaire of Police, the Lieutenant of Gendarmerie, the Chief of the Municipal Band, “Et le Capitaine des Pompiers,” said Mauricette, which meant the head of the Fire Brigade. Mauricette said that the doctor, Monsieur le Directeur, was coming because he was the brother-in-law of Monsieur Perrichaut, and that Eliot and Mademoiselle Zizi were invited. There would be no room at Les Oeillets for any visitors that night—the whole hotel was taken up with the Brass Instruments.

  “What will they do?” asked Vicky, and I saw she was trying to think of the most exciting things she had heard of people doing. “Drink cider and play cards?” she asked.

  “They will eat a lot, drink quite a lot, and make long speeches,” said Eliot, who had come up behind us. Hester and I shrank a little from him, but he did not notice. “And then perhaps they will dance.”

  “To the Brass Instruments Band?” asked Hester.

  The Brass Instruments had their own band. We had heard it on Sundays and feast days in the town and guessed that the platform was for them.

  “Look what they are to eat!” said Vicky.

  She had brought us the menu:

  Hors-d’œuvre variés

  Homard à la mayonnaise

  “That’s lobster,” I told Vicky.

  “I know, I ate some,” she said.

  Poulet Chasseur

  Filet de boeuf rôti jardinière

  Salade de saison

  Fromages variés

  Pièce Montée

  Fruits

  “And the pièce has a whole band on top of it,” said Vicky. “Monsieur Armand has been four days making it. He said I wasn’t to tell you.”

  She took us to look at it. It was on a silver slab, a great cake with trellises and scrolls of icing and, on top, a sugar band, the bandsmen made of meringue and coloured, the tiny brass instruments of yellow sugar. We could not believe it had been made here in the kitchen. “I am Marc Joubert of the icing sugar,” said Monsieur Armand. He seemed radiantly pleased as he chivvied us out of the kitchen, but I had caught sight of Paul, his back turned to us, at the sink with a huge pile of saucepans. When he reached for a cloth the lock of hair fell back and we saw his face looking thinner than ever and as dirtily white as his apron. How I wish now I had gone and spoken to him, but I was afraid he would only have sworn at me.

  No one told us what was to happen to us, and we stayed watching in the dining-room while Madame Eglantine and her Mademoiselles put the last flower in the last vase, then we went upstairs and dressed. We put on our best frocks, that we had not worn yet; they were not very grand, crinkled white seersuckers with small rose spots. Mother had made them out of a length she had bought at the sales; Joss had grown out of hers, and they had been handed down so that I wore Joss’s, Hester wore mine and Vicky Hester’s; with two more to come down, it seemed Vicky would have to wear rose-spotted seersucker for years. Willmouse put on a clean shirt, his silk tie, clean shorts. “What will Joss wear?” asked Hester.

  “She wil
l see when she comes in.”

  “Isn’t she in?” asked Hester, but there was no sound from her room.

  We cleaned our nails and brushed our hair; Vicky and Hester put on clean white socks—Joss had arranged for our washing to be done, and at last we had clean clothes—I unrolled my one pair of thin stockings and we cleaned our sandals. When we were finished there still had not been a rustle from Joss’s room. “If she had been to see Mother she would have been back long ago. Perhaps she went out with Monsieur Joubert,” said Hester.

  “Someone would have told us.”

  I knocked. No answer. I went in and Joss was there, lying face downwards on her bed.

  “Joss! Are you having an attack?”

  No answer.

  I went timidly closer. Hester and the Littles stayed at the door.

  “Joss. It’s Cecil. Speak to me, Joss.”

  She raised her head but she did not speak to me. “I hate her. I hate her,” she said. It sounded as if she were speaking to the whole world.

  “Hate whom?” but I knew and, “What happened?” I asked apprehensively.

  “She has ended the painting,” said Joss.

  “Ended the . . .”

  “Yes.” Joss sat up and beat the pillow with her fist. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “But . . . how?”

  “He asked me to have lunch with him.”

  I hesitated. We knew who ‘she’ was but ‘he’ might have been . . . “Eliot?” I hazarded.

  “Idiot! Monsieur Joubert. It was so hot outside—I think he did it because of that—and I said Yes. There was no one in the dining-room but us and . . . them.”

  “Mademoiselle Zizi and Eliot?”

  “Yes. Madame Corbet was too busy to come in to lunch. Perhaps we—Monsieur Joubert and I—laughed too much.” She lifted her chin. “I wanted to laugh . . . Eliot . . .” She broke off.

  I had to prompt her. “Eliot?”

  “Kept looking,” said Joss. “Then, when he had gone—he went quite soon as if he didn’t like it—Mademoiselle Zizi came to our table and said . . .” She stopped again.