Pilgrim's Inn

by Elizabeth Goudge

  CHAPTER

  15

  — 1 —

  It was Tommy’s turn, this time, to be returning home. He was thrilled, but not quite so thrilled as Caroline had been; so much less so, in fact, that he had felt he could bear to delay his return for a couple of days in order to spend the week end with a friend and possess himself of a secondhand motor bicycle no longer required by the friend’s elder brother. A motor bike of his own had always been the chief desire of Tommy’s life, for he had a passion for the internal combustion engine that was the equal of that of his namesake Toad, but requests to his parents to give him one had hitherto been met by a steady refusal. George had said he could not afford to provide his sons with motor bikes at present. Nadine had said motor bikes were dangerous things, and that even if they had been able to afford it she’d never have a happy moment when Tommy was out of her sight on the horror. After several refusals they had considered the subject closed. Tommy had not. Spending a week of the summer holidays with the same friend he had secretly learned to ride it. Now it was his. There was, of course, the little matter of paying for it, but that could be seen to later. From school he had sent a post card to his Mother.

  Home Wednesday. Sent box in advance. You can unpack it if you want to. Bringing my Christmas present from you and Father so if you’ve got anything else for me you can keep it till my birthday. Glad you’ve got Auntie Rose for cook now. What about tipsy trifle for supper. And we might have wild duck, if Father can shoot one, with water cress. And toasted cheese to follow.

  Love,

  Tommy

  And now in the crisp winter dawn he stood in the stable yard of his friend’s home, attired in overalls far too large for him (thrown in gratis along with the cycle), and adjusted his goggles (also thrown in gratis), and looked up at the sky and grinned. They’d expect him by the usual evening train, of course, but he was going to surprise them. Leaving so early, avoiding the cross-country journey, he’d be home by lunchtime. Give them all the shock of their lives. They’d get five more hours of him than they’d expected to. Jolly for them. He pulled on his leather gauntlets, bestrode his precious bike, and with a terrifying volley of backfiring and a fearful stench (the machine was exceedingly ancient), went roaring out of the yard and down the quiet country road beyond. “ ‘Poop-poop!’ ” he yelled joyously, quoting Toad the terror, the traffic-queller, the lord of the lone trail. “ ‘Poop-poop! The poetry of motion! The real way to travel! The only way to travel! Here today—in next week tomorrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped—always somebody else’s horizon. O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my!’ ”

  The thought of Toad made him think joyously of home. He was going home. Home to the Herb of Grace. Home to that jolly old house where the river lapped against the garden wall and where one could mess about in boats all day long. It was winter now. There’d be log fires burning in the old rooms. He’d go shooting with Father. And there’d be hunting. He’d get a horse from somewhere and go. And there was the blessed bike. Boanerges. All day and every day he would tear around the lanes on Boanerges. There was the question of gasoline, of course, but Father need not use the car much during the holidays. Do him good to walk a bit more. Life was good in the country. Much better than in the town. Jolly good thing they’d bought the Herb of Grace. Jolly old place. The Herb of Grace. Home. He’d already commanded a Christmas tree. They hadn’t had one in the Chelsea house; there hadn’t been room. Now there would be. A big one in the hall. It would look jolly. Presents for everyone on it. Pity he hadn’t got any presents for the family. He’d meant to get them all something, but it had been an expensive term and he was now financially ruined. It didn’t matter. He’d explain and they wouldn’t mind. They’d have him. Lovely for them to have him five hours earlier than they’d expected.

  He laughed again, picturing their joy. He liked giving pleasure. Then, as the white ribbon of the road sped away behind him, he shouted for joy and gave his famous imitation of ducks quacking. Good old Boanerges! She might be old, she might make the hell of a stench and the devil of a row, but she was a good goer. At this rate he’d be home even earlier than he’d thought.

  It was a grand morning. The last fortnight had been cold, but now it was perfect open weather, almost like spring. It would be a green Christmas. Overhead one great planet still burned in the blue-green of the sky with a small satellite star kneeling at its feet. Ben would have known its name. Tommy didn’t. But he liked it, and the little star sort of worshiping it. The trees were motionless, and black against that clear, pure sky. The mist was knee-deep in the quiet fields. Beyond the row that Boanerges was making Tommy was aware of a great silence holding the world, and he knew that if it hadn’t been for Boanerges he would have smelled the faint clean smell of wet grass. But he was not aware of any sense of deprivation. The sound and the smell of Boanerges were as music and incense in his ears and nostrils. Bending low over his handle bars he worshiped his machine, as the star the planet. To his mind there was nothing so grand in all the world as mechanism, whether it was the mechanism of the human body or the mechanism that the human body made. He began to sing to Boanerges and Boanerges sang to him. They were utterly happy.

  The dawn came, not the flaming sky that promises storm, but a golden dawn of infinite promise. The birds came flying up out of the east in wedge-shaped formation, and the mist lifted in soft wreaths of sun-shot silver. Color came back to the world. The grass glowed with a green so vivid that it seemed pulsing, like flame, from some hidden fire in the earth; the distant woods took on all the amazing deep crimsons and purples of their winter coloring; the banks were studded with their jewels of lichens and bright moss; and above, the wet hedges shone with sun-shot orbs of light.

  It can be gay in the country in the winter, thought Tommy. It will be gay at the Herb of Grace. The river will be sparkly and when the sun sets behind Knyghtwood it will be all lit up with candlelight, like that first evening.

  Though an hour after starting he was hungry as a hunter he did not stop for anything to eat. Once started, Boanerges went like the wind, but there was the danger that once stopped she would not go again. There was no doubt that she was temperamental in her old age. Also he did not want to waste a minute, for he had conceived the idea that if he were to be home by, say, eleven-thirty, he would be able to give a few commands about lunch. It would be appalling to come home to boiled cod and macaroni pudding.

  The sun rose high in the glorious sky and the miles sped away behind him. The exhilaration of his speed made him feel almost intoxicated with delight. As always when one is out-of-doors for any length of time, the sun and the wind ceased to be impersonal elements and became his friends. The wind laughed in his ear and the touch of the sun on his cheek was like a personal caress; like the touch of his mother’s delicate hand. . . . That was always the way she greeted him when he got home, with that gentle touch of her hand on his cheek, as though she felt him to make certain he was really there. . . .

  As the exceedingly sentimental comparison slipped unbidden into his mind he blushed hotly. Then laughed in delight. Mother! He’d see her in another hour. She was a good sort. If he stepped on the gas he might see her in forty minutes. Father, too. He wasn’t a bad old chump either. Neither was Ben, though of course completely crackers. Caroline and the twins weren’t bad kids as kids go. As regards family it was his opinion that he might have done worse. He was going too fast, he knew, but there was little traffic about. But he’d slow down when he saw signs of human habitation, for he didn’t want to run into the arms of the law. He hadn’t got a license.

  Luck was with him. An absence of obstruction and the law, aided by a miracle of speed, got him to the Hard at eleven-ten, and by a further stroke of good fortune the gate leading to their lane was open. The last mile of his blissful journey had been somewhat clouded by the fear that if he had to stop Boanerges to open the gate he’d not get her going again, and would arrive home wheeling the c
reature, which would not be at all the sort of arrival he had planned. But some good soul had left the gate open, and without stopping he jolted joyously down their lane. Their lane. Home.

  He found to his surprise that he remembered the different shapes of the old oak trees as though they were the shapes of people whom he knew. He turned the corner and with a lift of the heart greeted Knyghtwood upon his right and the orchard upon his left, and the bright gleam of the river down at the bottom of the lane. Then he accelerated and went roaring down the hill at a pace that threatened to land him straight in the river. But he managed to rock to a vociferous, odoriferous standstill at the foot of the garden steps. “Poop-poop!” he yelled. “Toad’s home! Toad’s home!” And then he did his imitation of ducks quacking.

  Summoned by the stench, the tumult, and the shouting, the household came pouring out of the Herb of Grace, George first with the twins close at his heels screaming like an express train, then Jill and Caroline, Annie-Laurie and Malony, but not Nadine. Was Mother ill? For a brief moment Tommy felt suddenly and unaccountably sick. . . . Must be the motion or something. . . . He pulled off his goggles and lifted a suddenly rather mature face as his father came striding down to him with long eager strides. George forestalled the question on his parted lips. “Mother’s all right. Gone to look for that water cress you commanded for supper. I shot a wild duck the day before yesterday. It’s hanging.” His hand descended to his son’s shoulder and gripped it hard. Their eyes met and they smiled. Tommy looked a boy again. “Ben’s all right. Somewhere about,” said George. But Tommy had been at ease before receiving the assurance of Ben’s well-being. It is possible that in the last resort he and George would have consigned the entire world to the bottom of the sea rather than allow a hair of Nadine’s head to be injured. “What the dickens?” asked George, eying Boanerges.

  “Didn’t Mother show you my post card?” asked Tommy. “It’s your Christmas present to me, yours and Mother’s. Secondhand. I told Clive you’d send a check. Wizard, isn’t it? . . . Jerry, you young fool, let that alone! José! Mole! Rat! If either of you two so much as touch Boanerges without my permission I’ll flay you alive! Caroline! Jill! Pull ’em off! Jerry, you young devil! Malony, cuff his ears!”

  Pandemonium had broken out as the twins, shouting, swarmed over Boanerges. George, making a remark, was unheard. He rubbed his ear, then slowly grinned, visited by the pleasing thought that he need have no anxiety as to the worldly success in life of this son of his. George’s paternal anxiety did not stretch to more than the material welfare of his children; he’d not the strength for more. He left it to Lucilla to worry about their spiritual welfare; it was all he could do to get their school bills paid.

  Malony competently detached the twins and handed them over to Jill, who removed them, still yelling, indoors. “Grand machine, sir,” he said to Tommy. “I’ll wheel her round to the yard and give her a clean right away.”

  Tommy found himself quite glad to dismount. He was, he found, slightly staggery about the legs, and did not disdain his father’s hand beneath his elbow as they went up the garden path, Caroline dancing joyously backwards in front of them. Annie-Laurie, who had run back into the house, came running out again with her tweed coat on, her eyes shining. “I’m going to find Mrs. Eliot and tell her Tommy’s come,” she said. Tommy grinned at her as she ran past them. She looked different, he thought. Not like a maid any longer. More like a sister.

  “Better have a sherry and something to eat right away,” said George. “Caroline, there are biscuits in that box. Fetch ’em out while I find the sherry. Here we are.”

  They were inside the Herb of Grace, and as Tommy had foreseen, there was a splendid log fire burning on the hearth, its light reflected warmly in the paneling. The gracious old branching staircase stood there before him and seemed to hold out its arms in welcome, almost as though it were a person, and the little white deer in the alcove shone in the firelight like a lighted lamp. His father let go of his elbow and put an arm round his shoulder. “Grand to have you home,” he said. “Now for the sherry.”

  Tommy passed his forearm over his forehead and touched his curly hair with a gesture of relief. He let out a sigh. He was home.

  — 2 —

  Twenty minutes later, entirely himself again, having devoured half the month’s biscuit ration and drunk to the last drop the small allowance of sherry that was all George would permit, he was striding towards the kitchen. He flung open the door and entered masterfully. Auntie Rose was there, at work at the kitchen table, and a delicious alcoholic fragrance fought almost successfully with the smell of uncooked cod. She was making the commanded tipsy trifle for supper. Tommy had seen her only once before, but she had remained vividly in his memory as a woman after his own heart: no nonsense about her, brisk, pretty to look at, and a good cook. She had seemed to him then an integral part of the Herb of Grace, and her absence last holidays had made him feel there was something missing. Also he had hated to see his mother slaving in the kitchen. It had seemed all wrong somehow. She wasn’t the sort of woman who ought to get her hands stained; also, just now and then she was inclined to be a bit stingy and to talk about rations and bills in a way that affronted his own lavish instincts. But now here was Auntie Rose back in her proper place, gay and delightful with her rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and white hair done up in that enchanting bun at the top of her head. She wore a purple apron with yellow sunflowers on it, and she sang as she planted out crystallized cherries on top of the trifle with the superb generosity of one who has not paid for them. He took two steps towards her, flung his arms about her, and gave her a smacking kiss upon each of her rosy cheeks.

  “Now the place is itself again,” he said. “What’s in that trifle? Rum?”

  She laughed delightedly, and fetched from the dresser a brilliant geranium-colored fluted tin with a picture of Queen Victoria on it that had traveled through life with her ever since the Diamond Jubilee. Inside was a cake literally stuffed with fruit. Tommy’s eyes sparkled at sight of it; he hadn’t seen such a cake since his childhood. “There, ducks,” said Auntie Rose, cutting a large slice and setting the tin beside him as he sat upon the kitchen table swinging his legs. “Early home, aren’t you? Come on a motor bike? Thought I heard you. Starved, you must be. I’ll heat you up a cup of coffee. Eat what you like of that cake, love. We’ve plenty of fruit. I’ve a nephew in the grocery business. Yes, dear, it’s rum in the trifle. Fred, that’s me nephew, got me a few little extras for Christmas.”

  “Auntie Rose, did you scrap with your daughter-in-law that you’ve come back?” asked Tommy, munching cake.

  “You mind your own business, young man,” said Auntie Rose with twinkling eyes, placing a large cup of coffee and a brimming sugar bowl beside him. “I’m here to help your mother over Christmas. After that, what’s to be will be. Now you get down off me table and let me get at me pastry board. I’ve a macaroni pudding for lunch, but with you extra I’ll maybe have time to knock up a few apple dumplings to go with it.”

  “Brown sugar and raisins inside?” coaxed Tommy, his head on one side. “Auntie Rose, this cake is wizard. Auntie Rose, I love you.” He slid off the table, turned his head in the direction of the cod, and sniffed a slightly questioning sniff.

  “With a tartare sauce, ducks,” said Auntie Rose. “I’d thought of a plain sauce, me being pressed for time, but as you’re home we’ll make it tartare.”

  Tommy finished his cake and his coffee, peeled the apples for Auntie Rose, and ate the uncooked pastry trimmings with relish. As he peeled and ate he told her all about himself: about his bike, his rugger colors, the boil he’d had at the back of his neck, and the rotten food they had at school. Auntie Rose inspected the place where the boil had been, noticed that two of his fingernails were splitting, and fancied that she saw dark shadows beneath his eyes. . . . Undernourished. . . . She made a sudden decision. She’d stay on at the Herb of Grace. Thankful though she h
ad been to get away from her daughter-in-law and the boredom of the rest she thought she’d enjoy but hadn’t, she’d not been quite sure that her subservient position at the Herb of Grace had been altogether to her liking. She had lost her heart to the General and Ben, and Mrs. Eliot had been tact itself, trusting her completely and never interfering, and with her suite and the brass bedstead she’d made a lovely bed-sitting room for herself upstairs, but yet she’d not been quite sure if she wanted to stay. Tommy decided her. Not only did he need nourishment in the holidays, but he appreciated it. Ben never seemed altogether aware of what he was eating, and the General, poor dear man, had a weak digestion and could only eat sparingly, but Tommy would be the perfect reason for her staying on.

  “Now you get along with you,” she said, her decision made. “I’ve the Christmas mincemeat to see to, and scones for tea. If you haven’t seen Master Ben yet he’s upstairs in the studio with Mr. Adair.”

  “What, Old Beaver? Gosh, I want to take a look at him,” said Tommy, and went bounding off up the turret stairs as lightly as though he had partaken of no nourishment at all that day. Out of the corner of his eye, as he bounded, he saw the closed door of the chapel, but he let that wait. Auntie Rose as cook, John Adair, and the chapel were all additions to the Herb of Grace since last holidays, and he was taking them in the order in which they interested him: food, fame, religion; he was a hedonist and the latter interested him scarcely at all as yet.

  He knocked on the studio door, but entered at once without waiting for an answer. “Hello,” he said, and stood looking round him, his bright dark eyes taking in the essential details of the scene in one quick glance: the two artists, the stacked canvases, his mother’s portrait, some sort of brown mess of a picture that Ben was working at, and—Horace.