Ripeness is All

by Eric Linklater

  One evening, tempted by a frosty moon and a brisk air, Katherine walked down to Hornbeams after dinner and found Daisy alone. Arthur had gone into Lammiter with Wilfrid to see the Lammiter Amateur Dramatic Society play Mr Milne’s comedy of The Dover Road, and Daisy, with a petty pensive air, was sitting in the lamplight sewing childish garments.

  Katherine also had brought a bag full of wool, flannel, knitting-needles, and so forth, and after inquiring, in a challenging voice, the state of Daisy’s health, she produced a half-made vest and vigorously began to knit.

  ‘I’ve got a lot to do before May,’ she said.

  Daisy looked at her with distaste. She herself, as soon as her visitor had been announced, had put away her sewing and laid an open copy of Green Mansions on her knee. ‘I suppose a baby does need a lot of clothes,’ she said. ‘I ought to remember what Ruth required, but I’m not a very practical person, and I’m afraid I was too intent on the wonder of it all to think a great deal about tiresome details. And when you consider how Nature does without our help in the woods and the fields, it’s a little ungrateful, I think, to distrust her in the home.’

  ‘Nature won’t supply you with nappies and binders,’ said Katherine, knitting vigorously.

  Daisy sighed. It was difficult, she felt, to maintain conversation with a person who lived on a different plane, a lower plane, of existence. ‘Is that a binder you’re making now?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s a vest.’

  It was curious, thought Daisy, how much Katherine had changed. There had never been any great sympathy between them, she admitted, because Katherine had always been unnaturally self-centred, but her manner had been so light, chattering, flimsy, and effervescent, that it had been fairly easy to remain friendly with her, so long as one didn’t see her too often. But now her temper had become brusque and overbearing, her voice had hardened, and instead of babbling about a dozen foolish interests – hopping from this to that, lively and avid as a flea on the sand – she had one topic only, that she pursued with unrelenting zest. It was like a monomania. It was a monomania, thought Daisy with sudden perspicacity. Katherine was obsessed by the dream of winning seventy thousand pounds: how evil a thing was money! And because of this dreadful dominating greed she had come to believe she was going to have twins. She was at the mercy of a complex, a fixation, the tyranny of imaginative wish-fulfilment. That was the explanation of course, and really it scarcely bore thinking about.

  ‘Have you read Green Mansions?’ asked Daisy. ‘I sometimes think it’s the most perfect book in the world.’

  ‘I haven’t much time for reading,’ said Katherine. ‘It’s all right for you: you’re only making clothes for one baby….’

  ‘I really haven’t begun to make anything at all,’ Daisy interrupted gently. ‘It’s so far away that I hardly dare to think about it yet.’

  ‘What’s in the sewing-bag under that cushion?’ asked Katherine.

  Daisy flushed.’ Oh, nothing really. One or two little things I was sewing in a whimsical way. But nothing of any use – nothing so practical as that binder you’re making.’

  ‘It isn’t a binder, it’s a vest. I told you that before.’

  ‘So you did. How stupid of me to forget! But it doesn’t look very like a vest, does it?’

  ‘It will, in time. I’ve got to make another dozen of these things, and the same number of jackets, pilches, pull-ons, and barrow-coats. I’m buying some, but I want to make as many as possible myself.’

  ‘A dozen of each! Will you really want as many as that?’

  ‘Two children need a lot of clothes,’ said Katherine.

  In spite of her recent discovery of the pathological nature of Katherine’s belief in the imminence of twins, Daisy was irritated by her calm enunciation of it. ‘Really, Katherine,’ she said, ‘for your own sake I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, and especially that you wouldn’t think like that. You’re only preparing for a bitter disappointment. I had a long and extraordinarily interesting letter from Juliet last week – Juliet Morrow, you know. You’ve heard me speak of her? – and she happened to mention this very subject: she’s done an enormous amount of welfare work, and among the poor, of course, babies are far more of a common occurrence than they are with us: but Juliet says that even among the very poor she’s only seen twins half a dozen times, so it’s most unlikely that you will have them. Please don’t set your heart on it, Katherine, for I should hate to think of your being disappointed.’

  ‘I’m going to call them Randolph and Ulrich,’ said Katherine. ‘Oliver suggested Hengist and Horsa, or Romulus and Remus, but he was joking, of course. I think Randolph has a very manly sound, and Ulrich is rather nice and uncommon, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, I’ve warned you what to expect,’ said Daisy crossly, ‘and if you persist in being silly it won’t be my fault. Good heavens! I might have twins myself. But I’m not so foolish as to believe that I shall.’

  ‘No, that would be foolish,’ said Katherine.

  ‘I’m just as likely to have them as you are,’ retorted Daisy.

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not.’

  ‘But I am!’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Katherine. ‘Damn it, I’ve dropped a stitch.’

  Arthur and Wilfrid came home early. The Lammiter Amateurs had scarcely done justice to The Dover Road, and Wilfrid was not in the mood for polite comedy however well it had been acted. They left the theatre at the first interval, and after having a drink or two at the bar, they returned to Hornbeams, walking smartly under the frosty moon. ‘Daisy will be in bed, I expect,’ said Arthur. ‘She’s been turning in fairly early for the last fortnight or so.’

  But he took the precaution of looking through the drawing-room window before going in, and saw not only Daisy but Katherine there. He turned to Wilfrid with a sibilant warning.

  ‘Ssh!’ he whispered. ‘Daisy’s still up, and Katherine’s with her. It won’t do you any good to go in and talk to them, but if you don’t mind sitting outside in the fresh air for a little while, I’ve got something in the garden that will buck you up in no time.’

  ‘That’s just what I want,’ said Wilfrid: he had on two or three occasions been permitted to share the secret of the rockery.

  Arthur tiptoed over the gravel and led the way to the bottom of the garden. In the milk-white light of the moon the grass was pale and quivering with frost, and the little rockery had a black romantic look. Their shoes made dark smudges on the lawn.

  At the side of the rockery farther from the house Arthur, in a jocular voice, said ‘Welcome to the smuggler’s cave, my boy!’ Then he stooped to a large flat stone, and having brushed aside some icy tendrils and dimly sparkling leaves, exerted his strength and lifted it from the frost-bound earth. Beneath it were two tin biscuit-boxes, set side by side among the rocks and the hard soil, to which it served as a lid. In the one were two square quarts of gin and a couple of glasses, and in the other half a dozen bottles of ginger-beer.

  It was Daisy’s insensate prejudice against spirituous liquors, and her equally intemperate enthusiasm for gardening, that had driven Arthur to establish an alcoholic cache in the rockery. He liked a drink, and he disliked working in the garden. But Daisy forbade him to drink and drove him to dig. Therefore, as was natural, Arthur had sought ways of evading her prohibition and ameliorating his unwelcome toil; and after three or four unsatisfactory devices he had struck upon the happy idea of constructing a little cellar among the stonecrops. Here it served a general purpose and a particular purpose: it was a cellar, and therefore a pleasing and a useful possession at any time; and being situated in the garden it was of special service in lightening such distasteful tasks as weeding, mulching, bedding, raking, and sweeping up leaves.

  Arthur opened a quart of gin and poured a generous three-finger peg into each of the glasses. Then he added the ginger-beer, whose bounteous froth, reduced by the gin, quickly subsided and floated on the surface in little moonlit arabesques of foam. The mixture was
icy-cold and very agreeable to the palate.

  Wilfrid and Arthur sat side by side on convenient rocks and nursed their glasses. ‘I often come out here and have a quiet drink,’ said Arthur. ‘Daisy doesn’t like the idea of keeping wine or spirits in the house. She’s very broad-minded about most things, but she has rather a prejudice against drink – her father inherited a remarkably fine cellar and then neglected his business, you know – and it’s easier to pretend to agree with her than to argue with her. The way to treat a woman is to humour her: give in to her, Wilfrid, and if you have a scrap of ingenuity you can do it without sacrificing any of your ov/n amusements, though you may have to rearrange them a little.’

  ‘I wish I had as much confidence and knowledge of the world as you have, Arthur,’ said Wilfrid.

  Arthur experienced a feeling of genial satisfaction to be addressed in this way. A man of the world! Of course he was: soldier, adventurer, speculator, man of property, husband, and father – how could the title be denied him? But none the less it was pleasant to know that Wilfrid recognized his quality. The sensation of well-being that filled him, as though his arteries had been plumped-out by a transfusion of new blood, was commingled with protective affection for his young friend. He tilted his hat, leaned backwards against the rockery, and contemplated the sky with a wise and tolerant smile.

  ‘Knowledge of the world isn’t acquired without pain,’ he declared. ‘We old fellows who know the ropes, or think we do, have had to pay for our wisdom by bitter experience. We’ve knocked about a bit, you know. We’ve been through the mill. I don’t think you’ve any reason to envy us, Wilfrid. I remember going through hell, absolute hell, when I was your age; or younger, perhaps, yes I think I was younger; a woman, of course, it’s always a woman. A magnificent creature she was, too, very tall and dark, with a bold and rather insolent manner.’

  ‘Like Bolivia?’ Wilfrid asked.

  Arthur, who had been enjoying his painful memories, was slightly put out by the question.

  ‘Like Bolivia?’ he repeated. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. She may have resembled her in a general way, but not really. I don’t think – well, perhaps she did, after a fashion, though she was better looking of course.’

  ‘I do wish you could tell me what to do about Bolivia,’ said Wilfrid dolefully.

  Arthur coughed judicially. ‘Have some more gin,’ he said.

  ‘I would never do anything to interfere with Stephen’s happiness; you do believe that, don’t you? But honestly I can’t think he’ll be happy with her. They’re not suited to each other. Stephen must have somebody with him who’s really interested in him, and really sympathetic: but Bolivia doesn’t understand him properly, and I’m sure she won’t put up with all his little peculiarities. He has moods, you know. But she’s obviously determined to marry him, and I’m simply in despair.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Arthur. ‘H’m, h’m. Have you ever discussed Bolivia with him? Have you ever told him that you think she wouldn’t make a suitable or sympathetic wife?’

  ‘No, I’ve never said a single word about her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Stephen would think I was jealous,’ said Wilfrid. ‘And I’m not, Arthur, I’m really not. It’s just that I know he’ll be unhappy with her.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Arthur, ‘we must consider this very carefully. We mustn’t come to a rash conclusion, or to any conclusion, without taking everything into account. So let’s begin at the beginning, and tell me, first of all, if you think that Stephen is in love with her?’

  ‘He can’t be, with a woman like that.’

  ‘Now that’s where you show your lack of experience,’ said Arthur wisely and a little reproachfully. ‘When you’ve lived to my age you’ll discover that one of the fundamental frailties of the social fabric is that almost anybody, given the proper conditions, can fall in love with almost everybody. It sounds fantastic, I know, but it’s true, Wilfrid, it’s all too true. Ah, passion’s a curious thing. I remember, when I was a young man, becoming infatuated, absolutely infatuated, with a little gipsy-like creature – a chorus girl, Wilfrid – a vulgar little soul, but strangely fascinating, strangely vital, and very warmly attached to me, of course. Nothing could have been more unsuitable, but there it was: a passionate attachment between this gay, vulgar little gipsy, and me!’

  Arthur broke off his reminiscences in order to refill their glasses with gin and ginger, and Wilfrid took the opportunity to reintroduce the topic of Stephen and Bolivia.

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m quite sure she isn’t in love with him,’ he said.

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  ‘Bolivia.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Bolivia. Bolivia, of course. So she isn’t in love with Stephen, eh?’

  ‘She’s marrying him simply to get Major Gander’s seventy thousand pounds.’

  ‘Oh, abominable!’ said Arthur. ‘That’s depravity, nothing but depravity, if it’s true. To marry for money is a beastly thing. I know, for I had opportunities myself, but I said no. I said, “When I marry I shall marry for love,” and so I did. And I’ve never regretted it, never for a moment. I’m very much disappointed in Bolivia, to hear that she’s a girl like that, and the more I think of it the more I believe that you’re mistaken, Wilfrid. Bolivia isn’t capable of such depravity!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Stephen isn’t going to get the seventy thousand pounds! We’re going to get it, Daisy and I. That proves it, doesn’t it? Have some gin and ginger and don’t you worry about Bolivia. She’s a good girl, Wilfrid, I’m sure she is.’

  ‘But she isn’t good enough for Stephen,’ said Wilfrid stubbornly, ‘and if she marries him she’ll make him unhappy. And if they don’t get the Major’s money they’ll be still more unhappy. Stephen couldn’t bear to live in a house full of children.’

  ‘Children,’ said Arthur portentously. ‘They’re a great responsibility, Wilfrid, and yet the more I think about it the more I come to believe in what you might call the natural hypothesis. I see myself sitting at the head of a long table that is crowded, simply crowded, with young and happy faces. Now when you consider the sort of life that I’ve led, roughing it here and there, an infantry officer in the greatest war in history – a soldier for four years, living the fearful, squalid, and reckless life of a soldier – and then coming home and gambling on the Stock Exchange, gambling in real estate, with all the recklessness of a soldier; when you consider that, and remember the women I’ve known – the little gipsy creature who used to perch on my knee: what a leg she had! A trim warm-hearted vulgar little creature: what a life we led! Dancing, gambling, laughing, and making love. Utterly poor and recklessly happy. And there were others, of course, many many others – and after this vagabond existence I’m content to settle down in Lammiter! It’s astonishing, isn’t it? The domestic scene, a house full of children, a quiet patriarchal age: that’s all I want nowadays. Perfectly amazing, absolutely astounding, and yet there it is! It’s a natural law, Wilfrid, and the soldier of fortune comes home to his own fireside just like everybody else. You can laugh at Uncle John if you like, but he was right, he was absolutely right, when he said that a full quiver is a full quiver, and ripeness is all. Ripeness is all: that’s the word. Have another drink!’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Wilfrid sullenly, ‘but it isn’t helpful to me. I thought you were going to give me advice and tell me what to do.’

  ‘And so I shall,’ said Arthur. ‘You can rely on me absolutely. All my experience is at your service. Tell me what you want to do, and I’ll tell you how to do it.’

  ‘I want to keep Stephen from being made unhappy.’

  Arthur sadly shook his head. ‘Unhappiness is our mortal lot,’ he said.

  Wilfrid hurriedly added, ‘I want to prevent that horrible woman Bolivia from marrying him.’

  ‘Never come between man and wife,’ said Arthur.

  ‘But they’re not man and wife!’

  ‘That’s just it,�
�� said Arthur. ‘I was just coming to that. Now as they’re not man and wife your task is much much easier. Much, much, much easier. There are two instincts in nature, Wilfrid: one is centripetal, and the other is centrifugal. Sometimes you come in like this, and sometimes you go out like that. There’s the force of gravity on the one hand, and on the other hand there’s the force of levity. The whole thing’s like a see-saw. D’you understand? So what you’ve got to do is to leave it to Nature.’

  ‘You mean I can’t do anything at all?’

  ‘On the contrary, you’ve got to do a great deal. You’ve got to abstain from action like Fabius Maximus. Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator did nothing, and was very successful. So be wise and cunctatious like him, and leave it to Nature. If Nature’s going to be centrifugal, they’ll fly apart like bows and arrows. And that’s what you want them to do, isn’t it? Very well, then.’

  ‘You really think they’ll break it off before it’s too late?’

  ‘After a great deal of experience,’ said Arthur solemnly, ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that Nature is more inclined to be centrifugal than centripetal, and the force of levity is greater than the force of gravity. So everything’s going to be all right. You see what I mean?’

  ‘Oh, I do hope you’re right,’ said Wilfrid. ‘I’d feel so happy if I thought they were going to break it off.’

  ‘Have a drink,’ said Arthur.

  ‘No, really, Arthur, I must go home, because she was dining with Stephen tonight, and goodness knows how late she’ll stay if I leave them alone together. And besides, I’m getting cold. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ said Arthur. ‘Have another drink.’

  He divided between them what was left in the bottle. It gave them no more than a tablespoonful apiece, and they drank it without delay. Arthur, with a sudden access of high spirits, lifted his face to the refulgent sky and began to sing: