Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  Well, whatever nature’s plan might be, if she had a plan, he would choose to stand with Temple Manor rather than with Temple Towers. He preferred pity to property and beauty to a scheme of things that was brutal and bathotic. Possibly he was wrong in thinking that man might find other menaces to struggle against than the menace of brother man. What of disease and the insect world and the catastrophic whimsies of the weather? Even the house-fly and the mosquito and the aphis were doughty enemies. So, indeed were docks!

  Should he report old Crabtree to the proper official for allowing forbidden weeds to flourish?

  When Ghent had beaten his boundaries and assured himself that there were no other breaches in the fence, he came back by the Green Way, making a leisurely stroll of it as he looked over his plantations. Coming to one of the alleys that commanded the Folly Farm garden he saw that Max Broster had deserted the hammock, and was taking a little gentle exercise on the lawn, with a mashie and a little ball of white fluff. Ghent stood to watch him. Mr. Problem Man across the river appeared to be a little bit off his game. Sometimes the white ball soared in the air, but more often it dribbled feebly across the grass. An occasional sod went flying and suddenly, the man over yonder lost his temper like a fractious child. He took three ineffectual sloshes at the woolly white ball, and failing to gather it cleanly on the club-face, sent the mashie whirling into the lime trees, where, apparently, it stuck. But that was not the end of his display. He kicked the white ball into the river, and watching it float away, took out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette.

  Ghent was amused, but there was grimness in the mood. What absurd kids men were, both with watering-cans and golf clubs! Even the most philosophic souls could grow petulant over a billiard-table. Human vanity would not be conjured.

  But Mr. Problem Man was calling to his mate.

  “Rena, Rena.”

  She did not appear, and Ghent saw Max Broster walk irritably towards the house.

  “Rena. Damn the woman! Where the——?”

  He disappeared into the house, and Ghent strolled on, wondering whether the day’s most significant happening might not have been inspired by a sensitive protest against a man’s bad temper. Disillusionment and sleep, the long, blessed sleep? But surely, the reaction was too violent, unless she was more vividly sensitive and unhappy than most women.

  * * *

  The virile States will have it that young men are made for love and war, and historically they may be right in their realism, but life on the land breeds a rhythm of its own, and your grower of corn or of trees is a somewhat static person.

  Ghent was undressing when he heard voices and another sound coming from across the river. The night was profoundly still, and going to the bedroom window, he listened.

  The woman’s voice said: “Don’t, Max. Please go away. I’m not feeling like that.”

  “Damn it, don’t be silly. Come on. Open.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, yes, you will.”

  “I tell you I won’t.”

  He hammered at her door, and hurting his knuckles, used the toe of a slipper.

  “Come on, open up. What the devil do you think I came down here for?”

  “My dear, haven’t you any pity? I’m a person, not a——”

  “What the devil’s the matter with you to-day?”

  “I’m feeling dead. Please leave me alone, Max.”

  There was silence, and Ghent, leaning against the window-sill, waited and watched and listened. He could see the two windows lit up, and presently one grew dark, but in the other room the candle remained alight.

  He guessed that the light was in her room. She was keeping the little flame burning, as though she was afraid of the dark.

  VIII

  The morning turned out grey, a gloomy day, but when Ghent looked at the sky he knew it would not rain. This year tantalized you with clouds that were udderless and from which no milk of kindness poured. It gave you winds at gale force, and shrivelled leaves and tortured trees.

  Ghent and Bob Fanshaw met in the yard.

  “Think it will rain, Bob?”

  “Might give us a mizzle, sir, not more.”

  “Well, we had better get busy.”

  Ghent had bought a hundred yards of cheap hose at six pounds, fifteen shillings, and the pump had cost him thirty shillings, another bite from his bank balance. It seemed rather a futile business this pumping. The hose would reach only a small portion of the nursery, and the water had to be pumped into a galvanized tank into which cans could be dipped. It was like trying to water the Sahara with an ear-syringe. They might be able to save some of the smaller and more precious trees, and the young rhododendrons and azaleas, but the rest of the nursery would have to take its chance. Nothing but rain, and heavy rain would count.

  Ghent took first turn at the pump. He was filling the tank for the men’s cans, but the pump did not throw water sufficiently fast to keep the tank at dipping-level. Every now and again the men came down to fill their cans at the river. Chug, chug, chug, chug. Ghent changed hands at every thirty strokes or so of the semi-rotary pump. It was a monotonous business. He looked at the sky, at Folly Farm, at the river. How tantalizing was all that water! If only he could spill a few tons of it on to the thirsty soil!

  He saw the problem man’s car parked just outside the white garden-railings of Folly Farm. The man himself appeared in the porch, carrying a brown leather suit-case. Ghent saw him bundle the case into the car’s interior, and go back to the house. He reappeared in a few seconds with a golf bag and an attaché-case, and this time he was wearing his black, operatic hat. A departure obviously, and an early one, and was the lady going too? There seemed to be no signs of her, and Ghent, suddenly moved by an impulse that was not wholly personal, left the pump and walked round the cottage and down the lane to the main road. He heard the engine of the car come to life, and the rough and impatient meshing of the first gear. Max Broster was making for the high road. The car swung out and turned to take the bridge and was baulked there by somebody’s cows that were being driven to new pastures.

  The Broster car had no time to gather speed before it reached the lane, and Ghent, standing there, had a good look at the driver. His natural prejudices were piqued by what he saw, for prejudices can be so much more satisfying and valid than principles. Sallow and supercilious! The Broster profile provoked all that was insurgent in Peter Ghent. Yes, a supercilious, superfine, selfish-looking devil. The particular car, too, was priced at fifteen hundred guineas. A cad’s car! We like to think what we wish to think, and antipathy is more than a virtue, for virtue can be so negative.

  Ghent returned to the pump, but while he swung the handle to and fro, his thoughts were elsewhere, trespassing. What was the relationship between his two problem people? And was it any concern of his? He could suppose that they were married, though Peter did not belong to a generation that assumed cohabitation and holy wedlock to be synonymous. Certainly, that supercilious fellow’s easy-osy selfishness suggested matrimony. And suddenly he felt angry with himself. Was he not poking his fingers into other people’s private affairs like a boy exploring a honey-pot? He did not want to think of her in that sort of way.

  He grew restless. He felt bored with swinging the pump-handle to and fro. He shouted to Garland.

  “George, come and take a turn.”

  Garland relieved him, and Ghent changed to carrying cans over the dry, cloddy soil. It seemed to hiss when you poured water on it; but there was satisfaction in giving drink to these live and thirsty things. He and Bob passed and repassed each other in the rows. The chug-chug of the pump kept up a rhythmic sing-song.

  “How long is this sort of thing going on, Bob?”

  Fanshaw was gloomy.

  “Might be till Doomsday. Wonder how much we shall have left to shift this autumn?”

  Ghent rallied him.

  “No use being a Jeremiah, Bob.”

  Bob’s face suggested that the prophet had not been com
pelled to carry cans hither and thither while some fat and sententious god sat up above on a cloud and watched him.

  About ten o’clock Ghent heard the bell ring at the iron gates of his Show Piece. He put down his can, went for his coat.

  “All right. I’ll go, Bob.”

  Ghent heard Bunter barking, and Mrs. Maintenance’s please-step-inside voice. Mrs. Maintenance had gone to the gate, and provided that she did not find an adventurous “Bit” waiting there, she could coo like a dove. “Yes, please step inside, sir. Mr. Ghent’s in the nursery. Yes, this is a lovely piece, isn’t it?” For though drought ravaged the land, Ghent continued to dress his shop-window, and at the moment it was gay with cistus bushes and young ceanothus grown as standards and some late flowering rhododendrons. Mrs. Maintenance met him by the gateway in the treillage. A gentleman had come to look round, and appeared to be interested in Peter’s cistus show.

  Ghent found him bending over a bush. He was long and lean and colourless, and dressed in grey tweeds. His chin and nose were sharp and thin under his grey felt, and though Ghent had a feeling that he had seen him before somewhere he could not place his visitor.

  “Good morning. Mr. Ghent?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you wish to look round?”

  The gentleman in grey pointed a long, thin finger at a particular bush.

  “Nice thing—that.”

  “Yes, Ladaniferus, the true Green Cistus, sir.”

  “Hardy?”

  “Oh, quite reasonably so, sir. Best in full sun, of course, with some shelter.”

  The visitor produced a note-book and wrote down the name.

  “My hobby happens to be roses, Mr. Ghent, but I am developing a small piece of land, an addition, you understand. I rather fancy a bank of cistuses.”

  “Would you like one of my catalogues, sir?”

  “Yes, I think so. May I look round?”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll take you round myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peter collected a catalogue from the office. They were precious, and Ghent could not afford to spread them broadcast, but his visitor seemed to be a knowledgeable person, and not one of those trying individuals who wasted your time and a catalogue, and sent in no order. Ghent paused at the upper end of the Green Way, though its turf was ceasing to be green, save where clover and yarrow defied the drought.

  “Any particular thing you fancy, sir. I’m afraid most of the early flowering shrubs are over. This freak spring, you know.”

  His visitor was poking his nose into the catalogue.

  “Yes, exceedingly difficult year. I may need a few special conifers, and I’m thinking of putting in a new hedge. Those blue cypresses.”

  “Allumii, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s the breed. Something about four feet.”

  Ghent was not eager to show him that particular plantation, for it did not look hopeful, but his visitor appeared to be a persistent and meticulous soul. He sauntered, here, there, and everywhere on his long stilts of legs, and his nose was like a pointer when things were not quite as they should be.

  “You seem to have suffered a good deal, Mr. Ghent.”

  “We have, sir, frost and drought together.”

  “I see you are having to water.”

  “Doing what we can.”

  “Dear, dear, a most disappointing year.”

  His visitor was a little sorry for Ghent, but he was making this perambulation in the course of his professional duties. He saw Peter’s sick Allumiis, poked his nose at them, and looked dubious.

  “Will they survive, Mr. Ghent?”

  “Some of them, I hope, sir.”

  “Not a very safe proposition, I’m afraid.”

  “We have younger trees.”

  “Yes, but I rather wanted the larger ones. You cannot guarantee, of course——”

  “We should not send out moribund trees, sir.”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  They returned towards the cottage, and Ghent, who was finding his visitor a little depressing, asked him the obvious question.

  “Where is your garden, sir? Far away?”

  “No, near Loddon, Mr. Ghent. Well, well, I’m afraid I have taken up a lot of your time.”

  “Not at all, sir. Would you like to leave your name?”

  “My name is Sowerby.”

  “Sowerby? Of course, I thought I——”

  “I hope I shall be able to send you an order.”

  Peter showed Mr. Sowerby out knowing him now for what he was, the senior partner of Snape & Sowerby, but it did not occur to Ghent that the lawyer’s visit had been prompted by any other motive than the desire to purchase trees. Mr. Sowerby got into his car, and drove by way of Farley and the Marbridge road to Temple Towers. It was a circuitous route, and Mr. Sowerby was not altogether happy about it. Lawyer and horticulturist were in opposition, and Sowerby had liked young Ghent. Bad luck this drought. Particularly disastrous for people on the land.

  Sowerby found Mr. Crabtree playing clock-golf with his daughter. Mr. Crabtree was a man who would cheat at games, if given the chance, wheedle his croquet ball into a more promising position, or call a ball out at tennis when it was in on the line. He hated being beaten, and his daughter was beating him, but then, she was Crabtree.

  “Ha, Sowerby, any news?”

  They left Irene to play solus, and strolled across to a very elaborate rustic summer-house with stained-glass windows.

  “I’ve just been over young Ghent’s nursery.”

  “Oh, you have!”

  “Yes, I wanted to see some trees. I’m afraid he is having a rather rough time.”

  Mr. Crabtree stared.

  “Afraid! I’m your client, Sowerby, not that young Bolshie in shorts.”

  Mr. Sowerby smiled, moistened his lips, and said: “Quite so.”

  * * *

  She hated grey weather. All the unhappy things that had overtaken her in life had chosen grey days for their incidence. And a wind was rising. She saw it ruffling the willows and the water. Wind and grey skies together made summer seem shabby. Yes, she could suppose that she was a useless kind of creature; the person whom the social reformers called a parasite.

  How nice!

  She was alone in the house and glad to be alone. The long week-end had exhausted and disillusioned her. Romance had become as shabby as the weather. Romance! How she hated that word! But did she? If you tried to give to the wrong person? And now she felt humiliated and soiled. It would not last much longer, this affair. And what was she going to do about it, become somebody’s secretary or drudge, pursue other shabby adventures, or disappear?

  Restlessness consumed her. If she was alone in the house, and somehow responsible for it, why not get busy? She cleared away the breakfast things and washed them up.

  There were beds to be made, and she always fumbled her bed-making. She had not even the hands of a capable housemaid. A decorative creature. She went upstairs and into His room, and felt revolted by it. Max was an untidy person about the house, a man who expected everything to be done for him, everything to be cleared up after him. His bed looked as though he had spent a restless night, and she felt strangely nauseated by that bed. Must she deal with it? She knew now that she hated him.

  She went to the window and stood looking out. She saw the grey water and the wind-blown willows, and a figure swinging the handle of a pump. Almost, the figure seemed a mechanism, and yet, as she watched it she saw it become alive. She was conscious of compassion, of a sudden feeling for the significance of those monotonous movements, an understanding of the patient purpose behind them. The figure became spirit and ceased to be mere flesh. She saw him as man, contending, but not blindly, with the seeming malice of nature, while believing, that man, in struggling to transcend such forces, was fulfilling some destiny.

  She stood quite a long while at the window, watching him and absorbing from his simple labour a feeling of assuagement and of strength.

  And suddenly
she remembered her absurd and futile excursion in the punt. What an impulse! Had he suspected the poor, distracted purpose behind it? If so, what had he thought of her?

  She turned about and looked at that dishevelled bed, and the will to deal with it came to her. She stripped the sheets and pillow-slip, and in the cause of a fastidious thoroughness re-garnished it with clean linen. He would never sleep here again. Of that she felt assured. Nor did she confront herself with the old saying, that as you make your bed, so must you lie in it.

  * * *

  Peter was very tired, with a tiredness not only of the body, but of the spirit. He had been so near to the earth all day, and if, in earthly things, love and hate are very near together, he had come near to hating those poor trees who cried out to him for water. Action and reaction. In restlessness of spirit he had gone out after supper to patrol his acres and to discover whether other live things were crying out for help. Almost he could have said to any fresh suppliant: “You dare to ask me for water, damn you!” Then, he had come upon a little solitary starveling that had been left over in a corner because it had not flourished like its fellows, and he had stood and looked at it, and become conscious of compassion and of inward laughter. Yes, laughter against yourself, that most divine medicine, so rare and stimulating in a world of little vulgar and bitter egoisms. He had fetched a can and filled it and given the starveling drink.

  The wind had died away and the evening was grey and still, and the new mood that had replaced a feeling of angry weariness craved for contemplation and for contact with other essences. Objective things could become tyrannical unless you had the capacity for climbing above mere objectivity, and of divining, or feeling that you could divine, the ultimate realities beyond the sensuous veil. Ghent had the soul of a mystic, which meant that he realized that the very clever people had explained nothing, and that the eternal mystery remained.