Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  Was it the hammock that provoked him, and suggested that he should go round and tell her that Bob’s sister might be available to-morrow? Well, why not? It would be an act of consideration and of courtesy, and he could acknowledge the return of those matches. He was about to move away when he saw her come out into the garden. She appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then she wandered down to the water’s edge.

  Ghent raised an arm.

  “May I come round for a moment? I have some news.”

  He fancied that she smiled across the water.

  He found that she had walked up to the gate at the end of the lane and was waiting for him there.

  “Thank you for the matches.”

  “So silly of me to forget. I hadn’t forgotten, really. Running a house all on one’s own——”

  “Yes.”

  “What a lovely sky!”

  “I hope it means rain.”

  “But I thought a sunset meant good weather.”

  “Supposed to, but this is one of those mysterious years when strange things happen.”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  “Let’s call it dawn instead of sunset.”

  “Why not? By the way, I think I have heard of someone who might come in and help you.”

  “Have you?”

  “The sister of one of my men. She’s a widow. He is seeing her to-night.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “If you are worried about anything, or want anything, please let me——”

  Voices! Two people were coming along the highroad from the direction of Farley, but they were not yet visible to Ghent, for the gateway was recessed in the break of the hedge. Ghent half turned towards the road. He recognized the voices.

  They belonged to John and Mary Lynwood, and Mary was saying: “Well, I think it’s a mug’s game trying to live on the land. Look at Peter! Keeping a sort of crèche for baby trees. If life’s to be any good, it’s got to be controlled, and you’ll admit you can’t control the weather.” Suddenly all four persons were in view, and the confrontation might have embarrassed a more sensitive person than Mary. She just looked amused. Here was the tree-nursemaid caught at a gate with a Delilah. And for that matter Peter did want his hair cutting.

  Lynwood’s slow smile broke forth.

  “Hallo, Peter, we were just coming to look you up.”

  Ghent found his voice, and the urge to do and say something.

  “Oh, Mary and John, this is Mrs. Strangeways.”

  Mary gave the other woman a brusque nod, and deliberate consideration. Mrs. Strangeways might have been a shop-window in which no more than the perfect frocks were displayed. Her brother was kinder. He made some pleasant and banal remark about her being a new neighbour, and hoping she would like the valley.

  Ghent had seen that piquant little face grow small and bothered. He glanced at Mary, and catching those hard blue eyes of hers set in a suburban stare, was moved to put himself between them.

  “I’ll come back with you, John. Good night, Mrs. Strangeways.”

  Her small head turned quickly.

  “Good night. May it rain to-morrow.”

  They had reached the crown of the bridge when John’s sister made a characteristic remark.

  “Strangeways. Yes, it suits her. Decorative person.”

  Ghent was head-in-air.

  “Yes, her husband comes down for week-ends.”

  Mary let out a little neighing giggle.

  “Ah, that sort! I thought so from her frock.”

  X

  The day that followed was grey and windy and rainless like its fellows, and Temple Manor, looking down upon the valley from its high terrace and the cool greenness of its beechwoods, saw the meadows silver brown with starved grasses. Lady Melissa saw it with eyes that were so different from those of Temple Towers, compassionately, understandingly, and with a homeliness that was of the country. John Doe’s potato crop would be poor, and Jane Doe his wife would have no jam in her store-cupboard. The farmers, poor things, were short of feed for their beasts, and the root-crop had failed to germinate. In Farley village the local wells were giving out, and the community was asking why something was not done about it when the country could spend millions on beastly aeroplanes, and roads for the city folk.

  Viner, her head-gardener, stood beside the lady, a big, blond, buxom man, with a grizzled moustache and gentle eyes.

  “A crooked year, Viner.”

  “A Job’s year, your ladyship.”

  She smiled at that, and at his grave, biblical face.

  “How are we?”

  “Not so bad, your ladyship. You see, we’ve got the deep well, and our force pump and hoses. I’m keeping the men on watering. That new big sprinkler’s a peach.”

  “Yes, Viner, we can afford not to suffer. Things must be very difficult down there.”

  The big man nodded.

  “Aye, no fruit, nothing growing as it should, the peas all yellow. Farmers feeding cake. In the old days I’d say it would be a famine year.”

  “How’s Mr. Ghent doing?”

  “Pretty badly, I hear, your ladyship. Losing hundreds of trees. You see, that’s the trouble in a nursery, when you have to shift your stock every two or three years to make ’em ball properly. If you get caught by a drought like this, you’re in trouble. Not a decent rain since January, March like June, and the subsoil dried out.”

  “Yes, Viner; it’s very hard.”

  “It may break him, your ladyship. A good lad, too. And then, as everybody knows, Crabtree’s sitting on the fence like an old Tom-cat waiting to pounce.”

  “Does everybody know? I seem to be very ignorant, Viner.”

  “I shouldn’t say that, your ladyship. You know all that we know, and much more.”

  She ordered out the dog-cart, and handling the reins herself, drove down the great beech avenue, and into Farley village. She saw a queue of women and lads waiting at the village pump, and the dry and rusty foliage of the old sweet-chestnut that was dying. How patient these countryfolk were, as patient as the trees! They did not fly into tantrums like the factory crowd over some petty grievance. They were so much wiser than the urban people, for they were part of the soil and of its essential reality. She pulled up, passed the reins to the groom, and got out. She spoke to the women by the pump-house as she spoke to her friends.

  “I’m sorry the village is short of water. How much are you getting each?”

  “Two buckets, your ladyship.”

  “Makes life rather difficult. Something must be done about it.”

  Faces brightened to her.

  “If I had a tap in my place, your ladyship—— Our little old well’s given out.”

  “Bad for back and legs, Sarah. Yes, something must be done about it.”

  Sarah had served in her young days at the great house.

  “If anybody can do anything about it, your ladyship, it would be you.”

  “Thank you, Sarah. I’ll try.”

  She drove on, thinking how much easier it was for her to keep her great garden in heart at a time such as this, than for these working people to save their cabbages. Cabbages mattered, yes, even more than her rare plants mattered to her. She had men and water and all the appliances money could buy, that peach of a sprinkler! Her lawns were green. She came to the Weir Bridge, and pulled up there, and looked at the river and the valley. There was water, water in abundance, and yet—— How silly it was! All that was needed was that someone should think and spend money.

  She became aware of rude hootings. A car pulled up beside her. An angry face peered up, a pert little face with the smudge of a moustache.

  “Say, haven’t you more sense than to stop in a place like this?”

  She smiled down at the face.

  “I’m sorry, but you see, we live here, and we like to look. We don’t just hoot and pass.”

  Said the groom, as the cad drove on: “Yes, most of them are like that. No real sense, your ladyship, not even
horse-sense. If a fellow spends five quid on an old tin box on wheels he thinks he’s a lord.”

  “Yes, Simpson. I wonder why the world is in such a hurry? And it doesn’t seem to get anywhere, really, does it?”

  Peter was spending an hour in the office, and not liking it any better than he liked the day. He was not liking anything this morning, for he had gone to his bed and risen from it with a feeling that someone had breathed on the mirror of mystery and tarnished it. Paw-marks; facile, vulgar cynicism. He was seeing Mary Lynwood as a handsome, sophisticated slut, who, like so many of the moderns, conceived it to be clever and modish to assume that no basket ever contained clean linen. Also, he had felt moved to dip into his ledgers and compare this year’s season with the last. He kept a record of the number of people who visited the nursery, whether they became purchasers or not, and the numbers were discouraging. Fewer orders, fewer visitors. It seemed that this shabby summer had disillusioned the gardening enthusiasts, and yet, regarded in other ways, it might promise to be profitable. If people lost trees, they would have to replace them. They would come to him for trees. But if he had no trees to sell? Oh, that was nonsense, hysteria. A drought did not wipe out a whole nursery. The fact was that John’s septic sister had upset him, and he was feeling bitter.

  He did not hear the bell ring. It was George Garland who came to tell him that her ladyship was here.

  “She’s in the front bit, sir.”

  Ghent got off his stool. He was in a mood to curse any sort of interference, but Temple Manor was almost as welcome as rain would have been. Here was a sweet antidote to the cynic’s poison, a person of Olympian loveliness, who yet was human.

  Ghent found her sitting on the seat by the treillage. His strip of beloved turf had become toast, and on this grey morning the cistus shrubs were opening few flowers.

  “Good morning, your ladyship.”

  She knew at once that he was worried, for his brightness was like a streak of thin sunlight forcing its way through clouds. He had one of those very sensitive and illuminating faces that cannot conceal the inwardness of things. He was quickly angry, quickly touched, though his young dignity might try to wear a Spanish cloak.

  “May I look round, Peter?”

  “Of course. I’m afraid——”

  She rose.

  “Such a difficult year. Ground holding out?”

  “Not too well.”

  Bunter came to greet her, making gruff, conversational noises, and waggling a blunt stern. She bent down and caressed the dog. He had kind eyes.

  “I have just been reproved, my dear.”

  “You?”

  “For stopping my dog-cart on the bridge. Silly old baggage of the period of King John.”

  “The police? Hardly.”

  “No, a little man in a car.”

  “Oh, that sort of cad.”

  “The genus cad is difficult to define. Bunter coming with us?”

  “Wuff, wuff,” said the dog.

  That his trees were suffering and he with them was only too plain to her. Yes, it really was rather damnable. Nor could any Jehovahs be brought to book. She had no liking for Jehovahs, nor for penitent Jobs. She preferred her Jobs recalcitrant. That was good English, an arrow on the string, and a glance that said: “Get thee to hell!”

  She saw the length of hose trailing across the Green Way, and the sound of a pump.

  “Having to water?”

  “Yes, where we can.”

  There was tiredness behind his voice, and more than tiredness, nor did she stand and stare at the poor things who were looking sick. Why stress the obvious? Critics can be dastardly people when a world is needing help, for the finding of flaws may be a profession, cherishing the ills it pretends to chasten. To such blame-lovers my lady would have said: “Go and do better. Then, we will listen.”

  “Any construction work this year, Peter?”

  “No. I wish I had. This shabby summer seems to have depressed possible patrons.”

  “Do you know Sir Gavin Marwood, who has taken Thursby?”

  “No. I have heard of him, of course.”

  “Thursby is rather derelict, my dear. I believe—— Well, I’ll put in a word.”

  He glanced at her quickly.

  “That’s gracious of you.”

  “Not gracious. Shall we say——?”

  “I find it gracious. This year is making things rather tough, but I’m damned if I’ll be beaten.”

  “Good for you. The earth chastens those whom it wishes to love.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m getting my medicine. Whimpering’s no good on the land.”

  They were standing by the drooping elm, and turning to look across the river, her eyes fell upon Folly Farm. A figure was moving in the garden, carrying a basket towards the orchard.

  “New people there, Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  He was frowning. Should he honour that sudden impulse?

  “A Mrs. Strangeways. I think she’s rather nice. And not too happy.”

  How was it that she divined what was in his heart and head?

  “Shall I call?”

  “Would you? I know you are——”

  She looked for a second at his tense young face.

  “An inquisitive old woman? No, not quite that. I find all humans rather interesting, provided they are not Crabtree. My dear, if I called on Mr. Crabtree and asked him to help in financing a deep well and water-supply for Farley, what would the response be?”

  Ghent smiled at nothing in particular.

  “Snob and commercialist, in conflict! Does that sound cheap and bitter? I think he’d fall.”

  “And if I asked him to dinner?”

  “He’d be Adam.”

  Her eyes sparkled and then grew thoughtful.

  “I might try it. Yes, I’ll call on Folly Farm.”

  “Just at present I’m afraid she’s got no maids.”

  “All alone there?”

  “Yes, but I’m trying to get her a woman, Bob’s sister. One has to be neighbourly.”

  Dear lad, did he imagine she believed him to be no more than that?

  * * *

  Mrs. Strangeways was afraid of the letter. She had left it lying on the breakfast table, though she could not help glancing now and again at the familiar writing, so small and neat and particular. She was no student of caligraphy, but the Broster script revealed him to her as a man who did everything in front of a mirror. Even his handwriting seemed to scrutinize itself in a looking-glass, and to admire its tie and its trousers. The dramatization of self may remain bearable, if the actor can pull an ironic grimace at himself and laugh, but Max never laughed at himself. That would have been unseemly.

  How sick she was of this strutting, mannered egoism, a self-consciousness that was never out of its clothes!

  What had he to say to her?

  He had not written to her for a week.

  Was she piqued by this casualness, or was she frightened by it?

  Max’s stay at Folly Farm had not been a success. Butter that tasted of paraffin; a pie which had produced dyspepsia! Why had he allowed her to rent and furnish this rather lonely house? Why had he been so irritable? Love in a green valley, and the river and the willows, and clasped hands, and compassion, because a woman was giving that which was forbidden! No, that illusion had passed.

  Bob Fanshaw’s sister, Jane, put her head into the room. She had been persuaded to act as temporary help to Mrs. Strangeways.

  “If the butcher calls, m’am, what shall I order?”

  Oh, yes, the butcher! Mrs. Strangeways looked vague.

  “Some cutlets, Jane, or a small leg of mutton.”

  “Yes, m’am.”

  “Has the man come to put the gas right?”

  “Not yet, m’am.”

  “I hope he will come.”

  “Oh, yes, m’am, he’ll come all right.”

  Jane was liking Mrs. Strangeways. She was such a pretty lady, and had a g
entle voice, and seemed sad about something. And she did not expect you to make your supper off two sardines and a slice of stale bread.

  Well, life had to be faced, though life had presented her with a series of tragic or shabby transformation scenes. Or was it just musical comedy? She took the Broster letter out into the garden, and sat down in a patch of transient sunlight. Some crises were best confronted in the sunlight. She could divine the approaching crisis.

  She opened the letter, and read.

  Dear Rena,

  I went to see my doctor on Thursday, and he gave me a thorough vetting. Apparently I have been burning the candle too fast. He advised me to limit my work for a while, and to eliminate worry.

  I had intended talking certain things over with you on Sunday, but the fact is I felt too seedy. Matters have been very bad in the City. I have had a series of exasperating disappointments. We financial people, you know, have to carry rather exhausting responsibilities. Fact is, my dear, I shall have to be rather careful. I know you will understand. I’m afraid my next cheque will have to be a little less generous.

  Bad luck, but I know I can count on you to take the rough with the smooth.

  I’ve seen Irene. She’s an inexorable person.

  Don’t worry.

  Love.

  Max.

  Bad luck! Those words of his had become a kind of echo in her. Was she indeed one of those women who are fatal to men? That first tragic occasion, and the haunting belief that she had been responsible for it! Fog, her misreading of the meaning of a shadowy outline, her cry of “Right, keep right,” and then the crash. But for that cry of hers and her gripping of his arm, poor Guy would be alive. Just a patch of fog on a dark road, and sense impressions that had been misconstrued! All her life had been obscured with patches of fog. Even in the summer sunlight she could feel a ghost mist rising from the river.

  She shivered.

  Yes, Max’s passion for her had passed. Like all the other men she had met, his interest in her had been physical. He had never regarded her as a person. Vienna nights were over and all that sensuous glamour, Ascot and Goodwood, and little dinners in town while you drank champagne and the orchestra played Strauss waltzes. He had given her frocks and a pleasant little flat, and she had given him—herself. Surely, it was a curse for a woman to possess sex-allure and no money. Even Strauss waltzes could become a little shabby and sinister.