Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “Mr. Strangeways in business?”

  She caught her breath.

  “Yes, in the City.”

  “Stock Exchange?”

  “Not exactly. Finance, and all that.”

  He smirked at her.

  “That’s where the nice frocks come from. Where do you get ’em?”

  “This was from Paris.”

  “See that, Mother. You ought to try Paris. Mrs. Crabtree could have her thousand a year for frocks, but you won’t bother, Mother, will you? My wife’s very domestic. Passes on the pretty-pretties to the girls.”

  Ghent reappeared on the opposite bank with a couple of watering-cans, and stood for a moment surveying the conversation piece in the Folly Farm garden. This was sacrilege! And old Crabtree, observing him, made a characteristic remark.

  “That young pup’s no right to take water from the river.”

  Mrs. Strangeways was busy with the tray which Jane had carried out and placed upon the garden table.

  “No right?”

  “No.”

  “But surely it won’t hurt the river?”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, dear lady, if you’ll excuse me. Supposing every fellow who owned three yards of bank began to pinch water. Supposing factories did what they damned well pleased? Wouldn’t be much river left, what? You and I might be sitting over a mud-bank.”

  He chuckled, and she poured out tea.

  “But Mr. Ghent wants water for his trees.”

  “Well, let him buy it, or put down a well of his own. Besides, the young ass is just wasting his time over there. Ladling teaspoons on to the Sahara. No ideas, no sense, no money. I’m a man of ideas, Mrs. Strangeways.”

  She rose and carried a cup to Mrs. Crabtree.

  “Is it sugar?”

  “Two lumps, please.”

  “Three for me, I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

  Assuredly, he stank of new paint, most aggressively so.

  She attempted to draw Mrs. Crabtree into conversation, but without success, for the husband decapitated all such attempts, like a boy switching off thistle heads with a stick. Lord Temple Towers, for that was what he proposed to be, handed no bouquets to poor Mary. Did Mr. Strangeways shoot? He could give him some rough shooting, and a day or two with the pheasants he preserved in Badger’s Wood. “Costs me a guinea a bird, m’am, but no matter.” Yes, Mr. Strangeways did shoot. And then she lapsed into a desperate lie. She was afraid that her husband would be away in the autumn. He might be going to America on business, business connected with the cinema world.

  “What’s he in—pictures?”

  “Interested, financially.”

  “Why, that’s an idea. I’m a man of ideas. He ought to put you on the screen. Just the figure for it, if I may say so.”

  “I’m afraid you’re a flatterer, Mr. Crabtree.”

  “Me? I never flatter anybody, do I, Mother?”

  Mrs. Crabtree, sitting up very straight, answered obediently:

  “Never.”

  Mrs. Strangeways, too, was conscious of the man across the river, coming to fill his cans, and labouring with them up the bank. What did he think of her party? How would he have reacted to old man Crabtree’s cynical and smirking suggestions? Why had she told those futile fibs? Because her life was a lie? Oh, if it would only rain, just to flout this vulgar old curmudgeon! How long was he going to sit in that chair, and air his blue socks, and ogle her?

  “Like dancing, Mrs. Strangeways?”

  “Dancing?”

  “Yes, we give a hop now and again in the Temple Towers ballroom, don’t we, Mother?”

  Mrs. Crabtree inclined her head.

  “Rather a posh room, Mrs. Strangeways. My own idea. Had pictures painted on all the walls. American bar too. Yes, I’m a man of ideas. Even got a real live fountain in an alcove, fountain with ferns. Gives you a feeling of coolness when your collar’s getting sticky.”

  “Indeed! How very original.”

  “Cost me two thousand, that ballroom. If you’ve got ideas, they’re worth paying for.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I dance a bit myself, you know. Don’t I, Mother?”

  “Yes, Roger, you do.”

  She was rid of them at last. Mr. Crabtree entered the yellow Rolls before his wife, and letting down a window, smirked at her.

  “You forgot to thank me for the strawberries.”

  “How silly of me! Thank you so much. We ought to have had them for tea.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Strangeways. We could eat strawberries every hour of the day up at Temple Towers, if we wanted to. Couldn’t we, Mother?”

  “Yes, Roger, if we wanted to.”

  The Rolls, driven by the melancholy and embittered Scattergood, carried them away.

  * * *

  Afterwards, she was confronted by the egregious lie she had told. It followed her round the garden, and into the house and into her bedroom like some persistent and suborning old man who had a lien on love and was determined to exercise it. “Now then, young woman, what about it?” What an ass she had been, a sick-making ass. She had had some experience of men, and Mr. Roger Crabtree belonged to the inexorable brotherhood of realists who believed in the philosophy of treating ’em rough and never writing, and who were persuaded that no woman ever told the truth. She gathered that he had not believed her, and that even if a Mr. Strangeways was postulated, Strangeways was not Broster. The truth would come out. It was bound to come out in a country neighbourhood such as this.

  But why was she so distracted about it? She had followed Mrs. Warren’s profession for three years, even if she had been fooled into entering it. What was the difference between yesterday and to-day?

  Was it because——?

  She stood at her window and saw Peter Ghent bending down to fill two cans. She saw him straighten, stand, and look across the river. He appeared to be looking at her window and at her, and so strong was the impression that she drew back guiltily. Dear God, had she suddenly found blushes and a conscience because——? But how impossible, how blah! Love in a valley, and a young man with the eyes of an eager and passionate boy, a young man with illusions about beauty and the mystery one calls God! Oh, no, she was just imagining it. There could be no escape for her in the arms of so earnest a lover.

  She took off the frock that Mr. Crabtree had admired, and put on a straw-coloured thing which was old and which she considered dowdy. As a matter of fact it was her fate to be incapable of looking anything but attractive whatever she happened to put on. Her slim, straight figure was too perfect, her head set so charmingly on its sensitive neck. Her hair was beautiful and sleeked itself into gentle waves whether she bothered about it or not.

  Well, she would be practical; she would emulate poor, inarticulate Mrs. Crabtree. The garden was needing attention, and though the grass had been mown and chastened by the drought, weeds flourished. She had inherited an assortment of perennial plants that were struggling to survive in competition with the natural flora. She could put her useless hands to weeding, and rescuing delphiniums and phloxes and Michaelmas Daisies from gradual submergence. She could even emulate Peter Ghent and give the thirsty things a drink. Her equipment did include a Sussex trug, a weeding fork, and a small watering-can. She found herself dipping that absurd little can in the river, and was seen doing so by the man who filled and carried two three-gallon cans on each visit to the water.

  * * *

  Never, in the memory of man, had there been a year more fickle and sudden in its moods, and if the spirit of her had revolted against the illusions of mere sense enchantment, and she had said: “I will be dowdy; I will not truckle to sex,” the day played tricks. It had been grey for the Crabtree occasion, but about seven o’clock the sky cleared as though a velarium had been stripped from it, and the sunlight came laughing across the valley. She had proposed to put away all enchantment, but the evening restored it to her. Mystery and golden splendour and the loveliness of secret shad
ows came back to the world. The trees seemed to change colour; the river opened sleepy eyes. Such trees as were aflower in Ghent’s nursery were lit up like brilliant threads in a green tapestry. The brickwork of the old bridge became warm as velvet. She felt the warmth of the sunlight on her cheek and neck, and something in her trembled and reached out to all this sudden beauty.

  Jane came out to her.

  “I’ve laid supper, m’am. Would you mind if I went out for an hour? I can wash up when I come back.”

  “Of course, Jane; go out.”

  “I’m just going up to Farley, m’am.”

  “Yes, Jane; I can manage.”

  She was liking Bob’s sister, for though Jane talked too much, she was a kind soul. Mrs. Strangeways put her gardening gear away, and went in to supper, for Jane called it supper. And why shouldn’t she clear away and wash up for Jane? It must be rather depressing to come back and find other people’s leavings on your hands.

  Mr. Crabtree’s strawberries were on the table, but she did not fancy that fruit. She would leave it to Jane. She ate her supper with the evening sunlight slanting across the room, and touching a particular picture on the wall. It was one of her own pictures, for there had been days when she had dabbled in water-colours. At the age of eighteen she had been a Slade School student.

  She had finished the meal, and had cleared away the plates that were to be washed, into the housemaid’s pantry, when she heard the bell ring.

  She stood, startled and irresolute.

  Who was the visitor? Not that impossible old man?

  XII

  She had closed and locked the porch door in Jane’s absence, and she would have been glad of an old-fashioned grille through which she could have scrutinized her visitor.

  “Who is it, please?”

  “Peter Ghent.”

  She had a blue-and-white check glass-cloth in her hand, and she stood twisting it while the two selves in her struggled together.

  “Jane’s out.”

  “Please don’t bother, if——”

  And suddenly she was ashamed of her cowardice. One of those strange impulses that have made women surrender to fate or to God, and strip themselves and stand naked in the presence of some emotional revolution, moved her to open the door. She saw him standing there, a dark figure against the sunlit landscape; his face was infinitely grave and tired.

  “Jane’s out for an hour. I’m just washing-up for her.”

  His eyes were on hers.

  “Can I help?”

  She was trembling. Her eyelids flickered. This was not the Max Broster atmosphere. Oh, blessed naturalness! She felt that she wanted to wash in it and be clean.

  “Haven’t you worked enough for to-day?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty tough. Besides, some of the trees that looked like passing out, have their heads up.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  She was glad. She stood back and let him in.

  “Sit and be lazy while I finish.”

  “I’d like to help. I’m used to it. When my old lady goes out for the day I do all the chores.”

  He was wondering why her face looked so soft and mysterious and why the fear had gone out of her eyes. Nor could he divine the emergence in her of a kind of Godiva spirit, a feeling of solace and exaltation in her passion to renounce all shams. She was not going to lie and pretend to this one man. She was going to dare that which she had never dared before, even though he treated her as Angel Clare treated poor Tess.

  She turned and walked down the passage leading to Jane’s pantry, and as he followed her, his young deliberate footsteps had an added meaning for her. How he would loathe her to be surreptitious, even though an inspired sincerity might hurt him, if he was what she felt him to be. There is no shame like surreptitious shame.

  “Will you take the cloth, and dry?”

  She passed it to him, and put her hands into the basin that held the plates and glass and cutlery. They stood side by side, with the evening sunlight shining in. She was glad of the light, and the mood that sustained her.

  “So, you’ve had old Crabtree here.”

  She smiled, and without looking at him, passed him a plate.

  “Horrible old man.”

  He took the plate from her.

  “Was the paint very——?”

  “Not even dry. And yet, I’m grateful to him.”

  He glanced at her soft hair. What an innocent head she had!

  “Grateful?”

  “Yes, it might be difficult for you to understand. You see, I lied to Mr. Crabtree.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t suppose you have ever had the experience of being shown yourself in a cracked mirror. Imagine someone you despise showing you a very unpleasant picture of yourself. Making you realize what you must appear to be to a vulgar old cynic.”

  “Did he do that?”

  She passed him another plate.

  “Yes. Hence, the idea of pretending about certain things becomes suddenly shameful. Please don’t drop the plate.”

  He was holding it with both hands, and looking at her.

  “What was the——?”

  “I told him I was married.”

  “I see.”

  “And I’m not. So, when you have dried that plate, please walk out of the house, if you want to.”

  He dried the plate, put it down with deliberate, steady hands. The silence held for some seconds. What would he do? She did not care, somehow. She was feeling full of a strange exultation, as though she had taken a handful of snow and held it against her bosom.

  She said, almost brightly: “Now, in the language of the road repairers, ‘You have been warned.’ You know what kind of woman people like Crabtree may suppose me to be. If you——”

  He stood quite still, looking out of the window.

  “Wait a moment. Do you mind telling me something?”

  “Haven’t I told you enough? Be merciful.”

  “It’s rather different. You remember, the punt, and your losing the pole?”

  Her face had a ravaged look.

  “Oh, yes. If you must know, I was rather at the end of things.”

  “I wondered.”

  “So did I. Yes, please hang the cloth on that hook. Jane can put the things away. She knows where she likes them to live. And now, I think I’ll go out into the garden.”

  She moved to the door, head up, the sunlight on her hair.

  “May I come too?”

  “Don’t you think you had better go home?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not the woman I was yesterday. I shall never be that sort of woman again.”

  He followed her down the passage, his eyes on the white curve of her neck.

  “You think I’m shocked?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, please——”

  “But not in the way you think, perhaps. I mean—that——”

  “You are shocked at yourself, not me?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. You see——”

  They had reached the garden, and suddenly she faced about, and her eyes were frightened.

  “Please go home, now. Do you mind? I’m so new that I do not know myself, somehow. I must be smelling of paint.”

  He looked at her steadfastly.

  “No. Yes, I’ll go. But will you tell me your name?”

  “Mrs. Strangeways. Yes, it really is that. I lost my husband years ago.”

  “Please don’t tell me anything. I’ve no right. But I meant—your other name.”

  “Renata.”

  “Haven’t you any other?”

  “Yes, Sybil.”

  She saw him smile.

  “That rather suits you better. And thank you, thank you most terribly. Good night.”

  Mrs. Maintenance, who liked to have everything tidy and locked up by ten, fell to yawning in her chair, with the dog lying in her lap. Those wretched B.B.C. people had cut off the ni
ne o’clock news, and Mrs. Maintenance, like most of the working world, loved to listen to the news and then toddle up to bed. Mr. Peter was out somewhere, which was unusual, and she could suppose that he had gone across to Chesters to smoke a pipe with Mr. Lynwood. In point of fact Mr. Peter was walking up and down the parched turf of the Green Way, watching a lighted window, and trying to harmonize elements in himself that were utterly at variance.

  So, she was a kept woman!

  And why had she been so starkly honest with him?

  Had he been warned off? Because the other fellow——?

  No, damn it, that was not the explanation! That was Crabtree philosophy. Had she not said: “I am not the woman of yesterday. I shall never be that sort of woman again.” She had been trying to make him understand. Yes, just what? That a woman may not be what the vulgar can assume her to be, that she can remain virginal in spite of—— Good God, was he being a prig? Morals. What were morals? The fence you tried to erect round the other person.

  And then, hadn’t she confessed that she had been feeling desperate about life?

  She had not been dramatizing herself or playing with self-pity.

  Crucifixion!

  And old Crabtree had provided the spear and the sponge soaked in vinegar.

  Sensual old cad!

  * * *

  A feeling of assuagement came to him. His restlessness died away. He went to the river and sat down on the bank close to the water. He could hear it stirring almost inaudibly in the water-weeds and sedges. How subtle and intimate nature could be! Her light was still burning, and he watched it. Yes, that was spirit, a tiny point of flame which refused to be put out, in spite of coarse circumstance and social sophistications. Strange how life got you! According to the old conventions he should have been shocked and nauseated, and he wasn’t. He was conscious of a profound tenderness, compassion. He seemed to be aware of her as an aery, sensitive thing that had caught in a web, and was struggling to escape. Sensitive! Yes, how would he have felt had he been in her place? Would he not have cried out against any gesture that was too crude? Would he not have asked for a love that could honour the struggle for self-transfiguration, and waited devoutly and in silence?