Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  He wanted Renata.

  After all, might she not be attempting a noble self-effacement? Some women did that sort of thing. Just impulse, a kind of inverted tenderness. Besides, this was a new experience for him. He had always shed his romantic adventures, never been shed by them. He would give Irene a lesson. He would go down and be loved by Renata.

  * * *

  His car passed Marplot just when Ghent and Mrs. Strangeways were gazing upon the Crabtree wilderness. Cars passed over the Weir Bridge without being remarkable, nor did they hear it stop at the Folly Farm gate. The gate was shut, and Mr. Broster, feeling that life was wronging him, even in such trivialities, got out and opened it. The garage was locked, and he had to leave his car outside the white fence.

  Moreover, the porch door was locked. Jane, being nervous, saw to that; doors were locked when she was alone in the house. Mr. Broster rang the bell. Now, Jane had heard the car and taken a peep at it through the landing window, and seeing so handsome and sumptuous a machine was relieved of any anxiety as to tramps. She went down and unlocked and opened the porch door.

  “Mrs. Strangeways in?”

  Not only did he ask the question, but he showed every intention of coming in, as though he had a right to enter, but Jane stood her ground.

  “Mrs. Strangeways is out, sir.”

  “Out! Oh, where?”

  “Having tea with Mr. Ghent, across the river.”

  Jane did notice that the strange gentleman’s rather high and haughty face seemed to tighten.

  “Is that so! Well, just give me the garage key. I’ll put the car away, and wait in the garden.”

  Jane’s eyes popped.

  “The garage key, sir?”

  “Yes,” said he sharply; “I’ll put my luggage out, and you might carry it up.”

  Jane’s eyes popped still further.

  “Mrs. Strangeways wasn’t expecting anybody, sir.”

  “So I infer. But you can carry that luggage up,” and he turned and walked out into the garden.

  Jane stood biting a finger. She was not going to carry in any strange gentleman’s luggage, not she, without proper authority. And she did not like Mr. Broster. Nasty, supercilious sort of man, with his bits of whiskers, and his smeary mouth, and a voice that talked down at you as though you were less than the cat. Who was he, anyway, coming down with his car and his luggage as though he owned the place? Jane shut the door, and went back to her tea.

  A deck-chair offered itself by the lime trees. Mr. Broster accepted it, sat down, gave a tweak to his trousers, and felt peeved. Gone out to tea, had she? And who was Ghent? Oh, that fellow who grew trees, and humped cans about. The horticultural robot. Max felt for his case, and lit a cigarette. He sniffed the smoke, and then became aware of two figures strolling side by side along the opposite bank. He could not say just why, but he got the impression that they were very much taken up with each other. He saw them pause for a moment, and stand looking at Folly Island. Almost, their arms seemed to touch. The man said something, and the woman looked up suddenly into his face.

  “Yes, just like a green ship.”

  They remained there with a peculiar, dreamy stillness, gazing at the island and its willows, as though they were sharing in the inception of some new and mysterious revelation.

  XV

  The little cry that came from her was almost inaudible and quite inarticulate, but it stung Ghent like a cry of pain. Head up, like some startled creature she was looking across the river to the garden of Folly Farm. A haze of fear had come back into her eyes. Ghent too saw the man in the deck-chair, his long legs extended, his little, distant face somehow sinister and menacing.

  “You’ll have to excuse me.”

  She began walking fast along the bank, and her movements had a vibrant breathlessness. And Ghent, suddenly very tense and grim, as though a cold wind was biting at his face, swung along beside her.

  “Must you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I must. I—I didn’t——”

  Her agitation seemed to smother her. She hurried, and her haste hurt him. Also, it drove him to a passionate recklessness.

  “Can’t you tell me?”

  Her face looked small and puckered.

  “I—I can’t. Yes, I must. I didn’t expect him to come here again, ever.”

  “Well, why go back?”

  “I must. You remember that letter I posted?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was to tell him something was finished.”

  They had reached the main turning towards the cottage, and Ghent, glancing back across the river, smiled strangely.

  “What if I went?”

  She looked at him with sudden fear.

  “Oh, no, that would be—— I must do this myself. Please understand. I must go through with it.”

  He said: “I think I understand. And if I do, can’t I be allowed a part in it?”

  Her eyes were poignant.

  “No. There’s a certain seemliness about things. It wouldn’t be fair. One should clean up one’s own spilt milk.”

  He was silent. They had passed the cottage, and were walking up the path towards the gate.

  He opened it for her.

  “There’s one thing nothing can stop me doing.”

  “What?”

  “I shall come across last thing, and see if I’m wanted in any way.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t,” and she fled.

  * * *

  Let it be confessed that Peter Ghent took cover under the weeping elm, and then, with a sudden fierceness of young self-scorn, flung himself out of that green tent, and went in search of something upon which he could use his hands. No, damn it, he was not going to spy upon her. If her intimate past had to be dealt with she was utterly right in her contention that she must deal with it herself. There was a stretch of the Badger’s Lane hedge that needed trimming, and Ghent took a slasher from the tool-shed, and got to work upon the hedge. Striking upwards with the long-handled bill he was moved to think that this was how emotional entanglements should be dealt with, slashed at vigorously and lopped off. Yes, he did believe that he was beginning to understand her, and the ruthless sincerity with which she was seeking transplantation. A woman with a past! Well, he could suppose, that with the fierce and fastidious egoism of the lover, he should resent that past and be nauseated by it, and yet it was not so. Somehow, her sophistication attracted him. But was that the right word? He could not help thinking of her as being exquisitely virginal, a woman whose texture had not been tarnished, and who, when she gave would give with a passion and a completeness that were not those of mere raw youth. Was it that he wanted to rescue her? Was he inspired by a rather priggish pity? He swung the slasher and struck at the inward self accusation.

  * * *

  She tried to will herself into an aloof calmness as she walked across the grass to the lime trees.

  “Didn’t you get my letter?”

  She saw him draw up his long legs, and then stretch them out again. His upward glance was oblique and ironic.

  “Oh, yes, my dear, I received that interesting epistle.”

  “Then didn’t you understand?”

  “Not quite. But now, if I may say so, I begin to appreciate the reason for this sudden display of virtue.”

  She was trembling.

  “Don’t be a beast, Max. I meant all I said in that letter.”

  “Indeed!”

  “I’ll write you a cheque for my balance, and return you the lease.”

  He sat up, chuckling, but it was a malevolent chuckle.

  “Am I as de trop as all that? I’ve brought my pyjamas with me.”

  She had been standing beside his chair, but now she moved so as to face him.

  “How cheap of you! I agree that the house is yours. You can sleep in it, but I shall not.”

  His hard eyes quizzed her.

  “Got a bed booked over the way?”

  She stood very still a moment, and then she said: “Max, can’t
you take this thing decently?”

  “Not as I took you, indecently.”

  “Oh, be quiet. If I had known then—— But what is the use of digging up things that are dead? I want to be free. I am going to be free.”

  He smirked up at her.

  “That’s splendid. But you are a rather expensive young woman. Can the lad over the way afford you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Why infer?”

  “Do you deny it?”

  She looked away, above his head.

  “What if I don’t? But not in the way you understand. No woman is interesting to you, Max, until you have dined and drunk and are contemplating bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My dear, it’s so true. You love your own senses and the thing that pleases them. I want someone to love my spirit.”

  He was growing angry.

  “Don’t talk rot. Do you think that hobbledehoy——”

  “Please leave him out of it.”

  “Why should I? Let’s get down to brass tacks. You’ve been my tart, a very superior one, I’ll admit, and I’ve spent a damned lot of money on you.”

  “I’d return everything if I could. And, Max, I gave you something which you never understood. I thought——”

  “That I was going to make an honest woman of you.”

  “Don’t be so cheap. In those early days I did believe——”

  “Oh, did you! Well, you got well paid for it. And now, let me tell you, my dear, that if you’ve bamboozled that young fool over there——”

  “Max!”

  “It might be my duty to enlighten him.”

  She did not flush at this. Her skin was the colour of a magnolia flower.

  “How magnanimous of you. As a matter of fact, he knows.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “And he’s willing to take my leavings?”

  She stood and looked at him.

  “What a cad you are!”

  “Am I? Well, anyway, I’m sleeping with you to-night.”

  She did not answer him, but turned away, and walking to the water’s edge, sat down on the bank. She could suppose that a man of Max’s temperament could behave in this way when his vanity was smarting, but she could not believe that the beastliness would last. Even promiscuous cads can revert to decency. The trouble was he had no sense of humour, only a kind of acid juice that squirted itself over life and thought the smeary product clever. And like Mr. Crabtree he had the eyes of the sensualist, though his were cold, and the older man’s brown and hot. She felt sick of sex, nauseated by it. The thing had no magnanimity, no compassion. It could storm and threaten violence, and hail treachery as a kind of moral duty. And how had she ever come to love this man? Had she ever loved him? She had accepted the accostings of circumstance, the illusions of sense enchantment. He was tired of her, so why this cheap truculence? Had her tiring piqued him into a new desire for her? Was it just spite, the vanity of the flesh?

  She watched the water slide past. She saw that the opposite bank was empty, and she was grateful for its emptiness. To have had him as a third party in this sordid wrangle would have been—well, sacrilege. And she was so afraid that even he could not forgive her this tarnish.

  She heard Max’s voice behind her.

  “Well, thinking better of it?”

  “I was leaving that to you.”

  “Much obliged. Doesn’t it occur to you that you are an ungrateful little——”

  “I gave what you wanted me to give.”

  She heard him yawn, and could visualize him stretching.

  “Dinner at eight, what! That female of yours had better be stimulated. I’ll go in and unpack.”

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  “Well, do. I think I’ll stay here.”

  “Righto. I suppose you’ve got some of the fizz left I sent you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Splendid! We’ll uncork, my dear. One feels a bit more friendly when one’s warmed up, and in——”

  He saw her head turn quickly.

  “Very well. Go in and unpack.”

  * * *

  Jane did not know what to make of the situation. Here was this very superior gentleman unpacking his belongings in the spare-room, and whistling “The Lambeth Walk,” and shouting down the stairs to her. “Hallo, What’s Your Name, is the bath water hot?” Jane objected both to the what’s your name, and to his hoity-toity manners. No, the bath water was not hot, and it was not going to be hot unless Mrs. Strangeways ordered it to be so. Mr. Max Broster’s desultory whistling continued. He seemed to be making a great deal of noise upstairs, proprietary noise. “Banging about,” Jane called it. Again she heard his voice admonishing her.

  “Hallo, Miss What’s Your Name.”

  Jane bridled, even to herself, in the hall.

  “My name is Masters, and Mrs., if you please.”

  “How interesting! Well, Mrs. Masters, we beg to solicit dinner at eight.”

  We indeed! Nasty, sarcastic bounder, with his little bits of whiskers and his sneery mouth! Jane retreated to the kitchen, and feeling more and more posed and perturbed by the situation, set herself the task of preparing a salad for Mrs. Strangeways’s supper. She was at work at the table by the window when her mistress appeared at it.

  “Oh, Jane.”

  The casement was open, and when Jane’s eyes rested upon her mistress’s face, she knew as woman that all was not well with the world.

  “Yes, m’am.”

  “I’m going out.”

  “Are you, m’am?”

  “Give the gentleman some supper, and tell him I shall not be in.”

  Jane’s eyes popped.

  “He’s unpacked his things, m’am.”

  Mrs. Strangeways’s face looked drawn and pale.

  “Jane, I want you to help me. Take all the clothes from the spare-room bed, and hide them.”

  “I will, m’am.”

  “And give the gentleman to understand that we’re not expecting him to stay.”

  “With pleasure, m’am.”

  Jane saw her mistress disappear into the Folly Farm orchard, and if Jane’s curiosity was somewhat head-in-air, her prejudices were all on the side of the sex. Didn’t she know what pestilent, mischievous nuisances men could be? And that cheeky bounder upstairs, whistling and shouting about the place as though it belonged to him! And what, exactly, was his significance in Mrs. Strangeways’s world? Funny people from London! But Jane liked where she liked, and was more than ready to help confound the person whom she did not approve of, a most national and wholesome reaction. Tepid people are past praying for.

  Jane waited until she heard Mr. Max Broster come down the stairs, and go into the dining-room to help himself to a drink from the cocktail cabinet. That had been one of his installations. He carried the little drink with him out into the garden, and Jane bundled up the stairs and into the spare-room, and dragging all the clothes off the bed, trailed them into her own room and hid them under her own bed. Bolster and pillow-case followed. Jane had not been born and bred Fanshaw for nothing. Brother Bob would have enjoyed all this. She did more. She huddled Mr. Broster’s belongings back into his two suit-cases, set them on the landing, locked the spare-room door, and also Mrs. Strangeways’s door, and pocketed the keys. That would give Mr. Little Bits of Whiskers something to think about. And he expected dinner at eight, did he? Well, he should have it! She soused the salad with vinegar, and placed three slices of cold and rather stale tongue on a dish. Sweets? Not likely! He could be satisfied with a piece of Cheshire cheese, and then get into that swanky car of his and tootle off to digest the tongue and vinegar and cheese, and other matters. Jane knew a thing or two about chastening the appetites of the male.

  * * *

  Mr. Broster did kick the door, and Jane had been expecting some such reaction.

  “Hi, woman, what the devil do you mean by putting my luggage out here?”

&
nbsp; He had gone up to refill his cigarette-case, and so had discovered the plot.

  Jane stood primly in the hall.

  “Supper is served, sir. Mrs. Strangeways told me to serve it to you before you left.”

  “Where’s your mistress?”

  “Gone out, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Would you like plain water or cocoa with your supper?”

  Shades of Le Chat de Paris, Udolpho’s, the Mayfair and the Ritz, plain water or cocoa!

  “Damn you, woman, where’s the key of this door?”

  Jane, having sacrificed to courtesy, conceived it her privilege to use candour.

  “Where you won’t find it. And let me tell you there are no bedclothes on that bed. And if you want your supper——”

  “Who told you to do this?”

  “That isn’t any business of yours, is it? You must be a very stupid gent not to see when you’re not wanted.”

  She heard the sudden, immanent descent, and the sounds of a suit-case banging against the banisters. So, he was coming down, and Jane retreated towards the kitchen door.

  “Your supper’s there if you want it. You can have it before you leave.”

  “Oh, go to hell, you interfering bitch!”

  Jane cackled. She was not shocked by such language, but accepted it as the bouquet of victory. She watched Mr. Broster bundle himself and his suit-cases out of the porch door. He had left his black, anarchist hat on the garden table, and he went to collect it. Jane moved to the porch, prepared, if necessary, to shut and lock the door. But Little Bits of Whiskers attempted no further invasions. He walked out of the garden, and round to the garage, and a moment later Jane heard the indignant roar of his car’s engine. She too was a luxury product, and not accustomed to such butcherly treatment.