Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “Right. I’ll act as ferryman, but I’ll leave the next salvage job to you.”

  * * *

  They were at supper, with Sarah waiting upon them, a Sarah who was in an episcopal mood, and both blessing and regularizing the occasion with her presence, when Ghent, looking out of the window, saw that the day was playing yet another trick upon them. The rain had ceased. The sky became streaked with sudden rents of blue, and as though a great lamp had been turned on, a flood of yellow light poured down into the garden. It flooded into the Marplot parlour, lighting up Sybil Strangeways’s hair, and Mrs. Maintenance’s austere, Dutch countenance. The wet world had a drenched brilliancy that flashed and flickered as a little, transient wind came down the valley, and helped the branches of the apple-trees to scatter their moisture.

  “Bless us,” said Mrs. Maintenance, holding the salad-bowl against her bosom, “did you ever know such a year?”

  Mrs. Strangeways turned her head to look at this transfiguration scene, while Sarah pursed up her lips as though they had let some indiscretion slip, and proffered the salad-bowl to her master.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Ghent was so absorbed in looking at her that he did not notice the salad-bowl waiting at his elbow. There were other wonderful things in this amazing world. Mrs. Maintenance, gazing down at him with maternal tolerance, waited benignly.

  “Salad, sir.”

  “Oh, salad!”

  He helped himself to chives, lettuce and young radishes.

  * * *

  The grass paths were still patterned with little pools of rain-water when Ghent and Sybil went down to the river, minute mirrors that reflected the sunset, and were stained with the colours of the sky. Temple Manor, white below the rolling gloom of its beeches, was more than ever like a classic sanctuary. The great trees loomed black, their tops aureoled with fire. Temple Towers cocked its impudent little turrets against a mass of glowing cloud.

  She said: “I suppose these paths will all be green again after the rain?”

  Ghent smiled. He was looking at the soil darkened by the rain, and at his rows of trees.

  “Perhaps. One wants more, of course. These deluges run away off caked ground.”

  “Gentle and steady is better?”

  He looked down at her with the eyes of a lover.

  “Yes.”

  Ghent held the punt for her, and she jumped into it with a lightness that hardly caused it to move. It was like a butterfly settling on a leaf. She picked up the pole as Ghent climbed in and pushed the punt off from the stage. This was her show, and sitting down, he suffered her to assume control, and to take the boat across to the island. Moreover, she had a pretty way of handling the pole, and he was content to sit and watch her. Already, the river seemed to be feeling the stimulus of the rain; more water was coming down, and the stream had a new aliveness. The setting sun painted flickers of light upon it, and under the willows the water was mysteriously coloured.

  She ran the punt along the bank, and shipped the pole, while Ghent got hold of a willow branch. This second landing was her affair, and he left her to scramble up the wet bank and to retrieve what she needed.

  “Peter!”

  “Hallo.”

  “There’s another hole in the tent.”

  “Good lord! Hadn’t you better take all you can?”

  “Come and look.”

  He knotted the mooring rope to the bough, and joined her up above. She was standing there rather pensively, one hand to her cheek, surveying the scene. Her little, sensitive face with its hare’s eyes and its look of botherment, touched him profoundly.

  “It’s pretty hopeless, isn’t it? What shall I do to-morrow?”

  He stood close to her, as close as he dared.

  “Oh, I think I can manage something. I’ll borrow a rick-cover from old John Lynwood. Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up something.”

  “You are helpful, Peter.”

  “Am I? Well, that’s rather pleasant.”

  “This is all I have, you know, and that’s rather on sufferance.”

  He wanted to put an arm round her and say: “I’m in not much better shape myself, but, dear God, everything I have is yours.” But he slipped a hand under her arm, and she seemed such a little thing, and so defenceless, that he was gentle.

  “Don’t worry, Sybil. I’ll fix things up. Let’s take all we can across for the night.”

  Her eyes lifted to his face. There were other lights in them.

  “Thank you, my dear, thank you for everything.”

  He helped her to sort out things that were perishable from those that were not, and while helping her he realized how poor her possessions were. She appeared to own one old fibre trunk upon whose lid the second slit in the tent had let in a puddle of water. The fabric was pulped, and when she lifted the lid, a great patch of dampness was discovered.

  “My poor clothes! Well, it’s only the top, perhaps.”

  “Sarah will dry them.”

  He was puzzled by this solitary trunk. He had pictured her as possessing a whole gallery of frocks, and if all that she owned was here, then it was very little.

  “Did you leave anything at Folly Farm?”

  “Yes. Two trunks of clothes, including a fur coat. But they went with the furniture.”

  “You let them go?”

  Her hands were in the trunk, feeling its contents.

  “Yes. One may as well be thorough. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be——”

  “You’re not. You’re being very merciful to me.”

  He was shocked.

  “Merciful! Good God, not that!”

  She was kneeling down to refasten the trunk, her face as near to uncontrolled feeling as was his.

  “You mustn’t kneel on that wet grass. Let me do it. I’m not talking about anything at the moment. I’ve learnt to wait, on the land, and I can wait on other things. Please don’t kneel.”

  She drew her hands into her lap, and remained for a moment with head bowed and shoulders drooping. Then, she gave way to him and got up.

  “Most men don’t understand.”

  He bent down to fasten the trunk.

  “Doesn’t that depend upon how they care and on what they want? Big things aren’t done in a hurry.”

  He carried her trunk down to the punt, and she passed her other perishable belongings down the bank to him. It was he who poled back to Marplot, while she sat with her hands folded in her lap as though she had surrendered her fate momentarily to man. Neither of them uttered a word during that brief journey. They had come to the brink of human reality, and having looked into its profundities, were silent.

  With the punt housed in Ghent’s rickety old boat-house, he got her trunk by one handle.

  “I’ll help you with that, Peter.”

  “No, I can manage. You take some of the other things.”

  He swung the trunk up on to his shoulder. It was an easy weight for a man who could carry a sack of potatoes, and she followed him up the bank with a dressing-case, and a bundle made up in a damp towel. The sun had set, and a greenish twilight covered the earth. They were met by Bunter, who came out to bark at Ghent’s unusual burden.

  “Haven’t you seen luggage before, my lad?”

  Bunter bounced up and down, emitting playful growls.

  Mrs. Sarah was lighting the lamps, and was carrying one out into the passage when Ghent manœuvred himself and Mrs. Strangeways’s trunk in at the back door.

  “Afraid there are more things to dry, Sarah.”

  Her old face, warmed by the lamplight, showed no displeasure.

  “I’ll get the towel-horse out in front of the fire.”

  Ghent blessed her in silence, but Mrs. Strangeways was not silent.

  “Sarah, I can’t cause you all this trouble. We’ll wait till to-morrow, and give the sun a chance.”

  “It’s no trouble, m’am. I’ve got the fire going.”

&n
bsp; “You are a dear.”

  Ghent carried the trunk into the kitchen, and placed it on the kitchen table, and Mrs. Strangeways opened it, and took out the damp things.

  “I think the rest are all right.”

  “Will you have the trunk upstairs?”

  “What are the stairs like?”

  “Oh, quite easy.”

  Ghent closed the trunk’s lid, and carried it up to Marplot’s spare-room. It was in darkness, and he put down the trunk, felt for his matches, and striking one, saw that Sarah had put a candle by the bed. Ghent lit the candle, closed the door, and going below, found Sarah and Mrs. Strangeways laying sundry damp garments on the towel-horse in front of the fire. Ghent watched them for a moment, realizing that these two women were happy with each other, and for that he blessed them both. Sarah’s kitchen might be nothing but a drying ground, but Sarah was shedding no tears.

  He spoke to Mrs. Strangeways.

  “Your room’s ready. I dare say you would like to turn in. I have to take Bunter for his nightly prowl.”

  She gave him one swift glance.

  “Yes, I think I will, when I have helped Sarah.”

  “Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Later, Ghent, wriggling himself into the contours of that rocky mattress, felt that life, in spite of its frustrations, could be wonderful and good.

  XXIII

  How much or how little the Decalogue matters to us moderns might be argued in perpetuity, but our morality in its highest manifestations may be found to consist not in a denial of appetite, but in a subtilizing of its flavour. The thing is to desire the soul of the cake, instead of grabbing the crude substance, and gorging oneself on almond paste and sugar. There is an exquisite rightness in saying no, in thinking in terms of tenderness instead of in those of turgid sex-satisfaction. The no endures, the mere splurging yes spills itself into quick and sated fatuity.

  The Crabtree world would not have believed that Ghent and Mrs. Strangeways did not sleep with each other on that particular night.

  Had the Crabtree world been told that Mrs. Strangeways had not troubled to lock her door, and that Ghent had not even discovered its unlocked state, it would have sniggered and called Ghent an unenterprising young ass. It would have hinted at the lady’s chagrin, and at her secret scorn, believing as it did that women, while dressing up in virtue, like to be stripped and tumbled. “Silly young poop, what’s a woman want from a man? The only thing she asks is that the stairs may not creak!”

  So much for a crude psychology that cannot think in terms other than those sacred to Pompeii. Strangely enough, Mrs. Strangeways was not that sort of woman, nor was Ghent tempted to treat her like ripe fruit conveniently served up to him by circumstance. She woke to find the sun shining into her window, and she would have been shocked had anyone suggested surprise at her being alone. She wanted to be alone, while savouring that exquisite sense of security which God gives to those who show signs of becoming wise and thrice-blessed children.

  Ghent was out and about long before she was awake, and looking into the eyes of a very tranquil morning. The sun shone on a green and refreshed world, but to Peter Ghent its very serenity was ironic. Folly Island, floating in mid-stream, posed him with the day’s first problem. It was her sanctuary, and she might wish to return to it, and he had a feeling that she was wiser than he knew. Most certainly she could not remain at Marplot, nor would he wish her there unless and until she could call it both his and hers. Yes, the tranquil eyes of the morning were ironic, and Marplot itself no sure refuge. In three months or so he might find himself sold up, and as poor in worldly possessions as she was. Beautiful things cost money. Also, on this very exquisite morning, he knew that he loved the place, and loved it all the more dearly now that he seemed so likely to lose it.

  Ghent decided to walk over to Chesters before breakfast and ask John Lynwood if he could lend him a rick-cover. He had not taken his old car out for a week, for even the price of a gallon of petrol was becoming prohibitive. And all that coal Mrs. Maintenance had had to burn for the drying of a mattress, bed linen and clothes! He had less than a hundredweight left in the coal-shed. However desperate the position might be he could not cadge money from poor old John, though he might borrow a rick-cover. So, calling Bunter and setting off for Chesters, he met the postman in the lane, and was presented with a solitary letter.

  The envelope looked promising. It had the feel of an order, and Ghent did not notice that the postmark said Loddon. He slit the envelope and pulled out a typed letter, and one glance at it disillusioned him. The letter had come from the office of a firm of estate-agents. It said:

  Dear Sir,

  We understand that you contemplate disposing of your property and business. We have a client who may be interested in a purchase. If our information is correct, we shall be pleased to send a representative to call on you and discuss terms. May we assure you that our client’s offer will be a firm one.

  Yours faithfully——

  Ghent crumpled up the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. Was this a Crabtree gesture, or had the precariousness of his financial position become public gossip? And did it matter? Bargain-hunters were on the prowl. But, damn it, whatever happened he would not sell to old Crabtree! Yes, but though he might be stubborn even in defeat, that sly old devil would know of half a dozen ways to circumvent him. Crabtree might put up a man of straw as a buyer, or take the property over from the liquidator should he, Ghent, go broke. The official world would have no qualms about selling Marplot for the benefit of the creditors, to anyone who offered ready cash.

  He found John Lynwood at breakfast, a John who had eyes for his friend’s worried face. Had Peter come to borrow money? He hoped not, for he had none to lend, and between friends such obligations can be unfortunate. Ghent had put his head and shoulders through the open window, and his eyes looked straight at his friend.

  “Can you lend me a rick-cover?”

  Lynwood was conscious of relief.

  “Well, yes, I could, a small one. Come in and join me, old man.”

  “Thanks, I’ve got to get back. I could take the cover with me if you’ll tell me where it is.”

  “I’ve nearly finished. I’ll come out with you. Nice rain. Ought to help.”

  Ghent glanced vaguely round his friend’s room.

  “Yes, a bit too late for me, though. Too much damage done already.”

  “Can you hold on?”

  “I doubt it. Orders are poor this year.”

  Lynwood emptied his cup.

  “I’m sorry, old man. If I could act as banker——”

  Ghent looked at him sharply.

  “I shouldn’t ask you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Short of ready money?”

  “That’s it. Wages. Can’t expect the bank——”

  “Why don’t you mortgage?”

  Ghent was silent for a moment.

  “Another collar round one’s neck. You know what a mortgage means to men like us. The beginning of the end, often. No, I’d rather go bust, with the place my own.”

  Lynwood pushed his chair back.

  “Yes, I know. I might manage you fifty.”

  “Nothing doing, old man; thanks all the same. I like you too well for that.”

  “Will a small rick-cover do?”

  “Yes. I may want it for a week or two.”

  “No hurry.”

  And Lynwood, in his wisdom, did not ask Ghent why the rick-cover was needed.

  With the roll of green canvas over his shoulder Ghent started back for Marplot, and by the Roman amphitheatre some impulse made him turn aside and climb the bank which was all flowery with purple hardhead and yellow ragwort. Looking down into the green hollow he thought of that spring morning weeks ago when he had seen Mary Lynwood sitting under the thorn trees. How much could happen to you in a few weeks! Love and death and disaster might be near you in a place that would seem dull and eventless to a cinema-minded world.
If gladiators had fought on that Romano-British amphitheatre, he too was confronted by a gentleman with a trident and a net, a cunning and implacable old curmudgeon who would not attack until he was assured that your sword had neither edge nor temper.

  * * *

  It was about nine o’clock when Ghent and Mrs. Strangeways crossed over in the punt, with John Lynwood’s rick-cover, a coil of stout fencing-wire and a length of old rope. Ghent proposed to sling the rick-cover over the damaged tent, for the rick-cover alone would have no ends to it, and would be no more than a draughty tunnel. He sprang ashore with the cover over his shoulder, and Sybil, having made the punt fast, followed with the rope and wire. Ghent flung his bundle down, and scanning the site, saw that two convenient willows would serve as poles, and that with a couple of rough struts to support the wire, he could sling the cover between the trees. Also, pegs would be needed to which the edges of the cover could be lashed, and getting back into the punt he poled back to Marplot, leaving Mrs. Strangeways on the island.

  When he returned he found that she had emptied the tent of stores and hardware, and was testing the oil-stove to discover whether water had got into it. Also, she had turned up the flies of the tent so that the ground should have a better chance of drying. Ghent had brought two chestnut posts, a spade, and a few improvised pegs back with him, and sinking the two posts in the ground, he fastened the wire to a willow.

  She stood and watched him, like an interested child, observing some wise creature working out a puzzle.

  “Can I help?”

  “In a minute.”

  He carried the end of the strand towards the other tree, and the wire, with characteristic cussedness, twisted itself into loops and kinks. She hurried to help him, straightening out the loops, while he kept up a gentle tension on the strand. With the end round the second tree, and his foot against the trunk, he pulled the wire as taut as possible.

  “Got to cut it, here. There are some wire-cutters in my pocket.”

  Since he had both hands engaged, she drew the cutters out of his jacket pocket.

  “Shall I do it?”