Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “Good morning, Mr. Ghent. Please sit down.”

  Ghent sat down, and his happy face troubled the other man.

  “You received my letter?”

  “Oh, yes. I thought I would come along and let you know that I hope to be on the right side very soon.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Orders coming in?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, and between ourselves, I think I may be getting the contract for restoring the Thursby gardens.”

  “Thursby?”

  “Yes, I saw Sir Gavin Marwood this morning, and I am getting plans out at once.”

  “I’m very glad.”

  The manager’s face had taken to itself a dreamy look. Did Mr. Crabtree know this? But of course not. Arrogant old bounder! If Ghent’s news was valid, then Mr. Crabtree was exulting prematurely over Naboth’s Vineyard.

  “I suppose it will be quite a big affair, Mr. Ghent?”

  “Thousands of pounds. It will mean quite a nice sum to me. And a certainty, you know. I’m to work on a percentage.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “I suppose you won’t be worrying about my account?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Ghent. Do you wish to draw any money now?”

  “I haven’t a cheque book on me, but I’d rather like a small sum.”

  “We can easily arrange that. How much would you like?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  “I’ll get you the money, and you can sign a debit slip.”

  Surely, the sun was shining when your bank-manager went in person to fetch your money!

  Ghent found Mrs. Strangeways sitting in the car, and happily watching the life of Loddon as though she found it far more interesting than Bond Street. Ghent gave her a shy, lover’s smile. He had a little shopping to do, and would she care to wander along with him? He opened the door, and she slipped out, touching his arm as she did so.

  “No baubles, my dear. You’ve got a naughty face.”

  “I’m feeling like that. You are not going to begin ticking me off, before the bell goes?”

  “Well, we will see. Young men who go into banks and come out smiling——”

  “Must have a good reason for it. Come along, Heart’s Ease.”

  But nothing that he could do or say would persuade her to help him spend his money. You might lure a woman to a jeweller’s window, but you could not compel her to choose. Now, surely she liked that ring with its sapphires and marquise setting? No, she did not like it. She exercised gentle pressure against him with her arm, and made him move away.

  “I shall like nothing, Peter, until that contract is signed.”

  “But there may be no contract.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “A man like Sir Gavin may give you a verbal promise.”

  “But is that sufficient?”

  “Oh, better than most insurance policies. There won’t be some cunningly-worded clause which enables the insurer to sneak out of his obligations.”

  “But I think you ought to have something in writing.”

  “I shall not suggest it. If Sir Gavin likes to suggest it, well and good. As a matter of fact I’d have more faith in his spoken word than in any business contract.”

  “Isn’t that rather innocent?”

  “No, real wisdom. A man like Sir Gavin doesn’t let you down. If it were old Crabtree I know he would try to do me, contract or no contract.”

  “I do like you, Peter. You do believe in something.”

  “Yes, in you.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’ll try never to let you down.”

  “Same here. Now, if you won’t let me spend money, we had better rush back and get busy.”

  It was a happier Ghent who called Bob and George into the office after the dinner hour, and who spoke to them simply as man to men.

  “You two chaps have backed me up like good sports. You probably know that I was worried about things. I was, but something has turned up that will mean, if it comes true, that we are out of the wood.”

  Then he told them of Thursby, and the comprehensive reconstruction that would be needed there, and of the problems that would have to be met, especially the provision of extra labour. He, Ghent, would need at least a dozen extra men, and where were they to come from?

  “Any ideas, Bob?”

  Fanshaw rubbed his chin.

  “Going to run the nursery too, sir?”

  “Of course. This is going to save the nursery. And we may have to expand.”

  “Hasn’t the gentleman any gardeners?”

  “Yes, he will have, but the job is ours.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “It might last a couple of years. Yes, and lead to other contracts.”

  “I might get one or two chaps out of Farley.”

  “There’s the Loddon Labour Exchange.”

  “Wouldn’t engage anybody from there, sir. This’ll take some thinking about.”

  “I shall want you to act as foreman, and George can be in charge here.”

  “I’ll look around, sir.”

  And then Bob and George exchanged glances.

  “Has the gentleman got his own men yet?”

  “I’m not quite sure, Bob. Why?”

  “How many would he need, sir?”

  “Five or six. You’re not going to apply, Bob, are you?”

  “You’ve got me wrong, sir. What I was meaning was, if we got some good chaps and the gentleman agreed to take ’em on when the job was finished it might be easier to find ’em.”

  “Someone in mind, Bob?”

  “I might have. I’ll keep my mouth shut till I’m surer. If you could find out from the gentleman——”

  “I’ll take it up, Bob. We haven’t got the contract yet, but I’m hoping.”

  “You go on hoping, sir. That’s half the battle.”

  Then Bob and George went off to their work, rubbing shoulders, with their tongues busy, and since they were working close to each other, their tongues remained active, especially George’s. George appeared to have found a joke of his own which did not grow any the less jocund through repetition, and George would usually end with the question: “That’d make the old blighter dance a bit, what?” and Fanshaw would grunt approval. Meanwhile, Mrs. Strangeways had returned to the island, and Ghent had taken out the car, and driven over to Thursby with a measuring tape and a note-book.

  The sun was out, the sky clear, and to Ghent Thursby appeared even more wild and lovely and old English. Thank God, for a few dukes and rich men, or the wildness and the beauty would be lost to the land! Ghent, having visited sundry Municipal Gardens, had no illusions as to the stereotyped tameness of the democratic mind. Your urban workingman may be the best of fellows, but he is not—in the main—creative in the æsthetic sense, nor can he be accused of idle dreams in colour and in song.

  Ghent spent two hours in measuring up the gardens, using a five-inch nail to hold down the clip-end of his tape. He was at work on the lower terrace when he became aware of Sir Gavin descending the steps, hatless and wearing a tussore coat.

  “You haven’t wasted much time, Ghent.”

  “No, sir. A proposition like this——”

  “Isn’t Euclid.”

  “No.”

  “More like the impetuosity of the lover. Much more to do?”

  “No, sir. I just wanted to get the proportions of these terraces. They are the main challenge. Such a vista! Would you prefer turf or stone?”

  “A little of both, Ghent, I think.”

  “Just for working into the plan I shall submit. The grey and green of old stone and grass are always rather lovely.”

  “I agree. Can I give you a hand?”

  “Thank you, sir, I think I have just about finished for to-day.”

  “Then come in and have some tea.”

  “I’d love to, sir.”

  Ghent did not know that Lady Melissa had called up Sir Gavin on the telephone. “Is all well with the world, Gavin? Is God in his
heaven?” and he had teased her: “If you are referring to me.” “Of course I am.” “Then, I more than think so. I am quite settled in my own mind as to your protégé’s integrity. As to his taste——?” “My dear, the young things have been here. They are, as they should be, so very happy.” “Then may his taste be happy too.”

  Ghent, following Sir Gavin into the Thursby parlour, found the dimness of the oak-lined hall giving place to much light. The pine panelling of the great room had been painted in cream and gold. It had two superb Persian carpets on its floor, and in the south wall a large window had been cut, long and low, and giving the impression that the room was joined to the garden. In front of the window and facing it stood a vast sofa covered in pale blue brocade and sitting on the sofa was a little old lady with a head like a gipsy, and blackbird’s eyes.

  “Mr. Ghent, this is Sister Anne.”

  Sister Anne was all shrewdness and sparkle. She had a tea-tray at her knees. She patted the sofa, indicating that Peter should sit down beside her.

  “Will you ring, Gavin.”

  Sir Gavin strolled across to the fireplace, pressed a bell, and returning, smiled at the young man on the sofa. If Sister Anne, who was something of an old witch, and who cast horoscopes, and intuitive nets for the entangling of souls, liked the Vandeleur protégé, then his own impressions and prejudices would be justified.

  “I suppose I ought to apologize for this window, Mr. Ghent.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Well, the elimination of the mullions and transoms of two original windows, also a section of the wall.”

  “I think it’s lovely, sir. You can sit here and see England.”

  Sister Anne chirruped at them.

  “Is it that we are more or less out of doors than our ancestors, and look out of windows less than we look into them?”

  “Aren’t you getting rather mixed, Sister?”

  “No, sir, I think I know what Miss Anne means,” and then Ghent blushed.

  “That’s more than I do,” said Sir Gavin, “when she talks about trines, and oppositions, and declinations.”

  “What do I mean, Mr. Ghent?” said the old lady.

  “That the old people were more out of doors, and so looked less out of windows, and nature was their shop-window, not Woolworth or Selfridge.”

  “Go up top,” said the lady.

  Sir Gavin chuckled.

  “And Mr. Ghent is going to dress my shop-window on the right side, the outside, the sunny side. What’s your month, Ghent?”

  “February, sir.”

  “Which day?”

  “The fourteenth.”

  “Ye gods, he’s a Valentine.”

  “And a very good thing to be,” said Sister Anne.

  So they had tea together, and Sister Anne, who made Ghent think of a very bright-eyed and intelligent bird chirruping in a sunny cage, was vivacious and gay with this young grower of trees and maker of gardens. Life was a rich tapestry to her, and she liked her figure of youth in it, as well as the trees and the birds and the flowers. She made Ghent feel somehow happy, as though she were singing a song which he understood, and was the mistress of sweet herbs, marjoram, tansy, southern-wood and lavender. Also, he suspected that he would be discussed when he had gone, but kindly and wisely so. He could smile at this old lady in her simple black frock, and believe that she would wish him good luck with Sir Gavin.

  He did contrive to have a few words alone with the great man, for Sir Gavin came to see him into his car.

  “There’s one problem, sir.”

  “What’s that, Ghent?”

  “Labour. Of course, that’s provisional. I mean, if you decide to accept my plans.”

  “How many men would you want?”

  “About a dozen, sir. I have my own foreman, and I could engage more labour, but one wants it good.”

  “I have three gardeners at present. I’m not particularly pleased with the head man. Bumptious, and I think, incompetent. Well, get your plans out, and then we can discuss other problems.”

  “I will, sir. I am getting to work on them at once.”

  Sir Gavin went back to the parlour and Sister Anne, and either because he thought the matter of insufficient importance, or because he could presume upon Sister Anne expecting him to ask her a question, he did not ask it. He sat down and read the New Era, a paper whose resentful and superior suspiciousness infallibly caused him joy. Had not some sage young man hinted in its pages that because the old lion had retired to a den in the country he was preparing a sinister plot, and gathering lesser lions together in a conspiracy for the crunching of democracy’s bones? Sir Gavin did so enjoy reading the letters and articles of the supercilious young men. Sister Anne had taken up her woolwork, and was watching her brother’s face with black, bright eyes. She too sometimes drank of the new wisdom, but with less patience than Sir Gavin. She had not his gusto for laughing at people who were so pontifically prejudiced, and who were so ready to see the world reformed provided that they and they alone were the reformers.

  Presently, Sir Gavin laid the paper down with the air of a man who felt better for having rubbed shoulders with a Jeremiah. Contact with such people caused you to experience healthy reactions, and helped you to enjoy your dinner. A little bitters before good meat!

  “Well, well, well, this is a ridiculous country. Would you believe it? Poor old Chamberlain has been preparing a secret plan with Hitler for the segregation of Russia.”

  “Dear, dear, how does the young man who wrote it know?”

  “Yes, that always puzzles me. I suppose a tapeworm would have some vague knowledge of my interior, if he inhabited it, but a journalist has to be so subtle, so infallible. He is expected to know my thoughts even before I think them, or even if they are never thought.”

  “Reception clerks at Monte Carlo hotels, almost as superior as that, Gavin. It did not strike me that your tree man was a Wow.”

  Sir Gavin twinkled at her.

  “No need to bait the trap. I like the lad.”

  “Pure prejudice, of course, my dear.”

  “Oh, absolutely so. And why not? I don’t like bitter young men with the gift of the gab. One is still free to like where one likes, in spite of the Trade Unions. I suppose a day may come when liking what you like will cause a strike.”

  “No, Gavin. This may be a dear, silly old country, but I think it will be saved by its silliness. At least, I hope so.”

  * * *

  Ghent was at work. He had cleared the office table, and spread upon it a double sheet of unruled foolscap, its corners fastened with drawing-pins. By him lay his note-book, and he had outlined upon his paper a scaled plan of the Thursby terraces and lake, and the parcel of ground he had christened The Dell. With the bare outlines before him, he had put both elbows on the table, and with his hands clasping his face, had gone into a dream. This planning of a garden was a poet’s business, pure vision so far as he was concerned, an inspired picture with the colours of plants and flowers and trees for his pigments. For him there was no pigeonholing of conventional plans that could be brought out and adapted to any setting. He had to see his garden, to let it grow vivid and actual before his inward eyes before anything could be put on paper.

  He had come by a particular inspiration while standing on the Thursby terrace, and as he sat there in his little, dusty room, looking out of the lattice window, the scheme sorted itself in its constituent colours. Form was essential in such a garden as Thursby, and already Thursby had form, and as Ghent saw it a lovely formalism spread downwards to lose itself in the equally lovely informality, stone and grass and brickwork, and lead vases and statues and clipped trees merging imperceptibly into the cunning disorder of The Dell, and the stately splendour of the Park.

  He began to jot down hurried notes in his note-book, the colour details and planting plan as the picture filled itself. He did not hear Mrs. Maintenance’s bell, or Bunter’s bark that shouted “Biscuits, biscuits.” Sarah had to walk across the ya
rd to his window.

  “Supper, sir.”

  “Oh, supper!”

  He came out of his dream, smiled, and followed her to the cottage.

  In half an hour he was back in the office. Twilight was falling, and he lit the lamp and his pipe, and sat down to pencil in on the plan his various planting patches, glancing from time to time at the details he had scribbled down in his note-book. It was a complicated game, like evolving a jig-saw puzzle, with a hundred and one different subjects to be visualized and put in place. He began with The Dell and its piece of water, because he had a preference for sketching in his background, before working on his middle distance and his foreground. And there were so many things to remember, the varying heights of trees and shrubs, their habit of growth, their soil preferences, their colour, and time of blooming, if they were flowering shrubs. You might mark a plot “Rhododendrons,” while remembering that weeks could elapse between the flowering of the earlier and the later breeds. Spring, summer and autumn had to be catered for. Then there were your foliage trees, maples, liquid-amber, scarlet oak; and the smoke blue of such cypresses as Wisellii and Conica.

  Ghent was soon in the thick of it, as absorbed as a chess-player, or a novelist when his characters have become fluid and actual, and move and speak upon the scribbled page.

  * * *

  A moon was coming up when she poled the punt from under the black and silver filigree of the willows. The night was very still. She could hear nothing but the roar of the weir, a nature sound that seemed to make the night more noiseless. She brought the punt across to the Marplot boat-house, moored it, and climbing the bank, passed up one of the moonlit alleys. The weeping beech and the Camperdown Elm were like two tents filled with darkness, save where little burrs of moonlight filtered through. She made her way to the yard, and seeing Ghent’s lighted window, glided nearer to it and stood still.

  The window was open. She saw his dark head bent over the table. Sometimes he would raise it, and his face showed, as he stared out into the night. He did not see her, and she realized that he was looking at things within himself, a dreamer absorbed in the dream of creating. She stood there for some minutes, utterly silent and motionless, watching him. He was unconscious of her nearness, and she was content that it should be so.