“Tsh, you’re a silly old woman! Now, if it were a baby. Well, perhaps it will be. It’s no good. She’s got me, just as she’s got him, bless her!”
* * *
Mrs. Strangeways carried the typewriter to the office table and sat down with Peter’s stock-lists propped against a pile of books. The typewriter was not a very efficient machine, but old and temperamental, and at times it chattered at you like a short-tempered and senile monkey. Moreover, it played malicious tricks, and objected to registering the letter O, which was not in character, O being the most exclamatory of the vowels.
Mrs. Strangeways found herself in such conflict with the machine that though, in all probability, it was not the machine’s fault but lack of concentration, she abandoned the work after five minutes, and sat listening and gazing out of the window. She knew that she had cause to be profoundly thankful for the way the day had humoured her, and for the kindly tears of Sarah. Yes, women could be very good to each other, and she would see to it that she would never be anything but good to Sarah. She would cultivate that dear old thing’s sense of being indispensable. Life could be so much easier when you allowed people their prides and prejudices. Sybil Strangeways, having drunk deep of life’s waters, would know what poor, skimmed milk the reformers dish out to you.
The clock of Farley church was striking four when she heard Ghent’s car in the lane. The old Morris rolled slowly into the yard and stopped. She saw Ghent’s face, a very grave young face, and for the moment she had a heart pang. Surely, Sir Gavin had not turned down that plan? Oh, that wasn’t possible!
She left her chair and going to the door, stood there with a willed smile on her face.
“Peter.”
“Hallo.”
“Oh, tell me quickly.”
“Everything’s wonderful. The job is ours.”
Regardless of who might be about she ran into the yard and threw her arms round him.
“Oh, my darling, I’m so glad.”
He held her close and kissed her.
“It was your paint brush that pleased him.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, it helped much. He has a colour sense, and he fell for it.”
“Peter, you are the dearest thing.”
She looked up into his face and found a new beauty there, a serenity, a young confidence.
“I ought not to have spoken of him like that. He’s a prince. He couldn’t have been kinder to me. Sybil, we are to have three hundred pounds down, in advance. I’ve got his cheque.”
“Oh, my darling.”
“Call somebody else a darling.”
“So he is. I’ll tell him so. I don’t think he would mind, would he?”
Ghent smiled down at her.
“Hardly. But what a prince!”
XXIX
Life and Mr. Roger Crabtree were causing the melancholy and sardonic Scattergood to dream homicidal dreams. “After all,” as Scattergood put it, “there are ruddy limits, and the old blighter is that.” But Scattergood, though he boiled and seethed in secret, had a wife and three children, and a cottage, and one of the children was suffering from tuberculous glands. But for his responsibilities he told himself and his friends that he would not have stood another hour of his employer’s bullying and scolding and hoggish habits on the road. Moreover, Scattergood, though surly and silent in his plum-coloured livery, was a different creature with his kids, becoming almost a genial dog, a playful person, full of winks and quips. Difficult he might be, but your difficult man can give the best service when handled with consideration.
* * *
One of the first things Ghent did was to tell Bob and George that the Thursby contract had come to them. Neither this shabby summer nor Mr. Crabtree would bring final disaster to Marplot. They were standing waist-deep in a plantation of flowering shrubs, three men to whom life had become once more good and secure.
“You will be wanting that extra labour,” said Bob.
“Yes, right away. I discussed the question with Sir Gavin Marwood. He is not satisfied with his head man, and if we can find good men, he will be ready to take some of them on, when we have finished with them.”
Ghent noticed that Bob and George exchanged glances, but he did not attach any particular significance to the incident.
“Any cottages at Thursby, sir?”
“Yes. Two or three, which would be available at once. By the way, Bob, I’m thinking of trying to buy in a second-hand light lorry. I believe Roper has one for sale at Loddon.”
“It’s what we’ve always wanted, sir.”
“I know. We’ve been short of equipment.”
“You’ll need a driver.”
“Yes, if I buy. Know of a chap?”
“I might do.”
“Well, nose around, Bob. Only good men, you understand.”
“If I’ve got the job of overseeing ’em——?”
“You have.”
“Well, I shan’t want slinkers, shall I?”
* * *
Peter and Sybil drove up to Temple Manor. If they were feeling rich in hope and in prospects, Temple Manor gave them both richness of texture and of understanding. The loveliness that was England, so spacious, serene and free, spoke to them both and made them silent. Here England had known its greatness, a greatness that was passing. Temple Manor belonged to an age that had achieved things, not to this generation of talkers. Over it Nelson’s signal at Trafalgar might have flown in contrast to all the city catch-cries, the snarl of “What do I get?” not “What do I give?” But if Ghent, like many countrymen, had doubts as to the spirit of the age, life was too good for the moment to admit of such self-questionings. Temple Manor was Temple Manor, and he and the woman he loved were looking up like two children into the great green hearts of the beech trees.
Ghent stopped the old car in the avenue, and Sybil Strangeways’s face had gone all soft and dreamy, and Ghent, looking at her with the eyes of a lover, did not ask her what her thoughts were. Possibly, he divined them, and when she did ask him a question, he was ready with an answer.
“I wonder why people cannot be content with this?”
“Some are.”
“Yes, tree men like you.”
“Generations upon generations of men have been, till we all took to living like rats in a warehouse.”
She smiled like one smiling in her sleep.
“That sounds quite bitter for you, dear man.”
“No, not bitter. One’s sorry, in a way, for the city crowd. Talk to the old people, Heart’s Ease, and they will tell you that they had much less than the young generations, and were happier.”
“Isn’t that funny.”
“No, it seems to be one of the fundamentals. The more you get, the more you want, and the less you are pleased with it. The old story of spoilt children and too many toys. But, damn it, I’m talking like a prig. And we have to get to Thursby, after Temple Manor.”
He drove on slowly under the beeches, and in a little while they were sitting in the Vandeleur drawing-room, waiting for Lady Melissa who had had a headache, and was lying down. “Oh, don’t bother her ladyship, Sanderson,” but Sanderson knew that her ladyship might like to be bothered. So they waited, Peter sitting decorously in a Louis Quinze chair; Mrs. Strangeways fluttering about the room like a pale yellow butterfly, and settling on the pictures and the china, and the brocades. She simply had to look at things and touch them, not enviously, but because beauty made her happy.
Then Sanderson returned, smiling in his whiskers. Would Mrs. Strangeways come upstairs? Her ladyship would like to see her in her bedroom. Sybil followed the butler, and Ghent, wandering out on to the terrace, watched Lady Melissa’s new water-fan waving its silver plume over the grass. The sprayed water waved half in the sunlight, half in the shadow of the old trees, and the play of light upon it was very lovely. Yes, man was an ingenious beggar, and sometimes his ingenuity was helpful, sometimes devilish. Also, a good balance at the bank was useful, if used cr
eatively. There were so many useful gadgets that Ghent coveted for work down yonder, an Auto-Culto, a motor-mower, and what not! But hearing voices coming from a window up above, and knowing to whom the voices belonged, he felt rather like an eavesdropper, and sauntered off to watch the water-fan at close quarters.
The rhythmic, waving spread of water fascinated him, until the plume ceased suddenly, and the machine came to rest. A gardener had turned off a tap and come to move the fan to fresh ground. Ghent knew the man, old Killick, who had worked at Temple Manor since a boy.
“Useful thing that, Killick.”
“That it be, sir. Didn’t have such things in my young days.”
Ghent smiled at the old man.
“And yet you approve of them.”
“I do, sir. Saves sweat and time, sir.”
“That’s true.”
Ghent was strolling on to look at one of the borders when he heard Sybil’s voice calling him.
“Peter.”
She was floating down the steps of the terrace, and her little face had an emotional radiance.
“She can’t come down. She’s in a lot of pain, poor darling. She told me to give you this,” and she kissed him.
“Thank you, great lady.”
“Yes, that’s just what she is. If only the world had lots of such people. I am to come here on Thursday, Peter.”
“Farewell to the island!”
“Not really. It will always be our island. And I can come down every day and work.”
“I seem to be marrying all that’s useful and good.”
“Just that?”
“Oh, just a little more than that. Well, we had better be getting on to Thursby.”
* * *
Sir Gavin, having just read a bitter attack upon himself in a Reformist journal, was in the very best of humours. Ghent and Sybil, arriving in time for tea, were taken to the upper terrace, to see the view and the distant Surrey hills. Ghent asked leave to go down and look for a minute at the pool and The Dell, for there was a detail in the plan which he wished to reconsider. Mrs. Strangeways, left alone with the great man, became a little flushed and emotional.
“I do want to thank you for all your kindness.”
Sir Gavin was quite ready to be thanked by so very charming a creature. There was nothing of the maiden aunt about him when a pretty woman became enthusiastic.
“Dear lady, I am conferring no favour. Our Mr. Peter is going to be employed in garlanding my absurd vanity. According to my critics, my vanity is colossal, and only equalled by my sinister complacency.”
She laughed with him, crinkling up her pretty little nose.
“Aren’t people funny! I don’t think you are at all vain. Not nearly as vain as you might be.”
“Subtle gradations!”
“I don’t think the people who do the really big things are vain. It’s the people who do the little things who have to make such a fuss of themselves. But, as I was saying, you don’t know what all your kindness means to us.”
“Well, that is a happy omen for the garden. I’m letting Adam and Eve in, instead of turning them out. I have always thought Jehovah behaved rather like a curmudgeon on that particular occasion.”
“I promise you I won’t steal apples.”
“Were I the deity I should forgive you.”
“Would you? I do think you would make a perfect god. Not a Hebrew one, but Olympus and all that.”
“I seem to be getting all the garlands!”
“I rather think that is as it should be. Isn’t it a pity that we don’t give people garlands?”
“Knighthoods, my dear, and mayoral robes, and one’s photo in the picture papers.”
“Haven’t you enjoyed it?”
Sir Gavin chuckled.
“Of course I have.”
* * *
After dinner Mr. Roger Crabtree liked a cigar, and in summer he would smoke it in the rustic super-summerhouse, or strolling up and down the croquet lawn like a little Napoleon. Almost, he had adopted the Napoleonic pose, one hand tucked into the opening of his waistcoat, the other folded behind his back, but the cigar detracted from the dignity of the picture, for Mr. Crabtree smoked it rather like one of those ominous tough guys in an American film. He chewed and bit at it, and sometimes the ash fell on his black waistcoat, for, since coming to reside at Temple Towers, the Crabtrees changed for dinner. Mr. Crabtree’s dinner-jacket might have been described as the bridegroom’s frock-coat, a garment assumed while he waited for the Bride to arrive on the arm of a Social Father, but Mr. Crabtree was still waiting. No one of any importance had left cards upon Temple Towers.
Sometimes, no doubt, the Man of Ideas was bored, and that was why he was so curmudgeonish and contumacious, and reduced to impressing his self-importance upon the neighbourhood by quarrelling with it. Also, every petty tyrant must have his particular victim, and poor, sulky Scattergood had been cast for the part. He was the sort of man who, by his suggestion of dumb-sauciness, provoked his master to trample upon him. Mr. Crabtree was fond of saying, “What this country needs is discipline,” which virtue, of course, was to be cultivated in people like Scattergood. Circumstances had been unkind to Scattergood during the last week. He had had a puncture at a time when his master had chosen to regard such a casualty as a personal grievance, and while reversing the Rolls in Loddon he had backed into a lamp-post, and buckled a back wing. Mr. Crabtree had called him a damned fool, and was continuing to treat him as such. That very morning he had rated Scattergood for not maintaining the polish on the car at its right and proper brilliance.
Mr. Crabtree was strolling up and down the croquet lawn, smoking his cigar, when someone passed along the drive leading to the stables, garage and cottages. Mr. Crabtree recognized the intruder, and hailed him.
“Hi, you there, don’t you know the back way?”
It was George Garland in his Sunday suit, and being a slim, well-made lad, he carried his clothes better than did Mr. Crabtree.
“Beg your pardon?”
He did not touch his cap or salute the master of Temple Towers, and his face was cheeky.
“I said, don’t you know the back way. What are you doing here?”
“Seeing a friend,” said George.
“Well, the servants’ entrance is round there.”
“Thank you,” said George, and with a bright smile proceeded upon his way.
Mr. Crabtree shouted after him.
“Hi, didn’t you hear what I said? You obey orders when a gentleman gives ’em, my lad. Come back, and go as I told you.”
But George continued, long-legged and deliberate, upon his business, leaving Mr. Crabtree biting at his cigar, and feeling that someone would have to suffer for the fellow’s intransigence. Nor was the victim far to seek. The sun was setting, but Mr. Crabtree remembered that he had given Scattergood stringent orders as to the car’s toilet, and it occurred to him that it would be interesting to stroll round and inspect the Rolls and make sure that his instructions had been carried out. He did so. He noticed two or three figures grouped together in the dusk of the drive near its entrance to the lane, but they moved off and were lost to view when the master appeared. Mr. Crabtree walked on and coming to the garage yard, saw that the sliding doors were open, and the lights on. A bonnet flap was raised, and Scattergood was half lying over the fore mudguard in an attitude of sour reflection, his stomach hollowed against the metal, a cigarette stuck in his mouth.
Mr. Crabtree had found his occasion. He walked into the garage, smoking his cigar. He had the right to smoke there, if he pleased.
“Take that damned fag out of your mouth.”
Scattergood did not move.
“Haven’t I given strict orders about no smoking?”
Scattergood did not turn his head. He went on smoking.
“Did you hear what I said? Take that damned thing out of your mouth. No use being sulky with me, my man, just because you’ve been caught out.”
He had waddled u
p till he was within two yards of the man reposing on the mudguard, but Scattergood did not move or speak. He just went on smoking.
Mr. Crabtree bellowed:
“Stand up, you insolent swine. Take that thing out of your mouth. Do you hear what I say?”
The figure slouching over the mudguard uncoiled itself and came to life. Scattergood turned sharply, and with a white and blazing face, swung his right fist. It caught Mr. Roger Crabtree smack between the eyes, and Mr. Crabtree went down and lay there, sagging against the wall.
Scattergood did not look at him or utter a word. He walked out of the garage with the cigarette still in his mouth, leaving the lights on and the doors open. No one but his wife saw him again that evening, and she, being a woman of character, did not throw her apron over her head or become hysterical.
“I’m glad you hit him, Bill. There’ll be trouble, of course, more trouble than he guesses.”
“That there will, Mother. Put my pyjamas and things in a bag. I’ll doss at Farley to-night, and I’ll send up a van to-morrow and clear the cottage. I know where to go, and where to find you and the kids a corner.”
“It’s going to cost you something, my man.”
“Damn it, it’s worth all my ruddy savings. The old blighter will have a couple of black ones to-morrow. Gosh, what a smack I got in. Well, good night, Mother. Thanks for taking it like a good ’un.”
So Scattergood kissed his wife, and carrying a shabby old bag left by the path that led into the lane, and made his way to Farley. But his wife had not completed the day’s duties. Having put the children to bed, she went to the garage, and finding no corpse there, turned off the lights and shut the doors. A minute later she was knocking at the door of Tamplin, the head-gardener’s cottage. It was Mrs. Tamplin who let her in.
“Bill’s gone. He knocked the old man off his legs, and that’s that.”
Mrs. Tamplin’s face expressed joy.
Shabby Summer Page 32
