Nightingale Wood

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Good morning,’ she began, kindly.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Tina,’ returned Saxon, standing to attention, touching his cap, and using his chill, correct chauffeur’s voice.

  Tina’s smile grew mechanical, her heart seemed to be sliding away down miles of a dark shaft towards her shoes … but perhaps it’s just that he doesn’t want to flaunt things in front of other people … only I don’t mind if people do see we’re friends, I must make him see that.

  But as the car moved out of the yard and the expression on his fine profile did not change, and he did not speak, her courage died. I did try to show him I want to be friends, and apparently he doesn’t want to. I can’t—

  ‘Where would you like to go, Miss Tina?’

  She nearly said, Anywhere, I don’t care, but controlled herself and replied briskly that she thought it might be a good idea to have a little practice with traffic in Chesterbourne this morning (no more lanes at the end of the world, where sounded the enchanter’s far-off voice).

  ‘Very good, Miss Tina.’

  Alert and efficient, he watched her hands on the wheel, her footwork, while she drove steadily through the summer lanes towards the town. Once he lightly and quite impersonally dropped his hand over hers to make some change in the car’s direction, at the same time explaining why he did so. Never once, by any note in his voice, or any glance, did he remind her that eleven hours ago she had been in his arms.

  This was most calming. When the car turned back into the yard at half-past twelve Tina felt that she would just be able to get upstairs to her room before she began to cry.

  ‘Shall I come at the same time tomorrow, Miss Tina?’

  ‘Please, if you will.’ (Oh, how can you be so brutal to me? You must know almost anything would be better than pretending nothing’s happened … and yet he’s perfectly right, this is the only way to take it.)

  ‘Good morning, Miss Tina.’

  ‘Good morning, Saxon, thank you.’

  Saxon put the car away and went into the kitchen to take the small glass of beer with bread and cheese provided for him on the days he worked in the garden; he exchanged two decorous jokes with Annie, Fawcuss and Cook, then went out to the tennis court. As he cut the grass, he whistled blithely as a blackbird.

  Tina, powdering her pink nose in her room, heard him and swallowed a fresh gush of tears.

  Saxon felt blithe. He had done a good morning’s work, carrying out to the letter the plans he had made while walking home through the wood last night. He had then made up his mind to let Miss Tina make all the running, with no encouragement from him, until they were well away. Then he would go to Mr Wither, and threaten to tell the whole neighbourhood what was going on unless Mr Wither paid him not to.

  Some people might say that’s a dirty trick, thought Saxon, deftly guiding the old mowing-machine over bumps, with his handsome, serious face looking quietly absorbed over the job, but if you don’t make up your mind what you want in this world and go all out for it, you’ll never make good.

  I want enough money to get started in a filling-station of my own; and I don’t see why little Tina shouldn’t help me get it.

  A few more lessons like this morning, and she’ll be asking me to kiss her again. And I don’t mind if I do.

  He smiled a little as he turned the mower and began on the return trip over the thick glossy grass. Sweet and careless, the whistle broke out again, a rival to the courting-notes of the birds.

  Unfamiliar longings were stirring in the bosom of Mr Wither. If this were a realistic story they would be both familiar and nasty; as we are all out to enjoy ourselves, however, it must be said at once that they were innocent, nay, that they did him credit.

  Mr Wither was going to give a garden party.

  The fact was that Mr Wither had enjoyed the Infirmary Ball (despite Viola’s unbecoming behaviour) very much indeed. His gay doggishness was giving a final wag before he settled down into being really old. It will be recalled that Mr Wither in his youth had been definitely dashing, recognizing the various brands of oysters at sight and possessing many picture post cards of Edna May, Camille Clifford and other lovelies.

  It was many years since he had enjoyed the Ball or anything else, but this year’s Ball had been different because it had left a hangover in the shape of a wish for more gaiety – but this time gaiety at home, gaiety under his own roof, where he could regulate it and see that it was gaiety of the proper kind.

  Accordingly, to the almost hysterical amazement of his family, Mr Wither proposed to give a garden party on the twelfth of July, some three weeks from now, and preparations for the same were at once put in hand.

  Invitations were sent to some friends and acquaintances, including the Dovewoods, the Colonel Phillipses, Doctor Parsham, and others who had contributed to Mr Wither’s pleasure at the Ball; Saxon was instructed to pep up the tennis court; and chairs and tables, together with three dozen cakes and the same number of Kool Kups, were ordered from a caterer’s in Chesterbourne. The Eagles then settled down to wait for 12th July, hoping to goodness that it would be a fine day.

  Viola heard with feelings of delight and alarm that the Springs had been invited, ‘though I hardly expect young Spring will turn up; he’s a coming man, you know, and has his hands pretty full these days, he may not be able to get away,’ warned Mr Wither complacently; he liked to think of anyone being so busy making money that they could not spare the time to go to a garden party, even if it were his garden party.

  Indeed, when Mrs Spring telephoned to accept for Hetty and herself, she thanked Mrs Wither for Victor, but said that he might not be able to get down from London on that Saturday, as he was so busy.

  Victor had told her to say this. Nothing was going to keep him from that garden party; but he did not want his mother and cousin to suspect it. There was no one else to suspect; Phyl was going away for a fortnight to play in some tennis tournament, as she did at intervals throughout every summer, and she would not be down at Grassmere for another month. He felt at ease, without her eye on him. He was strongly tempted to see Viola again, and the garden party would give him the perfect opportunity, as casual as it was conventional. He would be there.

  Viola had no coherent plans, except that she must have a new frock and that it must not cost more than four shillings.

  The weather continued fine; Mr Wither’s money, exhausted by its gyrations in April, lay on the floor, so to speak, panting quietly, temporarily at rest. Major-General Breis-Cumwitt hung over it like a devoted aunt, Mr Wither like a mother. They could do no more, only watch and pray. Presently their prayers were heard; the money sat up and breathed less painfully; soon its pulse was normal.

  Mr Wither’s heart was fairly light as he set out for a walk in the little wood that morning, with Major-General Breis-Cumwitt’s comforting letter in his pocket. It was a fine day, the money was better, the garden party was coming along. Mr Wither breathed the woodland air with feelings not unlike pleasure. Of course, the day might cloud over, the money might relapse, some catastrophe might prevent the garden party; but for the moment, all went well.

  The Hermit was happy too; but then he always was. He had no inhibitions, and a sense of his own importance that was never shaken no matter what anyone said or did to him. Small wonder he was happy.

  He sat in front of his shack, working on Bear with Cubs. He had spent an idyllic hour potting at birds with a catapult and had bumped off a pigeon which he proposed to have for lunch; it was stewing, with four large potatoes stolen from Colonel Phillips’s vegetable garden, in a tin over the fire. He had spent the previous evening with Mrs Caker, while Saxon was in Chesterbourne. As he worked on Bear with Cubs, he sang a hymn and wondered what he should have for supper.

  He glanced up.

  ‘Good mornin’, guv’nor,’ he called, in a respectful yet friendly tone. ‘Nice mornin’.’

  Mr Wither, moving aloofly along the skyline in his constitutional, took no notice.

  ‘Nice
day, I said (oo’s been at my Eno’s?),’ repeated the Hermit, louder.

  Mr Wither, walking a bit faster, still took no notice.

  ‘NI SDAY, NI SDAY!’ bellowed the hermit, and the wood rang: ‘I SAID IT’S A NI SDAY, AIN’T IT?’ he added, more quietly, ‘Guv’nor.’

  Mr Wither, starting violently, glanced about him as though to discover whence came the bellowing, at last happened to look in the Hermit’s direction, and loftily inclined his head.

  ‘’Avin’ a breather?’ pursued the Hermit chattily. ‘Does yer good, don’t it? Ah, when yer gets to our age, guv’nor, there’s only one thing to do.’

  Mr Wither could not bring himself to speak to the Hermit, but assumed an expression of condescending interest. Anything was better than having the fellow make that noise. Noises, especially when made by semi-lunatics, agitated Mr Wither more than they used to do; Mrs Wither had been right when she said that he could no longer stand excitement.

  ‘Live regular,’ nodded the Hermit. ‘Plenny er fresh air, plenny er sleep, no booze, well, say ’ardly any booze, no you-know-what unless you feels up to it.’

  Mr Wither, looking uneasily at a tree over the Hermit’s shoulder, gave a very slight tremor of his neck.

  ‘That’s the way to live to be a ’undred,’ ended the Hermit. He held up Bear with Cubs. ‘Gettin’ on, ain’t it?’

  Though Bear with Cubs did not look like anything definite, it had ceased to look like a lump of wood. It was meant to be something: but what, it was not possible to deduce.

  Again Mr Wither tremored. He had no idea what the Hermit meant.

  ‘I been thinkin’. I’ll let you ’ave it for twenty-five,’ went on the Hermit.

  Mr Wither found his voice. ‘Twenty-five what? What do you mean?’ demanded Mr Wither, startled.

  ‘Bob.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What for? Why should you let me have it for twenty-five bob? What is all this nonsense?’ said Mr Wither wildly, advancing upon the Hermit with an alarming feeling that some devilish plot, which would end in his having to hand over one-pound-five, had burst upon him like fiery hail out of a clear sky. ‘I don’t want anything from you; I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Walking-stick. Commission.’ The Hermit held up Bear with Cubs. ‘Don’t say you don’t remember you an’ me ’aving a talk outside the Green Lion the other day? And you a-saying to me as how you wasn’t satisfied with your walking-stick, and me a-saying to you as I’d do you a better one for thirty shillin’s? You remember; ’course you remember.’

  ‘No, I do not remember,’ said Mr Wither, very angrily indeed. ‘I did nothing of the sort; I never said anything at all, it’s a pack of lies. I shall speak to the Council about you, Falger. This time you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘ ’Ope it keeps fine for your party,’ shouted the Hermit, as Mr Wither strutted off in considerable agitation. Then louder, as Mr Wither got further away, ‘ ’Ow’s your youngest gettin’ on with ’er moter-car lessons, eh? MOTERCAR MY AUNT’S CAT!’ (in a bellow that made the leaves quiver).

  Mr Wither did not clearly hear the first part of this remark, and if he had he would have thought it no more than a piece of impertinence. Now if it had been a hint about Viola – you never knew what she might be up to; but although Tina and Madge might be very unsatisfactory in many ways, they would never get into mischief. He knew them too well.

  The Hermit’s other remark irritated him much more. How did the fellow know they were going to give a garden party? Had Saxon been gossiping? No, Mr Wither seemed to remember overhearing Saxon say to one of the maids that old Falger was a disgrace. Saxon would not gossip with a disgrace. Besides, Saxon did not gossip; he was a good servant, shaping very well nowadays.

  Despite his annoyance with the Hermit, Mr Wither re-entered The Eagles musing upon this pleasanter note.

  CHAPTER XV

  The day of the garden party dawned bright and fair but by eleven o’clock it had clouded over and the wind had got up. Mr and Mrs Wither were much annoyed. Mrs Wither said that It Might have kept off, It Might, and went down into the kitchen to upset Fawcuss, Annie and Cook by warning them that they might have to help Saxon move the tables from the garden into the drawing-room in a hurry if it came on to rain just before tea.

  As they were already rather upstage because some of the refreshments had been ordered from a caterer instead of Cook making them all, they were quite ready to be upset. They moved slowly about the large, tidy kitchen like a cageful of offended elephants, saying Yes, m’m, no, m’m, and very well, m’m, carefully avoiding bumping into Mrs Wither, who stood forlornly in their midst, with their large print-covered persons. Excuse me, m’m, thank you, m’m, beg pardon, m’m. After three times repeating her instructions and thoroughly rounding off the good work she had started, Mrs Wither returned to the morning-room to find Mr Wither sunk in despair. The money had had a relapse.

  ‘What’d I better do with Polo this afternoon, Mum?’ Madge looked round the door. ‘Shall I just let him run about? He’d enjoy that; he loves a crowd.’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ exclaimed Mr Wither, roused from his anguish for an instant, looking up with a dejected face. ‘Nobody wants a dog all over the place at a garden party.’

  ‘Well,’ said Madge, defiantly, ‘Doctor Parsham’s bringing Chappy.’

  Exclamations of horror from Mr and Mrs Wither.

  ‘Bringing Chappy? Who said so?’

  ‘He did. I met him out this morning. He said he thought you wouldn’t mind, as Mrs Parsham’s away and Chappy doesn’t like their new domestic. I said I thought it would be all right. He can be tied up in the yard. That’s why Polo must be in the garden. They might go for each other.’

  ‘Chappy!’ repeated Mrs Wither, despairingly. She added feebly, ‘I won’t have him.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, you can’t do anything about it now. I told Doctor Parsham he could bring him along, you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Chappy,’ muttered Mrs Wither. A gust of wind sent a little branch sailing past the windows. The sky was covered by hurrying grey clouds. ‘And he’s bound to get loose, you know he always does. Oh dear, it is too bad.’

  Chappy was an enormous great dog, of extraverted temperament and seething energy, disliked by the entire neighbourhood. He was not vicious: everyone wished that he were, and then there might have been a chance of getting rid of him. He was only too much; too large, too friendly, too energetic. He was also a barker, delighted with any excuse – or without any excuse – to bark for an hour or more. He liked galloping round with a gang of small boys. He liked a crowd, preferably a well-dressed crowd, but any crowd was better than none. He had dozens of acquaintances but no friends except the Parshams, who were very fond of him.

  Colonel Phillips hated and despised him. Ill-trained, a mongrel, uncontrolled – Chappy, in the eyes of Colonel Phillips, was hardly recognizable as a dog.

  It was a pity that he was coming to the garden party. His presence could be counted upon to spoil Colonel Phillips’s afternoon.

  But nothing could be done about it now that Madge had said her mother would not mind his coming.

  ‘Well …’ Mrs Wither got up, sighing, lingered a minute looking in distress at Mr Wither, then said: ‘I’m so sorry, Arthur, I suppose you don’t want me for anything just now, do you, dear? I’ve got such a lot to see to.’

  Mr Wither, staring lugubriously out of the window at the lowering sky, waved her away, and she went.

  What a mockery it is, thought Tina, looking out of her window at the tables on the scanty lawn below. Nobody wants to come, the food’s thoroughly unexciting, and it’s going to rain. There’s no point in doing this sort of thing at all unless you do it often and well. The Springs do it properly, with marvellous food and coloured umbrellas … I wish Saxon hadn’t got to wait at tea, I know he’s hating the idea of it and I shan’t be able to help looking at him. I shall be glad when the whole stupid affair’s over.

  For days she had got no
further towards winning Saxon’s friendship. She had kept up a pleasant, kindly manner in face of his over-correct one, but it was clear that he did not want to be her friend, and for pride’s sake she could not go on giving him opportunities, however slight, that he would not take.

  She had begun to lose hope, and had been on the point of giving up her lessons, when she noticed the faintest change in his manner. He became just a shade less formal; he commented upon the size of a pig which they passed on the road without Tina saying something about it first. Twice he smiled at some remark of hers. It was these feeble signals of spring that made her decide to keep on with the lessons for a little longer, though she had long since ceased to enjoy them.

  (P’raps I’d better give her a hint, had thought Saxon, as bored as she was by their dull, instructive excursions. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere at this rate … and it gives me the jitters to see her looking like that, poor kid. He thought fiercely about the filling station; and then made the comment upon the pig’s girth.)

  But neither felt that their separate schemes were going well.

  Viola was dejectedly turning over her clothes and deciding that not one of them would do. She pulled some in pieces: then wished that she hadn’t, as they were not improved, and finally decided, as it was a chilly day, to wear her old black suit, put on a lot of lipstick, and hope for the best. She felt shy, frightened, ashamed of her shabbiness, and rather hoped that Victor would not come.

  Cook burned the dinner, and a cold wind moaned round the house, rattling the windows in a putting-off manner. Mr Wither was very depressed about the money. The cakes had not come. Half-past two struck; and still the cakes had not come. Ah, said Annie and Fawcuss, if She’d let Cook make everything nice and fresh the day before, this wouldn’t have happened. The rain did not fall and the wind dropped a little but the sky was still sullen.

  ‘Good gracious, dear, you look very wintry,’ said Mrs Wither, giving Viola a disapproving smile as they met on the stairs. The cakes had still not come. ‘Haven’t you got a nice summery afternoon frock, something pretty, instead of that costume?’