Nightingale Wood (10 page)

‘You don’t like Saxon, do you?’

‘My dear child, he’s only the chauffeur,’ quickly, with such hauteur in her voice that Viola looked up, surprised. ‘One doesn’t like or dislike servants. As a matter of fact I’m rather sorry for him. He’s had a rotten time since he grew up; country people won’t let you forget, you know, when there’s been a mess-up in your family, and I think he feels it more than most boys in his position would. Or perhaps he doesn’t. I really don’t know. Anyway, he’s quite a good chauffeur now, and Father gets him cheap, so we’re all happy. What about a walk before tea?’

Tea that afternoon was to be graced by the presence of a visitor, one Mr Spurrey, an old friend of Mr Wither.

Mr Wither honoured so few people with his friendship that those he did honour were invested with an awful importance, which made their visits resemble a Personal Appearance of the Dalai Lama. For days after Mr Wither had announced, from a letter read at breakfast, that Gideon Spurrey was visiting in the neighbourhood and would come to see them all at The Eagles on Friday afternoon, a vibration of solemn excitement was felt throughout the house. The maids were instructed to prepare Mr Spurrey’s favourite sandwich and cake, Saxon was detailed to call for Mr Spurrey at the house where he was staying with the car, and all the womenfolk were warned by Mr Wither that tea would be at a quarter-past four, not a moment before, not a moment after. Tina and Viola must have their hair properly arranged (or whatever it was that made them so frequently late for meals), Madge must cut short whatever game she happened to be charging about in that afternoon, and Mrs Wither must forgo her nap. By four o’clock four women and Mr Wither must be seated in the drawing-room to receive Mr Spurrey.

So when Tina, at a quarter to three, suggested going out for a walk, Viola said,

‘But what about Mr Spurrey? Will there be time?’

‘Oh heavens, yes, of course there’ll be time. We’ll only go a little way. What are you going to wear?’

‘This.’

‘So am I; I changed after lunch on purpose. All we need do when we get back is our faces. Come along, for heaven’s sake; I want some air.’

Viola was used to these desperate little fits of air-wanting on Tina’s part; they blew up like typhoons on a smooth sea, out of hungry depths. She docilely put on a pair of clean gloves (Shirley had taught her, on some unknown authority, that it is smarter to wear gloves and no hat than it is to wear hat and no gloves) and they set off, proposing to return in an hour.

The energy and beauty of the spring afternoon, the fact that each was wearing a new and becoming dress, and the prospect of a ramble on the fresh edge of the wood before the ordeal of tea with Mr Spurrey raised their spirits to gaiety. Also, after Mr Spurrey had gone, he could be giggled over; and they giggled in anticipation. They walked along by the wood talking loudly, swinging their arms and kicking at bits of stick, picking a bluebell here and pulling a spray of young leaf there, and deciding that they would just have comfortable time to walk to the cross-roads before turning back. They meant to go round by the road, as they had not been that way for some time.

Moments passed so pleasantly that they did not notice the stealthy packing of clouds across the brilliant sky, and they were a good mile from The Eagles when a voice hailed them, in a warning tone touched with complacence—

‘Goin’ ter rain. Spoil them pretty frocks o’ yourn.’

Startled, they looked up, and saw the Hermit standing on a rabbit-bank beside the wood’s edge, gazing fondly down upon them. The Hermit liked female society, of which he did not get enough. He spent many hours in each week with Mrs Caker. Her draggle-tail dignity, and her memories of former Caker glories, at first made her almost unable to see the sturdy form of the Hermit in her very front-garden, but under the fire of his flattery she soon melted. She loved talking, and so did he; they would sit in the scullery (Mrs Caker would not at first have him in the parlour) engaged upon some pithering and unnecessary task such as sorting old newspapers or scraping the labels off jam-jars (which the Hermit collected) and talking themselves weak and hoarse.

‘Come out without yer ’ats, ain’t yer,’ continued the Hermit. ‘Sensible girls. Good for the ’air, that is. Makes it ’ealthy, like mine.’ He shook his grey curls. ‘Keeps yer from looking yer age, thick ’air does. Now ’ow old,’ to Viola, ‘would you say I was?’

It was starting to rain.

Tina and Viola ran to the edge of the wood and stood, as far from the Hermit as possible, under the thin canopy of beech-leaves. They looked up anxiously, the clouds hung low and thick.

‘Eh?’ demanded the Hermit. ‘ ’Ow old would yer say I was?’

Viola glanced sideways at Tina, who shook her head. They both stared aloofly in front of them. Viola’s dress was darkly marked by raindrops and Tina’s ruffles were already limp.

‘’
OW OLD WOULD YER SAY I WAS
?’ suddenly roared the Hermit through his hollowed hands, standing on tiptoe.

‘Oh good heavens, how should we know? About sixty, I suppose,’ said Tina, jumping violently and giving him a distracted look. ‘Vi, do you think we’d better run for it? We can’t get more soaked than we’re getting here, and it’s nearly twenty to four.’

‘Seventy-six,’ nodded the Hermit triumphantly, standing on the rabbit-bank with his curls streaming rainwater. ‘But like a young man, I am. Like a young man. And why, you asks, am I like a young man? (in all sorts o’ ways, mind you, not only me ’air). Because I lives a natchral, ’ealthy, out o’ doors life like Gawd meant us to live. That’s Why.’

‘I really think we’d better run,’ said Viola, also giving the Hermit a rather distracted look; one never knew what he would say next but one could always guess. ‘I say, will there be an awful row, do you think?’

‘I’m sure,’ said her sister-in-law grimly.

It was nothing, really, it was only being late for tea, but Mr Wither had such a way of making nothings seem awful; and there was no doubt that they were going to be very late indeed, for when they did get to the house they would have to change all their clothes. Water was running off their faces, and their shoes and stockings were spattered. What sights we must look, thought Tina dismally, but Viola was too alarmed to think about how she looked. She had only nine pounds left: would her father-in-law turn her out because she was late for tea?

‘Better lay up in my place for a bit,’ advised the Hermit. ‘My little grey home in the west, as they say. Plenty of room. Yer could dry yer cloes. I wouldn’t mind if yer took ’em all off and warmed yer little selves by my fire, not me. Bleshyer. Eh? What about it?’

Tina, biting her lip deeply, stared down at her shoes. Rain rolled slowly off the ends of her hair.

‘Tina!’ urgently, ‘I really think we’d better make a dash for it. It’s nearly ten to four.’

Tina looked up; and at the instant there sounded the long, arrogant horn that Viola had heard across the darkening wood on her first evening at The Eagles, and round the curve of the road dashed a very large dark red car of the type best described as semi-sporting, its windscreen-wiper working accurately yet with an impression of fury, its lamps and nose tearing ahead of itself as though wild to go.

Viola, awed, did not even think of raising her hand for help; besides, the car was not going their way. Tina, knowing to whom it belonged, felt that it would be folly to signal, and the Hermit had suddenly gone away. However, as they automatically turned to watch the car out of sight, it slowed down and began to back neatly and swiftly towards them, while a female head, wearing a smart and unbecoming hat, suddenly poked out from a lowered window, calling,

‘I say, would you like a lift?’

‘Well, it’s most awfully kind of you,’ cried Tina, plashing down the bank into the full flood of the rain, ‘but I don’t think you’re going our way. We want to get back to the Chesterbourne road.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, we can turn,’ said Miss Franklin of Grassmere, confidently, and she added, to the person who sat in the driver’s seat, slewed sideways with a hand in a thick, pale glove flung across the wheel, ‘Can’t we, Victor?’

‘Of course,’ said Victor Spring politely, and he smiled.

It was clear, despite the smile, that he did not want to turn.

‘But we really can’t …’ dithered Tina. ‘It’s most awfully good of you …’ She was strongly conscious of her own sopping rats’-tails, of Viola’s splashed shoes (which somehow looked even cheaper than they were because they were wet), of the elegance of the car and its occupants, and, most of all, of a pair of cool yet bright dark eyes regarding her derisively from the back of the car.

‘Get in, do,’ said Victor, showing very white teeth again and speaking just a little more quickly. ‘You’re getting so wet.’

They bowed their heads and climbed meekly into the back of the car, which was not quite large enough to hold three people in comfort when, as in this case, some expensive suitcases were piled on the floor; and arranged themselves so that they did not drip upon the third passenger, a girl of about twenty-five whose whole presence, perfectly produced in a yellow coat and skirt with a dark fur, glowed with a subdued yet striking smartness.

Tina, smiling nervously at this vision, was so impressed by the beautiful dark skin of which her gloves, shoes and handbag were made that for days afterwards, whenever Viola mentioned the incident, she saw in memory the dull lustre on the young lady’s toecaps and smelled the faintest breath of a perfume, hitherto unknown to her, not unlike Russia leather.

‘Were you out for a walk?’ asked Hetty, leaning back from her seat next to Victor and speaking to Tina but including the sopping Viola in her friendly smile.

‘Yes, it was such a lovely day, we never thought it would rain …’

‘Yes, it came up so suddenly.’

There was a faint movement and a murmur from Viola, who was dripping over one of the vision’s ankles. The vision, smiling kindly, pulled her ankle out of the way.

She could afford to be kind. Tina’s quiet choiceness of dress, Viola’s bloom of youth, Hetty’s touch of studentish distinction, were eclipsed utterly by the perfect grooming and poise of the dark stranger. They were just three dowdy females.

Hetty was the only one who did not mind this. The vision was only Phyl Barlow, without two ideas in her head. She carried on a determined conversation with Tina, while the car dashed along the wet mile to The Eagles, discovering some mutual acquaintances in the neighbourhood and recalling that her aunt, Mrs Spring, had met Mrs Wither last year on the Committee for the Chesterbourne Infirmary Ball.

She was not going to lose this opportunity of scraping acquaintance with the sad-looking younger Miss Wither, who might be most interesting psychologically, and whom she had more than once seen in the bookshop in Chesterbourne, browsing.

‘My sister-in-law,’ murmured Tina, remembering her duty and indicating Viola as the car drew up outside The Eagles. There was no sign of the Wither car, with Saxon and Mr Spurrey. Horror upon horror! he must have arrived early.

Viola, who had been stealing a good look at the young god who was driving (to Miss Barlow’s amusement), glanced round at Hetty with her cheerful smile and said, clambering out of the car:

‘Thanks awfully for the lift.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Victor, supposing that she was speaking to him when in fact she was far too impressed to dare. ‘Hope you won’t both catch cold.’ He raised his hat, indicating by his ‘both’ that he had at least taken in the fact that there were two of them, though he had not once glanced round or spoken during the drive.

Viola, running shivering into the house, carried away a picture of so much masculine elegance that it quite overwhelmed her. Such a width of shoulder, such becoming sunburn on a hard, clear profile that was faintly military, such a tiny fair moustache and bright hazel eyes! with a quick, summing-up look under their short thick lashes.

He’s the most marvellous-looking man I’ve ever seen, she thought, peeling off her wet clothes in the big chilly bedroom, and he does remind me of someone, now who is it? (oh dear, we’re going to be so late, I do hope it won’t be very awful, how I
hate
living here).

She ran downstairs buttoning her frock, and as she turned the handle of the drawing-room door, whence came the dirge-like soughing of voices, she remembered who it was he reminded her of. The young man they always draw to advertise Llama-Pyjamas, of course, that’s who it is!

Quite pleased, she went in.

CHAPTER VI

‘Now what did you want to do that for, Het?’ interestedly inquired Victor, as the car rushed gladly away from The Eagles. ‘You are an extraordinary woman.’

‘Well, poor creatures, they were getting wet.’

When Hetty talked to her social equals she was careful to keep her speech free from slang, for she enjoyed the touch of pedantry thus given to her sentences, and the contrast between her diction and that of the Springs’ friends, especially Miss Barlow’s. But when Hetty talked to Heyrick or to little Merionethshire she talked in an ordinary way: she did not want the servants to think her stuck-up, as well as queer.

‘We shall not be late for tea,’ she added mildly.

Her cousin accelerated, saying nothing more. She had asked him to pull up when she caught sight of the two Miss Who-ever-they-weres sheltering under the trees, and he had done so, partly because of his slight but steady curiosity about all her actions, and partly from a less good-natured reason.

He always liked to see what old Het-Up would do next. All the people round him behaved, as he did, in an ordinary manner; and he took it for granted that sensible people everywhere behaved like this. But Hetty often behaved oddly and she was interesting to watch; it was like having a mongrel dog about the house, without breeding but with plenty of character. Sometimes her oddities annoyed him but usually he was only amused, for he was fond of old Het-Up, who took herself so seriously; they had, after all, grown up together and she took the place of a sister.

Miss Barlow said nothing, either. She was irritated. She knew why Victor had stopped the car; it was because she had exclaimed impatiently, ‘Oh, do let’s get on, Victor, I’ve hung about enough for one afternoon.’ He had wanted to show her that her wishes, her impatience, had no power over him and that he was not sorry for having kept her waiting three and a half minutes at the station.