Saplings

  ‘Picking up wonderfully. Fancied a nice piece of boiled chicken done that way she likes, with rice and a white sauce. Yesterday she sat up a bit and looked out of the window and noticed a tree and said would it do to cut down for your Christmas tree, fancy her thinking of that already....’

  ‘Frog, who’s sending you chewing gum?’

  ‘Frog, have you got a boy?’

  Laurel had drifted home. She was standing in her mother’s room. Her eyes were shining. Mum was getting better. She was already planning for Christmas. Oh, if only this holiday could never happen and it was the Christmas one which was coming.

  ‘Look at The Frog. Look at the way her eyes are shining.’

  ‘Come on, Frog, tell us about him.’

  Laurel was back in the hall. She stared round her in surprise. The girls talking to her had scarcely spoken to her before. They were older than she was and were a set of themselves. Laurel had noticed them with some envy because, if their hair was straight, their mothers had it permanently waved. ‘Lucky, lucky dogs,’ she had thought. ‘I wouldn’t look pretty whatever anyone did to me, but I would look better curled.’ A girl was holding the chewing gum.

  ‘Come on, Frog, what’s he say?’

  Laurel remembered the other letter. She looked at the signature.

  ‘It’s from Uncle Walter.’

  The girls were disgusted.

  ‘An uncle!’

  ‘Not really. He’s an American. We call him Uncle.’

  The girls drew nearer.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘What’s he call you?’

  Laurel had her eyes on Walter’s opening words. Never before she had thought of his way of addressing her as anything but a nickname. Now, with the whispering girls round her, she blushed; it would sound so sloppy.

  ‘Look, she’s blushing.’

  ‘Come on, Frog, show us.’

  One girl put an arm round Laurel’s neck and peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Oo-h! Who’s a dark horse! He calls her sweetheart.’

  Laurel’s hands were damp, her cheeks crimson.

  ‘It’s... it’s only a nickname . . . truly.’

  ‘Have we heard that before?’

  ‘Would you believe it! A kid her age.’

  Laurel looked from one girl to the other. She was, for the first time since she came to Greenwood House, the focus of attention. Even queerer, she seemed to be being admired, and envied. It was extraordinary that getting a letter from Uncle Walter should cause such excitement, but it was, and though she was not clear what it was all about, it was gorgeous to be thought interesting. She tried to look as though she had something to conceal. She folded her letters and put them and the chewing gum back into the envelope. She wondered what to do with the envelope. She supposed really it ought to go down her chest, these sort of girls had things hanging round their necks which they showed each other and whispered about. Her frock, however, like all her other frocks, had a little collar close to her neck, and it would be impossible to push anything down unless she undid the back. Instead, since she had not a pocket, she pushed the envelope into her knicker leg.

  The girls giggled.

  ‘What a place to keep a love letter!’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Laurel felt they would lose interest if she stayed any longer. She blurted a phrase she knew to be common amongst them. ‘Aren’t you awful!’ and fled.

  XLII

  Ruth was stationed in Scotland. It was impossible on her short leaves to make time to visit both schools. She would have liked to, but she was increasingly aware that she was growing away from the civilian world, shut in by the invisible, but substantial walls of service life. She felt, if she were not to be out of touch when the war was over, she must keep up with her civilian friends. Stay in their houses, listen to what they said, try, in the few days she was free, to regain her knowledge of how it felt to be responsible for herself, to have no higher authority to see to her well-being and order her coming and goings.

  Ruth, since her talk with Tony in November of forty-one, had paid two visits to Wingsgate House. She had seen John after he had tackled the boy. They had met in the same bar as on their first meeting, but not in the same atmosphere. John had told the full story of Tony’s attack, and how he had brought the boy up to town to meet his grandfather and have the story of his father’s death corroborated; but Ruth felt he was uneasy with her. She was not sure that he did not think her inquisitive. To her it seemed normal to ask what the house was like, and how Lena was, but John was reticent, and chilled her into silence. It was a sad, disappointing meeting. Only when she saw Tony did she lose the feeling. If in her life she had done nothing else worth while, she had done well when she had written to John. It had lifted up her heart to see Tony so much better.

  Ruth’s next visit to Wingsgate House was in the following spring. Then, with amusement, she began to understand John’s reticence. Both Tony and Kim were delighted to see her. Kim, talking at the top of his voice, explained to her, with imitations, how all the household looked and behaved; the recital starred Stroch, but Uncle Walter came high on the list. ‘Uncle Walter,’ Ruth thought. ‘Now why didn’t I guess there’d be an Uncle Walter?’ Tony, when he got a chance to get a word in, told her they were being pretty lucky this half as their grandfather had been down a week ago.

  Kim burst out.

  ‘And in the middle of the week. Absolutely nobody goes out in the middle of a week unless their father’s been killed, and there were we, gorging ourselves at the hotel. And I missed French, and there was an awful lunch at school, one of our boys knew for certain the meat was horse.’

  Ruth planned on her next leave she would look up Laurel and Tuesday. Tony was almost his old self and, anyway, was going on to his public school. She was not sure if he wanted visiting there. She told him she would let him know if she was moved, and would he send her a line if he would like to be taken out. She adored seeing Kim but she could not feel he needed visits. It was clear from his conversation that he had invitations to go out with some friend or other practically every Sunday. She could not imagine he would miss Tony. Tony was, on the whole, a curb, he corrected Kim’s most violent inaccuracies. Kim seemed to have found a way of life which was better worked out alone. He was the card, the wit, as well as being brilliant at his work. Ruth could see he treated himself as if he were a Wurlitzer organ; if one stop failed to move his audience he tried another. This passion for being the centre of the picture was dangerous. What on earth would he grow up like? It seemed unnatural that before he was eleven he should have found a way to adapt his failings to feed his egoism. If all went well Kim might do anything, but what if things did not go well? He could never be poor. He would always have to throw his weight about, be surrounded with friends, even if he had to rob a bank or forge cheques to do it.

  Even if Ruth had not planned to visit Laurel, a letter from her, breathing woe, would have made her try and manage it. It was the first she had heard of Lena’s illness. ‘Imagine, Foxglove, all that long, super summer holiday, when you can almost forget there is a ghastly hole like Greenwood House, I’ve got to stay with Aunt Lindsey, if it wasn’t that Aunt Dot has almost promised Mum will be well by Christmas I should throw myself from a cliff. Not that there is a cliff in this hateful place, but I would walk until I found one.’

  Ruth turned over the idea of writing to Dot for information, but she could still feel the discomfort of being held off by John. She had leave due in about three weeks, she wrote to Laurel and told her not to throw herself off anything at the moment, as she was coming to see her, and would prefer not to attend her funeral. She wrote to Nannie for news of Lena. Nannie’s reply made Ruth aware that something was wrong. She worried as to what it could be. From the moment she had heard of Uncle Walter she had taken his relationship with Lena for granted. Knowing Lena, it was not to be supposed that she was leading a celibate existence. Equally, knowing the skilled elegance with wh
ich she ran her life, it was unlikely that Nannie would know anything about it. You could not think of gossip in connection with a poised mondaine like Lena. Yet Nannie wrote: ‘You will be sorry to hear that Mrs. Wiltshire is far from well; she is not allowed to have any noise or to write, dear Miss Glover, and just lies in bed with two nurses looking after her. The poor children will be very disappointed not to come home this holidays,’ and then underlined, ‘but it is best they should not. I am glad, dear Miss Glover, you are going to the school to see Laurel and Tuesday, please do give them my love and make them see it is all for the best. . . .’

  Nannie was no letter writer, this was a long letter for her. It was foreign to her to write and underline a clear statement of policy. ‘. . . it is best they should not . . .’ It was even more unlike her to give advice, but there it was, ‘make them see it is all for the best.’

  Ruth spent Saturday night in an inn near Greenwood House. She took Tuesday out on the Saturday afternoon, and Laurel on Sunday morning.

  Ruth had not seen Tuesday for almost three years. She had left a baby of five and she hardly knew the child of eight who greeted her. In spite of a missing front tooth Tuesday had kept her looks. She was almost as fair as when she was a baby, and her hair still curled deliciously. She had never been as much with Ruth as the other three, and it took time to break down a wall of shyness which stood between them. Ruth had brought a picnic tea, which included cherries, and unpacking this they made friends, and Tuesday was soon chattering as if Ruth had never left them. Ruth had remembered Tuesday’s passion for a dog and asked about Stroch. Tuesday was sitting on the ground arranging the cherries on some leaves. She paused and raised her eyes to Ruth.

  ‘I didn’t think I could bear it when we weren’t going home.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You know, if he’s not watched, he is inclined to dig holes in Mr. Mustard’s garden.’

  ‘What does Mr. Mustard say?’

  ‘You couldn’t say he was pleased. Not when it’s seeds. Do you know, once he dug up lettuces that Mr. Mustard had been simply weeks growing.’

  ‘I expect Mr. Mustard understands.’

  ‘He would try to. He’s a very, very good man, but now he hasn’t got to. Stroch has gone to live with Uncle Walter until Mum’s well again.’

  Ruth’s head was bent over the basket. She succeeded in sounding disinterested.

  ‘Who’s Uncle Walter?’

  Tuesday was amazed at such ignorance.

  ‘You must know that, everybody who knows us knows Uncle Walter. He’s our greatest friend. He’s an American officer. Laurel says he says that Stroch has been adopted by everybody where he works as a mascot.’

  ‘I expect he’ll bark with an American accent next time you see him.’

  Tuesday thought that funny, she rocked with laughter.

  ‘I’ll tell Laurel and she’ll write that to Uncle Walter.’

  ‘Laurel’s the letter writer, is she?’

  ‘She does all the letters to Uncle Walter and then she tells me and writes to Tony, and he tells Kim.’

  ‘Which of the aunts are you staying with in the summer?’

  ‘Aunt Dot.’

  ‘Will you like that?’

  ‘Well, if I can’t go home it will be next best. But you can’t pretend it’s nice when you expected to go home, can you?’

  Ruth poured out a glass of lemonade and passed it to Tuesday.

  ‘It’s very bad luck but it’s only for one holidays.’

  Tuesday drank some lemonade and ate half a bun before she answered.

  ‘If only the others could come too, and Nannie and Mrs. Oliver and Mr. Mustard and Stroch. I simply hate us being divided.’

  ‘But you like Maria.’

  ‘And Alice and Henry.’ Tuesday raised her eyes earnestly to Ruth. ‘You simply can’t make me say I like it though. I simply hate, and always will, not going home.’

  Ruth, watching Tuesday, saw that discussion of the holiday distressed her. She had flushed and her face twitched. She changed the subject.

  ‘Tell me how you like school.’

  Laurel had been thirteen and a half when Ruth had last seen her, now she was fifteen. She had said then she was becoming a woman and getting a chest. There was still not much outward sign of womanhood. She had remained a slight little creature, rather plainer perhaps as her cheeks had rounded which did not suit her. Her hair was still tow-coloured and worn in two plaits. She was waiting for Ruth at the corner of the road by Greenwood House Over the Way. She wasted no time on greetings, but dragged Ruth back the way she had come.

  ‘I’m not supposed to meet you here. I’m supposed to wait inside the school gates, but I didn’t want the girls to see you.’

  ‘Ashamed of me?’

  ‘Of course not, darling Foxglove, but, you see, I said I was going out with somebody in khaki, and everybody thinks it’s a man.’

  This statement was so unlike the old Laurel that Ruth felt acutely the years of separation.

  ‘Where do you want to go? Will you come to the Inn where I’m staying?’

  ‘No. We’ll meet the school there. Let’s go a long way by bus.’

  In the bus Laurel pulled Ruth’s arm through hers, and leant against her. She sighed contentedly.

  ‘Oh, Foxglove, it’s simply gorgeous seeing you. I needed something nice to happen. The future looks very black.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll like it with Aunt Lindsey.’

  ‘Oh no, I won’t. She makes me feel a worm under her feet. I know now how a camel feels when it’s going to take weeks crossing a desert. That’s exactly how the summer holidays feel to me.’

  ‘It’s only for the one holiday.’

  ‘But much the longest and nicest holiday. If only we could all be together, even if it had to be with Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Andrew. Poor Tony’s going there. Uncle Andrew will take him into his study for little talks, and he’ll pray without it being any special time. I think praying out loud, except in church, is very bad manners. Neither Tony nor I have ever forgotten the shame of it.’

  ‘Poor Tony.’

  Laurel sighed.

  ‘Poor all of us really. I don’t like to think of Tuesday being on her own. In term time she’s all right, but in the holidays she needs remembering or she misses her turn at things.’

  ‘Couldn’t you mention that to Alice?’

  ‘I’m going to. Then Kim ought never to be going to Bertie and Fiona. Just imagine three show-offs like that in one house.’

  Ruth pressed Laurel’s arm to her side. In whatever other ways she had changed she was still the good elder sister.

  ‘What’s your ambition at the moment? Last time I saw you there was an idea of a halo.’

  ‘Don’t tease. I was a child then. I’m going to be confirmed in the spring, all our class is done then. Because of the war we don’t have to have a white frock. I do hope Mum doesn’t buy me one. I don’t think anybody of my age looks nice in white, do you?’

  ‘Not very. Tell me about your mother. What’s the news of her?’

  ‘She’s much better Aunt Dot says, but she mustn’t write yet. She’s got something called a nervous breakdown. Did you ever have it?’

  ‘No. It comes from a shock. I expect your mother has been needing a rest for some time.’

  ‘A rest! She rests all the time. Half the days she has breakfast in bed. The only tiring thing she does is sometimes to go up to London for the day.’

  ‘There’re all kinds of rests.’

  Laurel looked serious.

  ‘Aunt Dot absolutely promises it’s only a nervous breakdown. It couldn’t be anything else, could it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, anyway Tuesday tells me she’s getting better.’

  ‘Yes, she is. She sits up, she looked out of the window and chose a tree for our Christmas tree.’

  ‘That’s grand.’

  Laurel was pleating her frock with her free hand.

  ‘Of course she would get better in bed. It’s when she gets up
I worry about. I mean, she could start again doing the things that made her ill.’

  Laurel’s head was bent. Ruth could not see her face. She felt she must go carefully.

  ‘There is that risk. Most of us do things that aren’t good for us, I suppose.’

  ‘Do most people? I mean, things they know for certain make them ill?’

  ‘What sort of ill?’

  ‘Well...of course Mum doesn’t... but suppose it was strawberries...if a person knew for certain eating lots of them made them sick, do you suppose they’d still eat them?’

  Ruth sensed this was not a casual conversation. Obviously strawberries were not the question, but something was. What could Lena ...? A thought came to her. Drugs. That would be a possibility.

  ‘If somebody took anything beyond what was good for them, and had to go to bed because of it, the doctor would know. You can cure people of wanting things that are bad for them. Probably it would be because a person was ill that they wanted the thing that did them harm; when they were all right again they’d give up wanting it.’

  Laurel raised her face. She looked radiant. For a moment Ruth thought she was to be confided in, but when Laurel spoke it was about where they should lunch.

  They lunched in a tea shop in a back street. Laurel found it.

  ‘I particularly want not to meet the school.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be allowed to go out with me if I were a man, unless I were one of your uncles.’

  ‘Not really, but there’re ways of doing things.’

  Ruth gave Laurel a swift, anxious look. This sort of schoolgirl silliness was unlike her, or had been unlike the child she had known. There was, however, nothing silly about Laurel’s expression, she was leaning back in her chair staring into the street, frowning with earnestness.

  ‘Are there? Anyway you haven’t anyone you want to see except the uncles, have you?’