Saplings

  Laurel’s face lit up.

  ‘Oh yes. I’d simply adore to see Uncle Walter. He’s our greatest friend. He’s looking after Stroch for us.’

  ‘If he’s ever this way perhaps he could get permission to see you and Tuesday.’

  ‘He’ll never be this way. He’s stationed in London.’

  ‘Does he write about Stroch?’

  ‘Yes. He wrote to me and said he would have Stroch until Mum’s well. I wrote to Tony and asked what he and Kim thought, and I asked Tuesday. We all thought it was much better for him. Of course he’s a country dog, but he wouldn’t get proper exercise at home. Nannie’s rather fat and walks awfully slowly. Besides, Americans have marvellous food. I shouldn’t wonder if Stroch sometimes has chicken. So I wrote to Uncle Walter and said yes. I asked him to write and tell me about Stroch as often as he could, but he’s not a good correspondent. I do wish I could think of a way to make him write more often.’

  ‘But you’re not worried about Stroch?’

  ‘No. Actually, Foxglove, it’s the letters I want. I know you’ll think this silly but you’ve no idea how esteemed I am because an American writes to me.’

  ‘Esteemed by whom?’

  ‘Not the sort of girls you’d like, but at least I’m being esteemed. I told you I’d bring the name Frog to honour. I’m beginning.’

  ‘Do people like Alice esteem you?’

  The waitress brought them their food. Laurel waited until she was out of earshot.

  ‘You’re quite right, she doesn’t. All the same, with long years of being nobody behind me, and in front of me, I’m glad of any sort of esteem.’

  Ruth turned over the idea of giving advice, then decided against it. She saw Laurel so seldom. The one thing she could do was to build up her friendship with her. If Laurel felt in her she had an uncritical friend to whom anything could be confided, perhaps, if she needed her, she would turn to her. She felt doubtful of her wisdom, but she was no longer Laurel’s governess. It would be wretched if the girl went back to school feeling she had been stuffy with her and unsympathetic.

  Only once more did Laurel mention Walter. It was after lunch, they were sitting in the tiny garden at the back of the tea-shop. Ruth was smoking. Laurel took a piece of chewing gum out of her pocket, she balanced it on one finger looking at it longingly.

  ‘I’d adore to chew this but it’s my last piece. It’s simply heavenly. It tastes of peppermint.’

  ‘What are you saving it for?’

  ‘I make a point of always having one bit by me. I pretend Uncle Walter sends me some every week. Of course he doesn’t, actually he’s only written three times and only twice sent gum, so however big the temptation I have to keep my last piece to show, or my reputation would be ruined.’

  Having deposited Laurel back at school Ruth returned to the inn where she was staying, to pack her bag. She was depressed. She was fond of the Wiltshire children, and she was not happy about them. She heard again Tuesday’s earnest little voice, ‘I simply hate, and always will, not going home.’ Poor baby, she had been messed about. First her grandparents, and then the home in Surrey, and now she was to stay with the Enden cousins. One comfort, she did seem happy at school, but Ruth had not cared for the way she flushed and her face twitched. She wished she had heard her hum. Humming had been such a part of Tuesday. Laurel putting values on the wrong things. Except that she had Alice with her she was clearly not at the best school for her. She had never lost that vulnerableness to hurt that had touched the heart when she was little. She had lost so much else. There was now no sign of the carefully nurtured, rather sedate, air that had been hers as a little girl. Ruth could see her and Tony brushed, scrubbed and polished, sitting one on each side of her at family lunches at Regent’s Park. Don’t interrupt, never mention the food being served, eat nicely, don’t speak with your mouth full. Oh yes, they had been carefully brought up. How Laurel had valued happiness, hugged it to her. How she had loved her home. How she had loved Alex. Now this schoolgirl, pretending she was carrying on a flirtatious correspondence with an American.

  Ruth dragged the zip-fastener of her bag shut. It was no good worrying. What could she do tied to the A.T.S.? What could she do if she were not in the A.T.S.? She was no longer the children’s governess, she had no right to interfere. Heaps of children grew up without much attention and turned out all right in the end. She picked up her bag and glanced round the room to see she had forgotten nothing, but her brain was not taking in what she saw. It was answering her own argument. Heaps did, but were they the Laurels, Tonys and Tuesdays? She herself had grown up all right with very little attention, and little of it wise. All right but bruised. The Wiltshires were having a harder upbringing than she had. If only bruising was all they got out of it. What if they grew mis-shapen?

  Suddenly there were tears in Ruth’s eyes. Angrily she brushed them away.

  XLIII

  Tuesday, glancing anxiously over her shoulder, crept behind some bushes. She paused a moment to see her absence had not been noticed. Obviously not, Alice was giving Maria some coaching at tennis. ‘Keep your racquet straight.’ ‘You must take back handers. You can’t run all round the ball to avoid them.’ Tuesday tiptoed up the path that ran above the tennis court. It was hidden from the house by a laurustinus hedge. At the end of it was the danger, a piece of overgrown lawn to be crossed before she came to the gate into the kitchen garden. There were two ways of crossing that piece of lawn, one was to run very fast and hope you were not seen, the other was to walk slowly, as if you were going on a message. At the end of the path Tuesday stopped and listened. There were voices. Aunt Dot was talking to Miss Endwell.

  ‘We’ll have to keep that for this evening. Henry must have a decent meal as he has only had a picnic lunch.’

  There was the sound of running water. Miss Endwell was washing up. Her voice, which was shrill, rose above the noise of the water.

  ‘Very nourishing those spam sandwiches.’

  ‘Yes, but harvesting is hungry work.’

  Miss Endwell’s reply was less clear, Tuesday guessed she had gone to the kitchen door to speak to Aunt Dot. She ran.

  No voice pursued Tuesday. She was safe in the kitchen garden. She was still taking no risks. She put the peas and scarlet runners between herself and the gate before she slackened speed. In the far corner was the fig tree, and in front of it the mound on which grew vegetable marrows. Tuesday looked tense and worried, but as she approached the fig anxiety slid from her. She stood still and called softly.

  ‘Are you there, Bobbie?’ The wind rustled the August-dry leaves. Tuesday skipped forward, her face radiant. ‘Hallo. I told you I’d come. How’s Gipsy? Have you taught him to beg?’ She listened, her eyes shining. ‘You’ve missed me all that much? I came as quickly as ever I could. We had to help make beds and things, and then we went to the tennis court. Alice and Maria are playing.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They never saw me go. Aunt Dot and Miss Endwell are in the kitchen, it’s quite safe for you both to come out. Shall we take Gipsy for a walk? You can go on telling me about where you live.’

  ‘Tues–day. Tues–day.’

  Tuesday started. Alice calling. It could not be lunch-time yet. She seemed only to have been playing with Bobbie and Gipsy a few minutes. She made a pushing gesture.

  ‘Run, Bobbie. It’s Alice.’

  Alice, swinging her tennis racquet, came towards Tuesday.

  ‘It’s nearly lunch-time.’

  Tuesday blinked and twitched.

  ‘Is it? I thought it was quite early. Have you finished playing tennis?’

  ‘Only about an hour ago. We knew you were here. We heard you talking.’ She held out a hand. ‘Come on. By the way, Mummy thinks you’ve been playing with us all the morning.’

  They sat round the table. Tuesday was between Dot and Miss Endwell. Dot, having helped everybody to spam and salad, glanced round to see they were eating. Tuesday was gazing vacantly in front of her. Dot spoke firmly.

&n
bsp; ‘Eat up, Tuesday. Don’t daydream at meals.’

  Miss Endwell had a way of laughing first and explaining the joke afterwards. She laughed now.

  ‘I know a funny little girl who talks to herself. I heard you in the kitchen garden, Tuesday, when I went to get some parsley.’

  Tuesday’s face was crimson, her eyes blinked nervously. Alice came to her rescue.

  ‘You probably heard me talking to her. Odd as it may seem, I do talk to her sometimes.’

  Dot said mechanically:

  ‘Don’t speak rudely to Miss Endwell, Alice.’

  Miss Endwell made clucking sounds.

  ‘No, indeed. When I was a girl your age I was not allowed to speak until I was spoken to.’

  Alice was sitting next to Maria. She gave her a nudge.

  ‘I bet that was never.’

  Dot frowned at her daughters for whispering, and led the conversation to safer ground.

  ‘What are you three doing this afternoon?’

  Alice had known the question was coming and had prepared for it.

  ‘I’m playing tennis at the vicarage.’

  ‘Then the little ones can play in the garden.’

  Alice kicked Maria to remind her to keep her mouth shut.

  ‘They were asked.’

  Dot had a lot of telephoning to do and she wanted to combine visiting her office with the shopping. There was a basketful of household linen in need of mending. She was a poor needle-woman, Miss Endwell a good one.

  ‘Splendid. You’ll like that, dears.’ Dot turned to Miss Endwell. ‘No tea to get. If we put a chair in that shady place you are fond of, and Alice brings the mending out, perhaps....’

  Miss Endwell did not mind the prospect of an afternoon’s sewing, but she never did anything without making it clear she was doing a favour.

  ‘I’m not sure. . . . I know a housewife’s work is never done but. . . .’

  Tuesday was leaning towards Dot.

  ‘Please could I stop here?’

  Dot looked at Tuesday. She wished she had not acquired that nervous twitch. She must speak to Mrs. Fellows about it. She did not like this habit of the child’s of creeping away alone, it was not healthy. She and Maria were much of the same age, they ought to play together.

  ‘Of course, if there’s to be tea to get,’ said Miss Endwell, ‘I can’t do any mending. Needlework with me is not something to be picked up at odd minutes. It’s work I like to sit right down to.’

  ‘So you shall.’ Dot saw that tears were not far from Tuesday’s eyes. She patted the child’s hand. ‘You needn’t have anything to do with the tennis. It’s a lovely garden, you and Maria can play what you like.’

  ‘What I like is tennis,’ said Maria.

  Alice kicked Maria and gave Tuesday a comforting smile.

  ‘I said we’d bring some milk, they haven’t enough if Maria and Tuesday drink it instead of tea.’

  The children washed up the luncheon things. Alice washed, Tuesday dried and Maria put away.

  ‘If only you wouldn’t argue, Tuesday,’ Alice said. ‘You can trust me to get you out of things you don’t want to do.’

  Maria collected the knives Tuesday had dried.

  ‘If you ask me you’re a pretty rude guest. This is our summer holiday as much as it’s yours, and you won’t ever do the things we like.’

  Alice jerked her head towards the door.

  ‘Put the knives away and don’t talk rot. Why should Tuesday play games if she doesn’t want to? They don’t in their family. Laurel doesn’t really like them either.’

  Maria felt argumentative.

  ‘We liked other things when Daddy was home. Daddy let us help with his bees. We made smoke and wore things on our hats.’

  Alice took her hands out of the water and gave Maria a push.

  ‘Go on. Look at all Tuesday and I have finished and you haven’t even put the knives away.’ She waited until Maria was out of hearing. ‘You’ll have to come to the vicarage because Mrs. Adams will tell Mummy if you aren’t there, but I’ll see you do what you like, and you can sit next to me at tea, and you needn’t speak to anyone else. Now smile.’

  Tuesday forced a smile.

  ‘It’s just that it’s nicer here.’

  Alice groped on the bottom of the washing-up bowl for a missing spoon.

  ‘Couldn’t Bobbie come to the vicarage too?’

  Tuesday gaped at her.

  ‘Do you know Bobbie?’

  ‘I hear you talking to him.’

  Tuesday screwed up her face in an effort to explain.

  ‘He’s only partly real, you know, and so’s Gipsy, his dog.’

  ‘Of course I know. Even then I can’t see why they need stop in our garden.’

  Maria was back. Tuesday polished the last spoon and gave it to her. Alice looked round.

  ‘You can go, Tuesday. There’s only the tumblers and you mayn’t dry those. I’ll give you a shout when it’s time to start.’

  Tuesday ran down the kitchen garden humming as she ran. As she neared the fig tree she raised her voice.

  ‘Bobbie. Bobbie. Alice says she doesn’t see why you need stop in this garden. I’m going to take you and Gipsy to tea at the vicarage, and if you come there you can come anywhere. Church, even back to school with me. Would you like that, Bobbie?’ She listened, her head on one side, her eyes shining. ‘Just think, Bobbie, if you could come with me for always. I’ll never, never, be all by myself again. We needn’t know other people. Just us, Bobbie darling. Just the three of us.’

  XLIV

  The vicarage stood in a large, untended, tangled garden. The vicarage gate had a broken hinge, but it was of no importance for it was never intended to be shut. Andrew had no time to waste on gates, he generally went through it at a run, his cassock flapping. His parishioners had never known the gate shut. At all hours they passed through it, to sit on a bench inside the front door waiting to see Andrew. The oilcloth which covered the hall floor had a track worn between Andrew’s study and the front door.

  There were five Smithson sons and daughters, the eldest sixteen, the youngest eight. Andrew disapproved of birth control. ‘It is for God to decide,’ he said. Sylvia, when bowed by bills and housework, would find strength in thinking of God’s clemency in this matter. It would have been so easy for Him to have decided not to stop at five.

  Andrew loved his family but they were his pleasure, and he allowed himself little time for pleasures. His parishioners were his children. Only if one of his family erred were they allotted time. Then they were on the same footing as parishioners and took their turn in the study.

  There were two distinct modes of life in the vicarage. There was Andrew’s world of fasting, prayer, fervour, church going and good works. Outwardly all the family joined with Andrew in these things. In the dingy kitchen, where Sylvia spent half her days, there was the other mode of life.

  None of his children criticised Andrew. Their mother considered she had married a saint, daily others testified to the same belief. Certainly their father might be a saint; if being quite unlike anybody else made a saint he was certainly one. As they grew older their view was tinged with pity and tolerance. ‘Poor father.’ Still, they had been suckled on Sylvia’s faith. Besides, no one could live with Andrew and wholly disbelieve.

  Sylvia, since the war, had become cook. She had great belief in the Ministry of Food, and, when not tying up cuts, burns and scalds which she daily inflicted on herself, was stirring strange concoctions. ‘I heard it on the wireless, darlings, only I’ve added to it as there wasn’t enough for us.’ It was easy to be hungry in the vicarage, and poisoning was a likelihood rather than a possibility. Over the sink or stove Sylvia guided the other life of the house. The eldest girl would come to her about a dance. Sylvia would stir or wash-up furiously.

  ‘Saturday night. Oh, darling! If you have to wait for them to bring you back it’s certain to be after midnight and then it’s Sunday.’

  Mother and daughter wo
uld gaze at each other, both seeing with horrible clarity Andrew looking white and suffering. Andrew, at some time between services, holding out a hand and opening the study door. There would be protestations and penances. Andrew would suffer acutely because of the sin, his daughter merely from embarrassment.

  Suddenly, as if a lamp were lit in a house, Sylvia’s face would gleam.

  ‘Darling! Old Mrs. Coppenshaw. She’s always saying she can’t get in to Holy Communion because of her eyes. I’ll arrange you shall spend the night there. She’ll let you have the door key. She’ll never know what time you come in. You must take my alarm clock to be sure you get up in time for church. Poor old Mrs. Coppenshaw! It will please your father you had the kind thought.’

  Or perhaps it was one of her sons.

  ‘Oh, David. An all-day picnic on Good Friday! Oh dear!’

  David would remain calm and trusting. Presently Mother would have an idea.

  ‘If you were going to the Priory or some place like that it would be quite all right. Of course, that’s why you’re going. Lovely for you all to spend the three hours in so old a building. I’ll tell Daddy, he’ll be so pleased.’

  ‘Tennis! Your school shorts! Oh, Agnes. Not through the village. Of course I know nobody thinks anything of them these days. Couldn’t you wear a coat? No, of course you haven’t a summer coat, only your blazer. . . .’ Sylvia, frowning anxiously, would peer at the latest Ministry of Food recipe, but her eyes were not reading it. She was seeing Agnes, looking a darling, striding through the village in her school shorts and a blazer, swinging her tennis racquet. Then she saw Andrew standing in his study door looking pale and distressed. ‘Sylvia, come in a minute. I want you.’ This cleared her vision.

  ‘If you cut through the churchyard, and cross the Park, you won’t see anybody, and on your way you can drop the parish magazine at The Hall. Such a help to get those outlying magazines left, and it’s almost on your way. If anybody mentions seeing you to your father, you went in a hurry because of the magazines.’

  Tony went to the vicarage prepared to loathe it. He had stayed there before and hated it. Martin Phillips had done his best. It was only for seven weeks, there was the interest of his public school in the autumn. ‘It’s out in the country, old man, why not offer to lend a hand with the harvest?’ Tony had listened, and, because he was fond of his headmaster, tried to be reasonable, but he was thoroughly disgruntled. Why was he picked on to go to the vicarage? Anywhere would have been better. Why couldn’t he have gone with Laurel? He knew very well he would not have liked staying with Aunt Lindsey, he knew he did not want to stay with Aunt Dot or Aunt Selina, but, because subconsciously he knew these things, the more surly he felt.