Nightingale Wood

  ‘Only my green.’

  ‘Well, do put on the green, dear. That looks so unsuitable.’

  Viola went up and put on the green. It had an ice-cream blob on its front, over which she pinned a bunch of artificial poppies.

  ‘Good heavens, Viola, do take that off,’ said Tina, crossly, meeting her sister-in-law on the stairs. ‘It looks perfectly awful.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Those roses or whatever they are,’ waspishly. Saxon, his dark head bent against the wind, was carrying crockery out into the garden.

  ‘I can’t. It’s got ice-cream on it. Have the cakes come?’

  ‘No. Your petticoat’s showing.’

  Elegant in dark blue, she hurried downstairs. The first guest was at the front door.

  (‘Very sorry, Madam, but the van’s broken down. Yes, Madam. Yes, I’ll tell the manager, Madam. We’ll do our best, Madam. I’m very sorry.’)

  Exhausted, Mrs Wither hung up the receiver.

  ‘Cook, will you make some small cakes please, at once? Those wretched cake people’s van has broken down.’

  ‘I doubt if there’d be time, m’m,’ said Cook, in a remote, holy voice. ‘Now if everything had been made yesterday—’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I thought we should have the cakes. Scones, then, if there’s no time for anything else.’

  ‘Mother, they’ve got two kinds of sandwiches and jam and those two big cakes … can’t we manage with that?’ said Tina, suddenly sorry for her mother, whose poor little party was sliding to disaster. ‘Don’t worry, dear: there’s a nice fire in the drawing-room and the Phillipses are well away with Madge about Polo. I’m sure it’s going to be all right. Cheer up.’

  Mrs Wither shook her head, and went smiling into the drawing-room where Madge and the Phillipses, hugging the fire, were trying to ignore the steady gale that sighed through the open french windows and made the fire puff smoke into the room. The cloths on the tables, pinned down by the crockery, tugged in the wind with a noise like little flags.

  ‘Too bad the sun couldn’t shine for you,’ said Mrs Colonel Phillips. ‘Isn’t it always the way, though? Any other day …’

  Surely we aren’t going to have tea in that tornado? thought Tina, stealing a glance through the french windows at Saxon, who was arranging cups with a face like a thundercloud. There’s wind enough to blow the milk out o’ yer tea, as the country people say.

  At that instant there struck upon the air a familiar sound. Many a night, when sunk in well-deserved rest, had the residents of Sible Pelden been aroused by it, and thrown things at it out of their windows. Everyone looked up, aghast, unwilling to believe their own ears as it came nearer. It came very near. It was in the hall, mingled with the hearty notes of a man’s voice. It receded, growing louder and protesting as it was led away.

  Colonel Phillips spoke first.

  ‘Surely that isn’t that beastly brute of Parsham’s?’ said Colonel Phillips remorselessly, looking very straight at Mrs Wither.

  ‘Only in the yard … no trouble,’ said Mrs Wither, faintly.

  The drawing-room door swung slowly open and in bounded Polo.

  ‘Go away! Outside! Bad dog! Off!’ cried Mr Wither, flapping at Polo. ‘Madge, you know I don’t allow … be off, sir! Down, down!’

  ‘Never allow a dog in the house. Bad, very bad,’ said Colonel Phillips stonily, ignoring the passionate laving of his boots by Polo.

  ‘Yes, of course. Polo, come here,’ said Madge, much embarrassed. Polo took no notice, but displayed a pink stomach at Colonel Phillips. Take me, I am thine, said his attitude.

  ‘Polo,’ repeated Madge, in the voice.

  Polo took no notice.

  ‘He’s showing off,’ said Madge, brick-red, laughing heartily. ‘Just like kids, always show off in front of a crowd.’

  ‘Ought to be thrashed,’ said Colonel Phillips.

  ‘I never hit Polo,’ began Madge.

  ‘Outside, sir! Will you go outside! Madge, put him out at once. Saxon!’

  Saxon took four strides through the french windows, snatched up the yelping Polo, and went out in another four strides, holding Polo at arm’s length. A minute later he came back with a cloth. While he was on his knees the door opened and Annie announced:

  ‘Mrs Spring, Miss Franklin, Mr Spring, Doctor Parsham, Lady Dovewood.’

  He’ll never forgive me for seeing that, thought Tina, going smilingly forward at her mother’s side. What snobs and fools and cowards we all are. If we were real people, we’d have roared with laughter. One day I’ll make it up to you, my darling.

  ‘How do you do … Yes, isn’t it? … Well, I thought it was going to before lunch but it’s kept off … Too bad of it, isn’t it … Oh, I am sorry, nothing serious, I hope … I’m so glad you managed to get away, Mr Spring … oh, he’ll be no trouble out there, none at all, I’m sure …’

  In the pauses of the talk, the chilly, smoky drawing-room echoed with the noise of Chappy’s barking.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Doctor Parsham heartily, in answer to an inquiry from Colonel Phillips. ‘It’s a habit, that’s all. He enjoys it. There’s nothing wrong with him.’

  If I had my way, thought Colonel Phillips, he would no longer be there for there to be anything wrong with. Beastly great brute.

  It’s exactly like I thought it would be, thought Hetty, sitting beside Tina and carrying on a jerky conversation which was broken by long pauses. The mud-coloured curtains and those enormous seascapes in heavy gilt frames and the chairs covered with faded chintz, and all those photographs, and the white bearskin rug, and the smell of oldness. Amazing atmosphere. It’s a mixture of Chekhov and Proust with a dash of Jane Austen. It’s too good to be true.

  On seeing the Springs arrive, Viola had retired into a far corner by the piano, and begun to turn over some music in an old rosewood case with a dutiful, absorbed expression as though someone had told her to. Tina darted glances in her direction, trying to lure her out from her corner to do her part as hostess; she would not see, but continued to turn the pages of I Hear You Calling Me, Thora, Our Miss Gibbs, and The Trumpeter.

  ‘Are you going to sing to us?’

  She looked up, startled, into Victor’s laughing eyes. He had crossed over to her so quickly that she had not even seen him before he was in front of her, shutting out the rest of the room.

  She shook her head, letting I Love the Moon fall at her side. She could not speak. Go on, ass, say something, she thought angrily; but it was useless.

  ‘Don’t you think you must be a very attractive person?’ he went on in the same low voice, pleased by her apparent confusion. ‘I cut two Board Meetings and a trip to the North to come here this afternoon.’ (This was not true.)

  ‘Did you really?’ she murmured.

  It was no more than the silliest bleat; but Victor took it – so firmly fixed was his judgment of her character – as a soft ironical drawl, a sort of amorous oh yeah?

  ‘Yes, I really did. Garden parties’ (his tone said this sort of garden party, anyway) ‘aren’t much in my line.’

  ‘Oh, aren’t they?’

  ‘But I wanted to see you again,’ he went on coolly, staring full at her, ‘and I thought this would be a good excuse.’

  ‘But you could have—’

  ‘Could have what?’

  ‘Well, phoned or written or something,’ she blurted, in a soft indignant rush of words. She remembered how unhappy he had made her and looked at him with a mingled shyness and severity. He took her look for one of challenge.

  ‘Did you want me to?’

  ‘Well – not exactly – but I thought you might have.’

  ‘Why?’ in a still lower tone, staring at her with half-shut eyes. She looked down at the song she held, for she had a momentary disagreeable impression that he did not quite know what he was saying.

  ‘Oh … I don’t know,’ she muttered feebly. Then, ‘Hadn’t you better go and talk to someone else? It looks so funny.’ br />
  ‘I don’t want to,’ still staring at her.

  ‘Well, never mind that, but please do, it looks so awfully queer, us staying in this corner like this.’

  As he heard the distressed tone and schoolgirlish words, for the first time a faint suspicion crossed his mind that the little Wither was less forthcoming than she looked. But he dismissed the suspicion. He himself, though he would have been horrified to hear it, was neither sophisticated nor a judge of women; and as for his opinion of Viola, his wish was certainly father to his thought.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered, ‘but I must see you alone some time. Can’t we do a show in town, soon?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ almost whispered Viola, glowing, earnest-eyed.

  ‘Good. I’ll write to you.’

  And he melted back into the crowd so easily that only Mrs Wither, Mrs Colonel Phillips, Lady Dovewood, Tina and his mother noticed what he had been up to.

  The party, so far as Viola was concerned, was now a riot; but no one else was enjoying it at all. True, they were sustained by the thought that they could pick it all to pieces on their way home, but this scarcely made up for two or three hours’ boredom. The smoke got in people’s eyes, for the fire had been upset by an attack made upon it with the poker by Mr Wither. Chappy barked hoarsely and without stopping, and though the sun had now come out, the wind was still high, and the gale continued to sough round people’s legs.

  One or two hardy spirits went into the garden, but were driven indoors again by Polo, who escaped a second time and rushed all over their skirts with his very muddy feet. Madge surmised that he had been down to the duckpond. No one cared at all where he had been, so long as he did not get into the garden again, and said as much among themselves.

  Mr Wither was not enjoying the party. The relapse of the money, the inclement weather, Polo, Chappy, and the non-arrival of the cakes, had broken his nerve; and he crawled among his guests without sensibly enlivening their spirits. Every ten minutes Madge disappeared to look at Polo, every twenty minutes Doctor Parsham went round to the yard to comfort Chappy and tell him that his master would not be long, saying: ‘Will you forgive me if I have another look at the old chap?’

  Really, I am quite glad we came, this will be a lesson for Hetty, thought Mrs Spring, quietly studying Viola’s radiant face and dreamy manner and the deplorable poppies. Perhaps she will appreciate our parties more, now that she has seen how dreadful a badly-run one can be. Poor Mrs Wither; I really feel for her, but what a stupid woman, why didn’t she let Lyons do everything? That pretty little thing is in love with Vic; it’s too bad of him, naughty boy.

  Everyone was relieved when tea was announced, though their spirits were dashed again on seeing Mrs Wither at the french windows, firmly waving people into the garden, which seemed peculiarly uninviting. Everything was blowing about, and Saxon, Annie and Fawcuss looked furious as they stood behind the tables. The monkey puzzle cut off what sun there was, and the wind sent bits of twig and dust down into people’s cups.

  A mild scene was created by Doctor Parsham who firmly refused to go into the garden to have his tea but insisted upon having it brought to him by the fire. Doctor Parsham said that his life, as a medical man, was of more value to the community than that of any lay life; and therefore he was not going to risk it by sitting about in that gale. Other people could please themselves: he was going to keep the fire warm; and Doctor Parsham roared with laughter, while everyone else looked wistfully at the fire but had not the courage to follow his example.

  Fortunately, the sun came out quite strongly during tea, and people’s teeth stopped chattering. Someone round in the yard put a bone or something in Chappy’s mouth and shut him up; Polo was again seized by Saxon and firmly tied up in a far, sheltered corner of the garden with a lump of cake, so that he could not make a nuisance of himself a third time; and spirits began to rise as the refreshments circulated.

  Tina’s, indeed, rose dizzily. As Saxon handed her a cup of tea, coming for a moment between her and her companion (for Saxon had not been trained as a waiter), he had given her, with the cup, a slow, tiny wink; a wink of unutterable boredom, sophistication and friendliness. Really, as one intelligent person to another – said the wink. Recklessly Tina returned it, lowering her long lashes. Oh, he’s not angry with me! sang her heart. He’s forgiven me. Everything’s going to be all right, I’m sure …

  It was at precisely this idyllic moment that there burst upon the air an uproar from the yard, in which Chappy’s barking, the outraged voice of Cook, and a man’s loud deep tones were mingled.

  Mr Wither, appalled, half-rose from his chair with a cucumber sandwich in one hand, and gazed at Mrs Wither. What has gone wrong now, said his look? The money, Chappy, Polo, the cakes, the weather – what further thunderbolt had Fate in store?

  ‘MISHTER WITHER!’ roared an enormous, a fatally familiar voice. ‘MISHTER WITHER! YER WALKING STICK’S DONE! I’VE GOT IT ’ERE. BETTER COME AND FETCH IT. LET YOU ’AVE IT FOR FIFTEEN BOB. MISHTER WITHER!’

  The roar stopped abruptly.

  ‘What are you a-doin’ ’ere?’ demanded the voice, more quietly, but in the same carrying tone. ‘Go ’ome.’

  ‘Go home yourself, Dick Falger,’ said a woman’s voice, shrilly (Tina, watching Saxon, saw him start, and move forward, then stop himself). ‘Proper drunk, you are.’

  ‘So are you,’ retorted the Hermit. ‘Both of ush. Nev’ min’! MISTER WITHER! MISTER WITHER!—’

  It was impossible to ignore the deafening noise. The guests gave it up. With cups and food suspended in mid-air, they gazed in the direction of the yard, concealed from the garden by a screen of limes in blossom and thick shrubs. In the pause Chappy began to bark furiously.

  No one said anything. No one moved. Mr Wither gazed helplessly at Mrs Wither, everyone gazed inquiringly at everyone else. Finally Colonel Phillips, staring straight ahead of him, said curtly:

  ‘No business of mine, but can I be of any use?’

  ‘Oh no, no, I don’t think so, thank you, very good of you,’ stammered Mr Wither. ‘It’s only that fellow who lives in the wood across the road, you know, he – Saxon, go and see what’s the matter, will you? Turn the fellow out … disgraceful …’

  He bent forward and began to tell Colonel Phillips about the Hermit, while everyone else, revived by this incident, fell upon their tea with renewed appetite.

  Saxon went off quickly, looking rather pale.

  Tina, forgetting that her companion was waiting to be informed about the Hermit, stared after him, her heart beating faster. Suppose there was a fight?

  For a few minutes there was silence. Everyone ate, talked, asked for more, with their ears pricked.

  Suddenly the uproar broke out again, louder than ever. Bellows, screams, scuffling, shrieks, cries of pain and the furious barking of Chappy, suddenly changing to an agonized yelping, rang behind the screen of trees.

  ‘Chappy! Chappy!’ roared Doctor Parsham, streaking out through the french windows and rushing across the lawn. ‘Leave my dog alone, damn you!’

  Colonel Phillips, Victor, Mr Wither and all the other men were on their feet.

  Polo began to yap. Madge darted to his side.

  ‘MISHTER WITHER!’ bellowed the voice.

  A piercing shriek.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Colonel Phillips, and everyone, yielding to temptation, hurried across the lawn in the direction of the trees. The noises were so alarming that even Mrs Spring, usually correct in her behaviour, felt it her duty to investigate, while Lady Dovewood, as the mother of two sons whose hobby was boxing, felt a semi-professional interest in any fight. Besides, the party was such a boring one.

  Viola found Victor by her side. He took her hand, and pulled her back so that they dropped behind the others, darted into a little old summer-house in a sheltered part of the garden, and dragged her in after him.

  ‘There!’ he said coolly, shutting the door. ‘Now we …’

  It was almost dark in th
e summer-house, save for a shady, moving summer light coming through the window, dimmed by some evergreens. Viola, lost in a trance of pleasure and happiness, ardently returned his kisses, both arms round his neck, her eyes shut, her breath coming fast. Neither spoke.

  They forgot where they were. Everything was silent, except the rush of the wind through the glittering laurels outside, whose lights danced over the cobwebbed ceiling.

  At last Victor muttered, ‘This won’t do. They’ll be wondering where we are.’

  She sighed, and slowly opened her eyes. The pupils had spread velvet black over the grey; they looked up at him solemnly.

  ‘Wake up!’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Pull yourself together.’

  It would never do to have her reappear with that look on her face. She might as well wear a placard round her neck.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked gently, looking at her over his shoulder as he opened the door.

  ‘Viola,’ almost in a whisper.

  ‘Pretty … like you. Now look here …’ he was cautiously yet casually looking round the garden; it was deserted, but confused sounds still came from the yard, ‘not a word about this to anyone, do you understand?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, going very pink. ‘I shouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Well … mind you don’t. Because …’ They were walking quickly across to the screen of trees. Viola shivered a little in the cool wind; she still felt dazed: ‘… if you do, it may land us in all kinds of a mess.’

  He gave her a caressing smile which she faintly returned. She was completely happy, walking over the grass in a dream of delight. He had kissed her, he loved her. He would take her to the theatre, and while they were there, he would ask her to marry him. It was wonderful; it was like a fairy story, but it was true.

  ‘The battle seems to be over,’ said Victor cheerfully, as they stepped round the lime-trees, ‘Mrs Wither turned her ankle, and I stopped to look after her,’ smiling impudently at Mrs Wither senior, whose distressed yet sharp eyes were turned suspiciously upon Viola. ‘Have you got rid of the Hermit?’