Читать книгу Shabby Summer - Warwick Deeping - Страница 4

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Mrs. Maintenance saw him pass the kitchen window with a gun over his shoulder and Bunter at his heels.

Mrs. Maintenance’s window, though she set her cap at nobody these days and wore her hat with a complete and complacent motherliness, looked out upon Marplot’s nursery yard and old brick outbuildings. The stable, with its blue door, had become the office and laboratory, and its hayloft a place of storage. Its low-pitched roof, sagging with age, was capped with a little white louvre that carried a brass windvane. The yard was partly paved, and its grey stones lapped like water against the rust pink of the old brickwork whose mortar had become silvery, soft and friable. There was another building standing at right angles to the stable, a vast timber shed used for packing, which carried a mass of ivy and seemed both to support and be supported by it. The trees of Badger’s Wood climbed into the further sky like a green cloud closing the horizon.

Mrs. Maintenance emptied the tea-leaves out of the pot, and remarked to herself and the kitchen clock that it was a pity that you could not empty out your troubles in that simple way. The clock ticked back loudly at her, and somewhere a wood-pigeon cooed consolingly. Mrs. Maintenance watched Bunter’s little black stern disappearing from view behind his master’s brown legs, and blessed them both. What a pity grocer’s bills came in, and that bread had to be paid for, and that clothes could not be washed without soap! Yes, Mr. Peter had put everything into Marplot, and he had struggled through a tough seven years, buying in new stock and raising it, and getting the ground as it should be, but now the nursery was like a well-stocked shop, and times should be easier.

Peter carried a gun, not because he was moved to slaughter anything, but because there was one creature—the rabbit—which had to be dealt with ruthlessly when your land was a nursery for young trees. Let a doe trespass under the wire and bring forth her young in some secret “Stab,” and you were in for a pocketful of trouble. Also, one youngster might wriggle through the wire and grow and prosper on succulent young shoots. Peter had had wire dug in all round the nursery, save where the river made the boundary safe.

Here, at the head of the Green Way, grew two splendid trees, a weeping beech whose foliage seemed to fall like green water from a fountain, and a Camperdown elm trained like a vast leafy umbrella. These trees were the relics of a previous tenant, and though they occupied much ground, they were too singular and lovely to be touched. Next came the seed and propagating beds where the young trees stood for three years before being planted out, and these most precious beds were surrounded by an additional belt of wire. Scotch Bunter had disappeared into the shadowy interior of the weeping beech, for this mysterious tree had a fascination for the dog. Ghent paused and waited, for he knew Bunter’s way and humoured it. The dog reappeared, to trot at his heels as he passed down the green alleyway between the young plantations. Each strip of ground had a white peg and a number, and scribbled on the peg in indelible pencil was the date when that particular piece had been planted. Paths broke off at right angles, and here and there a plot was lying fallow, to take the trees that had to be moved every two years. The evening sunlight slanted across the young plantations, and each little spire seemed to glow like the spire of a strange city. There were young flowering-trees in bloom, thorns, laburnum, magnolias, rhododendrons, lilacs, Judas trees, early viburnums, and many others. Hoes had been at work, and Ghent paused now and again to see how the weeds had wilted. His face had a young serenity, for the ordered beauty of his little world was sweet and good to him. It smelt and glowed and spread itself in greens and golds and reds and pinks and purples, against the varied greenness of the fields and woods. Each tree was a perfect specimen of its kind, clean and sleek and symmetrical, for Ghent was a young fanatic and could not suffer a misshapen tree. Blackbirds were singing in the green smother that was Badger’s Lane. The water falling at the weir maintained a distant underchant.

Peter Ghent looked about him and found this green world good. For seven years he had laboured to make these acres what they were, and if the March weather that was past had been exceptional, he could dare to believe that the year would be a happy one. He was short of cash, yes, damned short of it, and the nights were being cold and none too kind, but he was not a grower of fruit, thank God! He had trees and shrubs to sell, thousands of them. Last year’s orders had not been so bad and this year he hoped to double them. If he had more capital—but life on the land was full of ifs—he could afford to advertise more lavishly; he could run a light lorry of his own instead of hiring one from Loddon; also, a motor-cultivator would help him. But these things would come. His capital was in his precious trees, and as they grew they would increase in value provided they were not too big to move. Yes, it was a good world and a good life, though it had its worries; and was any job worth while unless it twisted your guts on occasions and kept you wakeful at night?

The Green Way ended in a little field of about five acres where Ghent kept ground in reserve for tree-moving, and where he grew a supply of the commoner stuff for shelter-belts or hedge planting. Here were rows and rows of thuyas and yews and Cupressus Lawsoniana and Macrocarpa, of all ages and sizes, also a few small plantations of thorn, privet, beech, hornbeam and holly. Ghent might be a specialist, but in the cause of commerce utility had to be served. Turning right towards the Badger’s Lane hedge, he went to examine a field gate that opened into the lane. It was one of the weak spots in his defences, for though it was kept locked, and had an apron of wire netting attached to its lower bars, it was a favourite loitering place for local lovers, and often he would find the wire bulged in by a mischievous or thoughtless boot. He examined the wire and found it good, and passing on along the hedge, he cocked his gun and spoke warningly to the dog. He was approaching The Barbican, a playful name that had for him a particular significance. First came a great hedge of thorn and rhododendron ponticum. There was a tunnel cut in this hedge, and beyond it grew a row of young Lombardy poplars planted as a wind-break. The boundary was closed by a stout fence of chestnut posts, netting and barbed wire, with a grass space between it and the poplars. Ghent, with his gun at the ready, and the dog obediently at his heels, slipped through the green tunnel and peered right and left. Time after time he had caught a rabbit feeding on the strip of grass, and had discovered when he had bowled it over, a malicious hole in the protecting wire.

But there was no brown marauder here to-night, and he had taken a step towards the poplars when he saw something and stood still.

Beyond his boundary stretched a wilderness of rough grass, brambles, young birch trees, and bracken. Later in the year it would be a mass of thistles and of ragwort, and a perpetual menace to a man who kept his own ground clean. Mr. Roger Crabtree, deciding that Temple Towers should possess a park capable of confronting the Vandeleur dignity across the water, had grubbed up hedges and filled in ditches and thrown half a dozen fields together, and planted young trees, but since his affection for nature did not endure unless it produced profits, the Crabtree park had become a wilderness. Rabbits swarmed in it, and most of the young trees were dead, having had their bark nibbled by these furry pests when feed was short in winter. This derelict land had begun the feud between Ghent and Mr. Crabtree. Temple Towers had refused to deal with its forbidden weeds, and Ghent had reported old Crabtree to the proper authority. Temple Towers, having refused to move in the matter, had been taken to court and fined, but the weeds still multiplied.

Ghent had seen a figure moving up from the river and following the line of the fence, old Crabtree himself on one of his prowls. Almost daily the old man would patrol his boundaries to see if his property had been interfered with. His was a singular figure, suggesting Neanderthal Man, the big bun-shaped head pushed forward, the shoulders rounded, the posterior thrust out, the knees bent. The jowl was that of a bulldog, perpetually straining forward, as though to seize something in its teeth. There was a suggestion of slaver and of heavy breathing. Mr. Crabtree wore no hat. He carried an ash stick, planting its point grimly on the ground with every step he took.

Ghent moved forward until he was close to the wire fence, and stood there with his gun on his shoulder. The dog growled, and being reproved, lay down close to his master’s feet.

The old man came up the gentle slope from the river, keeping to the rough grass and avoiding patches of bramble and of young fern. Once or twice he diverged to strike at Ghent’s fence with his stick, and the blow went singing along the wire. Peter stood so still beside the poplars that old Crabtree might have passed him by unseen, but suddenly Bunter let out another growl, and the squat figure swung round. With stick planted on the ground and gun on shoulder, age and youth confronted each other in the silence of that lonely place.

Crabtree had badger’s brows. His little dark eyes glistened like pebbles.

“Ha, you, Ghent! I want a word with you.”

Ghent stood quite still, staring straight at Mr. Crabtree. He did not speak, or smile, or show any emotion. The stick prodded the ground.

“Insulted my daughter. No manners. Anything to say?”

Ghent had nothing to say. He knew his man, and that to this truculent old devil who loved a storming row, nothing was so baffling as silence. He stood straight and still, staring across into the other’s eyes.

Crabtree’s stick struck the ground.

“Ha, nothing to say for yourself! Let me tell you, my lad, that my daughter isn’t to be insulted by a fellow like you.”

Not a flicker, not a word, not a movement, though Bunter was quivering at his master’s feet. Old Crabtree glared. His mouth hung open for a moment, vacuous and arrogant. Then the lips snapped to. He made a gesture with his stick.

“Nothing to say? If I were a younger man I’d come across and give you a lesson.”

And suddenly, Ghent smiled. Otherwise his stillness was utter. He did not speak, but his smiling eyes looked straight into old Crabtree’s. They continued to stare at him until the old man seemed to feel the pressure of their young, unflinching scorn, and turned suddenly away.

“Ashamed of yourself, I see. Nothing to say? Well, you remember, young Ghent, to be polite to your betters.”

It was as though this last piece of blasphemy was too much for Bunter. The dog made a rush for the wire and began barking at the retreating figure. Ghent spoke to him quietly. “Heel, Bunter, we must learn how to behave.” Old Crabtree heard the words, swung round, glared and let out a growl.

“Don’t think you can be facetious with me, my lad.” Then he went on, puffing a little, for he was a heavy man and prone to shortness of breath. His big flat head seemed to sit down between his shoulders. His little thick legs straddled slightly as he picked his way over the rough ground. And Ghent, still immovable, watched him go, and knew that he had got the better of his neighbour.

Some irreverent person had, in Melissa Vandeleur’s hearing, described the Temple Towers drive as Monkey Puzzle Parade, and the eyes of Temple Manor had flashed at the sally, for in an attempt to be singular the original owner of Temple Towers had planted araucarias on either side of the private road. They had grown into considerable trees, and stood black and forbidding like great funeral plumes, but untouchable by those who valued their skins. There was no such avenue like it in the whole county, and Roger Crabtree was proud of his Chile pines. It did not occur to him that these grim, stiff, noli-me-tangere trees symbolized him to his neighbours.

Stodging along in the rough grass beside the hedge of Badger’s Lane he arrived at the red brick lodge at the lower end of the avenue. He was feeling the heat, both within and without. He faced about, and leaning on his stick, pulled out a green silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Damned young pup!”

He wanted to convince himself that he had told the fellow off, and done it properly, but the conviction was not here. Old Crabtree was no fool, far from it, and inwardly he was seething with the knowledge that young Ghent had had rather the best of it. That motionless and ironic figure had seemed to express the exasperating aloofness of a community that marshalled itself round secret standards and refused to flinch, though you shot your arrows of gold at it, and swaggered and shouted ever so stoutly. Infernal snobs! Even the damned hirelings were snobs, and looked towards Temple Manor and not towards bastard Gothic.

From where he stood Roger Crabtree looked down upon Ghent’s nursery, a miserable twenty acres or so, and worth at most as a commercial venture two or three hundred pounds a year. It had become, in a sense, Roger Crabtree’s Naboth’s Vineyard, just because he had been baulked by it and its owner. He had come to consider it as inevitably and rightly his, not only because it would round off his property and cease from thrusting itself like a hostile salient into his estate. Beyond the river Temple Manor was inviolable, serenely mysterious amid its beechwoods, and as old Crabtree swung round it confronted him like some maiden fortress that would surrender to no siege. Lady Vandeleur—bah! A woman who had been christened Melissa, and looked it. A damned cool customer that old woman! A pillar of salt that could both walk and talk. How Temple Towers had waited for Temple Manor to leave those pieces of pasteboard on the Crabtree salver. And it had not happened. Damned, stuck up old bitch, for Temple Towers spoke and thought coarsely, save on certain occasions when it took the stage. Roger Crabtree, glowering at the house across the river, and stepping back, made contact with one of the Chile pines. A razor-edged leaf cut his cheek, and the old man flared like a truculent child. He struck savagely at the tree with his stick, but the offending bough merely swung to and fro with rigid unconcern. After all, it was his tree. It could give and take.

Crabtree dabbed his cheek with his green handkerchief, and found a spot of blood on it. The assault tickled him somehow, and he grinned. That was the sort of tree to own. Rather like himself, what! “No nonsense. I’ll show you.” Yes, he was showing the world what manner of man he was. Temple Manor might flout him, but he had got a foot in Farley village; he owned a dozen or so cottages there. Badgers Farm and Millbourne Farm were his. Even Mrs. Prance of The Blue Lagoon was responsible to him for a mortgage. As for that pup Ghent, ruddy young Bolshie, he had him and his nursery shut in and surrounded on every side save on that of the river. He would find ways and means to deal with the fellow.

Voices, laughter, the trumpeting of motor-horns, a flurry of stones down by the red lodge. Old Crabtree had almost reached the vast, gravelly space in which Temple Towers stood like a complicated piece of iced confectionery, when the sound of the uproar reached him. He faced about to see his daughter’s blue-grey car coming at speed up the drive. A young thing with a raincoat over a green bathing-dress was leaning out of the near window, and waving a towel mockingly at the pursuers. Five more cars were following his daughter’s. In passing, the young thing at the window waved her towel at Mr. Crabtree.

The old man grinned at her, and waved his stick. The six cars swung up and parked themselves on the gravelled space. Men and girls spilled out of them, noisy and jocund. Damage to gravel might be one thing, but it was not damage to pride. Six cars, a crowd of smart young things, bare legs and arms, colour, noise, that was life and a salute to life, as Crabtree understood it. His daughter was waving a towel and mocking a sallow young man with side-whiskers who had pursued her up the drive in a red sport’s model.

“Oy, what about it? I said you couldn’t pass me.”

The sallow young man, his name was Danglish, Rudolph Danglish, saw the father beyond the daughter, and walked across the gravel to salute the Squire. He addressed him as Squire, and Mr. Crabtree was pleased. He could show another face and a bustling geniality when the show was his, and he felt like owning Boulters Lock on a Sunday, or the Drury Lane stage when a full chorus was in action. Hadn’t he the money? Besides, young Danglish was not only a man about town but a fellow with brains and very active in the City.

“Your daughter’s hot stuff, Squire.”

“Been racing, what?”

“Just crashed up from Madame Prance’s. Afraid we scattered your gravel a bit, sir.”

“You young things must have your game. No safety first, hey?”

“Not your motto, Squire, what!”

Old Crabtree winked at him, and began to bustle and take the stage. He was the impresario and he had his show. He waggled his stick and collected the crowd. Chairs on the terrace, for anybody and for everybody, and little drinks, and cigars if the lads would only smoke them. Mr. Rudolph Danglish might think him a vulgar old cad, but Mr. Danglish did not let such prejudices appear when a man had property and might be productive. Irene, snuggling up to her father, and having her arm cuddled, flicked her towel at young Danglish.

“Come on, whoopee. Where’s Bounds?”

Bounds was the Temple Towers butler, a silent and depressed little man who shuffled about the place and became more and more servile when he was shouted at.

Mr. Crabtree went in to ring a bell and shout.

“Hi, Bounds, drinks on the terrace.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cocktails, and whisky. And bring cigars. The silver tray, mind you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s your mistress?”

“I think she’s in the rose-garden, sir.”

“Tell her there’s company. Tell her to change her frock, if she’s gardening.”

“Yes, sir.”