Читать книгу Shabby Summer - Warwick Deeping - Страница 7

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Ghent was forever looking at the sky.

During this disastrous spring it was cold and grey and sinister. The wind hung in the north-east. Every night brought its frost. It was amazing the way that grey sky refused to rain. Sometimes a few drops would fall, and hope would leap into the countryman’s heart.

“We’ve got it at last, Bob.”

Fanshaw would grunt and look malevolently at the clouds.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“That sky must rain, Bob.”

But it didn’t.

Every night at nine Peter would turn on the wireless, and listen to the weather report. Not that he had much faith in it, but the experts might promise you something. “An anticyclone extends——” Oh, damn that anticyclone! If only the wind would veer into the west, and bring those blessed rain-clouds from the Atlantic. He would lie awake at night, listening, and sometimes he would fancy that he heard the rustle of rain, and he would get up and go to the window, only to find that it was the wind playing with the leaves.

Riding down through the Barham beeches that morning Ghent saw Loddon’s grey bridge and broad red High Street sunk in the greenness of ancient elms. A cold wind met him from the north. A flag was flying from the church tower and it slanted towards the south. Here and there a cold blue rent showed in the heavy sky. He saw the north wind blowing the willows all one way along the steely curve of the river.

He was riding into Loddon to collect his car from Roper’s Garage, and to interview the manager of his bank for permission to overdraw his account, should he find it necessary. Loddon was still Georgian. The market-house, closing the broad vista of the High Street, flashed its white cupola and gilded windvane in a sudden scattering of sunlight. Loddon might have taken to itself certain modern indiscretions, but its temper was still stately and aloof. It had high walls that hid old gardens, and its Georgian houses with their red faces and their long white windows and classic doorways were solid and serene.

Roper’s Garage shared with the Crossed Keys Inn a narrow lane which gave access to the Crossed Keys yard. Ghent dismounted, and wheeling his bicycle up the lane, saw the familiar snout of his old car protruding from the workshop doorway. A large man in dirty blue overalls was lying on his back, with his head and shoulders under the car.

“Hallo, George. Not quite ready for me yet?”

George was Mr. Roper’s chief mechanic. The legs in the blue overalls made a squirming movement, and a friendly red face appeared.

“That you, sir? Shan’t be ten minutes. One of the water joints was giving trouble. We’ve cured it, but I wanted to be sure. I’ve had the engine running.”

Ghent smiled down at the big red face. He liked George, and respected him as one of those who possessed a craftsman’s conscience, and cunning hands.

“That’s all right, George. I’ve got to buy some tobacco and go to the bank. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Heard from your insurance people, sir?”

“Yes. It’s all right. They’ll want your account. I lose my rebate, of course. By the way, had Miss Crabtree’s car in here?”

“They don’t come to us.”

“I thought everybody did.”

“Used to, sir, but the boss had a row with the old man.”

“Nothing unusual in that, George.”

“I should say not, sir. Bully or bribe, that’s his idea of getting things done. And—mean!”

Ghent laughed.

“That’s rather good, George. Bully or bribe. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Ghent walked back down the lane, and its entry was like a picture frame outlining the façade of the red brick house on the other side of Loddon High Street. It was a stately and serene old house over whose façade a magnificent wistaria draped itself. The great climber was in flower, and the mauve trusses hung round the white window-frames and clustered under the cornice. The house was occupied by Messrs. Snape & Sowerby, Loddon’s principal firm of solicitors, a vintage firm, and as well established as the great glycine. Young Snape lived in the house. Old Snape was dead, and Sowerby had built himself a house on the Barham hills. But Ghent saw more than the house. A big, canary-coloured Rolls with a black upper works and wings was stationary outside Messrs. Snape & Sowerby’s, the Crabtree car, and Ghent stood and surveyed it.

In a witty moment Temple Manor had referred to this machine as “Assyria’s Gold Chariot,” and if, in Byronic language, Assyria descended like a wolf on the fold, that yellow limousine was somehow a car of ill omen, especially so when it was parked outside the offices of Messrs. Snape & Sowerby or of Mr. Tom Smith & Son, Estate Agents. Mr. Crabtree loved litigation. It was a hobby of his. Where other men collected postage-stamps or prize dahlias, he cultivated quarrels with his neighbours. When that yellow car appeared anywhere, the question would be asked: “What’s the old devil up to now?” for as often as not it heralded trouble for somebody.

Ghent bought his tobacco and walked on up the High Street to his bank. As he pushed open one of the swing doors he saw Dr. Bacchus at the counter, and knowing himself to be in the doctor’s debt, he felt shy of meeting him. He hesitated, turned away, and strolling up the street, loitered outside a shop window until he had seen Bacchus come out of the bank and walk away. Peter could suppose that it was absurd to be so sensitive about meeting a man to whom he owed money, but he was feeling a little sore over the arrival of that bill. Dr. Bacchus knew quite well that a man like Ghent who lived off the land might be able to make his payments only once a year when his produce was sold, and cash was coming in.

Peter returned to the bank. Perhaps because he was feeling somewhat of a suppliant, his manner to the cashier behind the counter was brusque and casual.

“Mr. Andrews in?”

“Yes, Mr. Ghent.”

“I want to see him if he is disengaged.”

The cashier disappeared into the manager’s private room, to return with the news that Mr. Andrews would see Mr. Ghent immediately. Peter was shown in, and asked to sit down. He laid his hat on the manager’s desk, and realizing that the gesture might be considered discourteous, recovered his hat, and nursed it on his knees.

“Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Ghent?”

Mr. Andrews was a rather dry and dusty little man who had been trained to temper kindness with caution. He had to know his clients and their affairs, and he had succeeded a rather too easy and bibulous gentleman who had handed out credits as an expansive soul stands drinks.

“I may want you to let me overdraw.”

Mr. Andrews put his fingers together and looked bland.

“An overdraft, Mr. Ghent. Let me see, I think your account is——”

“Oh, all right at present. The point is, I have payments to make during the next three or four months, and in my business trees are sold mostly once a year.”

“Quite so, Mr. Ghent. As a matter of fact I was passing your place only the other day. Plenty of stock, I think.”

“Yes. It has taken me seven years to build the place up. As to orders——”

Mr. Andrews smiled at him.

“Any security to offer us, Mr. Ghent?”

“Yes, if necessary. But my trees are my principal asset.”

“Quite so. And what would the overdraft amount to?”

“Oh, about fifty pounds, perhaps a hundred. I could clear it in the autumn.”

“We should have to charge you interest.”

“How much?”

“Say eight per cent.”

“All right. You see, you can’t hurry the land, sir. I’m not a market gardener or a fruit grower, and going to market every week.”

Inwardly, Mr. Andrews was amused. Integrity, what! Oh, certainly. This dark lad had a touchy conscience. It bristled.

“I think we can meet you, Mr. Ghent. I quite understand the position. I think I may say that if you overdraw on us only for a small sum, we will forego the interest.”

Ghent’s face softened.

“Thank you. I shan’t let you down.”

When Peter walked back to Roper’s Garage the Crabtree car was still waiting outside Messrs. Snape & Sowerby’s. Scattergood, Mr. Crabtree’s chauffeur, was smoking a surreptitious cigarette, and watching the door of No. 10. For, it could not be said that those who laboured for Roger Crabtree, loved him. Fear him they might, as a petulant little potentate who could and did discharge them on the slightest provocation. Meanwhile, old Crabtree was sitting in the Sowerby armchair, and smoking a Sowerby cigarette, and giving the lawyer his instructions. Mr. Crabtree had in Farley a tenant who had paid no rent for three months and was refusing to quit. He lived in a senile collection of cottages known as “The Rookery,” cottages that leaned up against each other like old fellows who needed material support after a noisy night at the pub. Mr. Crabtree had purchased The Rookery, and this particular tenant was a tough customer, with views upon the rights of man and the duties of landlords. He was withholding his rent as a protest, and demanding a new kitchen-range and some attention to the communal cesspool which was spilling itself over the back gardens. Also, he had put in a complaint to the Loddon U.D.C.

“Take the fellow to court and have him put out, Sowerby.”

Mr. Sowerby was a pin-faced man, long and thin of nose, and long and thin of chin. He had a tight little mouth, and pin-head eyes. His drab-coloured hair looked as though it had been rolled and watered.

“You think it wise to ignore the complaint, sir?”

“If the fellow’s out for trouble, he shall have it. I won’t have a Bolshie of that sort on my property. You can write a letter to the U.D.C., if you like, and say that I am prepared to do anything in reason for a decent tenant. But I won’t compromise with that scallywag.”

Mr. Sowerby moistened thin lips.

“Very good, sir. A man like that can be nothing but a nuisance. Upsets other people.”

“Yes, get him out. And there’s another matter. Do you know anything about that fellow Ghent who owns the nursery by the Weir Bridge?”

“Not much, sir. Only in a small way of business, I think? Place called Marplot.”

“That’s it.”

“Previous owner went bankrupt. Let me see, it was Temple Manor property originally. Do you happen to be interested?”

“I am. The chap’s a bad neighbour, a bit of a pup. I could do with that bit of land.”

“Would you like us to make him an offer, Mr. Crabtree, without, of course, disclosing——?”

“Wait a bit. As a matter of fact, I don’t think the fellow has much bottom. Hanging on by his eyelashes. And this doesn’t look like being a bumper season. You might try and find out, Sowerby, if you can, what the fellow’s position is. It might be easy to push him out.”

“And get the land at a knock-down figure.”

“Yep. It would round off my property. Well, I must be getting on. Running over to my latest estate. Might start one down here some day, Sowerby. Good for the town, what!”

Mr. Sowerby rose to open the door for his client, for Mr. Crabtree’s happiness in squabbling with his neighbours and his love of litigation was of considerable value to the firm of Snape & Sowerby, but though Mr. Crabtree might be a valuable client, Sowerby did not desire to live cheek by jowl with a collection of Crabtree houses.

Scattergood, the Crabtree chauffeur, seeing the cream-coloured door of No. 10 in movement, dropped a cigarette end into the gutter and stepped forward to open the limousine door. It was his duty in winter to tuck a fur rug round his master’s common little legs, and to slip a foot-warmer under his feet, ministrations that were not inspired by affection.

“Will you have the rug, sir?”

“No. Better push along. I’m late.”

Scattergood closed the door, took his place, pulled on his gloves, and started the engine. He wore a plum-coloured livery that did not match the colour of the car. An irreverent friend had referred to it as stewed plums and custard. Scattergood hated that livery as he hated most things connected with The Towers. But chauffeurs’ places were not easy to get, and Scattergood had a wife and family, and after all, the devil you knew was better than the devil you did not know. During his service hours he lived with his tongue in his cheek. He would like to have loved his car, if it hadn’t been too much like a ruddy circus show or a luxury van that delivered capitalistic scent and soap. Also, on this particular morning the old devil was not in the best of tempers, and on such days Scattergood was very conscious of the tyrant who sat behind him. You had to drive both fast and inconsiderately. You must give way to nobody, or you might be cursed, while remaining mute and longing to curse back. The Crabtree chariot held the centre of the road, and the old man did not like other people to pass him. If his car had cost him three thousand guineas, damn it, was he to be outpaced by some cheap little cad in a tinpot Ford? These irritable and highly competitive drives were trying to Scattergood’s nerves.

The yellow Rolls travelled Londonwards, and Mr. Roger Crabtree looked out upon a world that was still unsmirched by the new pilgrim’s progress. Scattergood drove fast, and at the end of an hour the new England manifested itself. The Rolls arrived upon one of the new concrete highways. Factories appeared, and derelict fields, and scraps of old orchard where the fruit trees were giving way to contractors’ sheds, and all manner of constructive chaos. Here a new bridge was being built, and two huge ramps of raw soil cut across what had been a market-garden. The shell of a cottage still stood, windowless and doorless and waiting for the house-breaker. A row of glasshouses were rotting. Upon the skyline glowed a red smudge, hundreds upon hundreds of little roofs like some aphis blight sucking the greenness out of the landscape. The Rolls left the arterial road and ran up a concrete track towards this new estate. Notice-boards multiplied “The Crabtree Estate.” “Buy a Crabtree House.” “No Road Charges. We pay the Lawyers.” “Parquet Floors.” “Why Pay Rent When 17/9 a Week will Buy Your Own House?” “Three Bedrooms—Of Course.” “Ladies, Visit our Labour Saving Kitchens.” The boards shouted at you as you passed. They were vociferous, blatant.

The Rolls came to rest outside an estate-office, a timber building painted pink and roofed with green tiles. Someone had observed the yellow car’s approach, and a man with a baldish head stood waiting on the doorstep. He wore a black coat and vest and striped trousers, and a smile that was a little anxious and wholly ingratiating. He hurried to open the Rolls’ door, and his haste was unseemly.

“Good morning, sir.”

Crabtree grunted at him.

“Morning, Vowles.”

“Lovely spring weather, sir.”

Old Crabtree descended and stumped into the office. There are some people to whom you can be rude with impunity, and poor Vowles belonged to that class. He was growing bald and knew it, and in knowing it realized that he might hold his job by the breadth of a hair. His smile was becoming more and more propitiatory, and his eagerness to please both pathetic and a little nauseating. Old Crabtree treated him with contempt. The fellow was so tame that he was not worth kicking.

“How’s the job?”

Vowles had pulled a chair back from the desk, and stood bent and ingratiating.

“Won’t you sit down, sir?”

Ass! Mr. Crabtree did not need the suggestion. He could sit down in his own office, and he sat down.

“Where’s the week’s report?”

Mr. Vowles grabbed a typed sheet.

“Here, sir. We haven’t done so badly. Three houses sold in Balmoral Avenue, two in Victoria Drive, and one in Osborne Crescent. I’m meeting two possible purchasers to-day for Nos. 51 and 52 in Jubilee Road.”

Old Crabtree glanced at the report.

“Settled that business with Claytons?”

“About the bricks, sir?”

“Of course.”

“They have apologized, sir.”

“I don’t care a damn about their apologies. Have they made up that delivery?”

“They have promised them for to-day, sir.”

“Promised! Are they here, man?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Get Claytons on the phone for me. If those bricks aren’t here by one o’clock, I’ll cut ’em out of all future contracts.”

Mr. Vowles hurried to the office phone, but as he reached for the receiver the sound of a lorry stopping outside the office drew him to the window. He peered out, smiled, drew a breath of relief.

“Clayton’s lorries, sir.”

“One?”

“No, a fleet of them, sir.”

“Just saved their bacon. Never mind the phone. Go out and see that they’ve got the full order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Vowles——”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell those damned lorry drivers not to bark any more of our young trees.”

“I will, sir.”

When Vowles returned Mr. Crabtree dealt with other business matters before setting out on a tour of inspection. “Better come with me, Vowles.” There were two junior clerks in the office’s back room, and the senior member was left in charge. It was Crabtree’s custom to walk through the estate, followed by his chauffeur in the Rolls, so that when Mr. Crabtree had seen all that he wished to see, he could be picked up by the car. Already he had put up more than a hundred houses and bungalows on the Crabtree Estate, and to himself he described them as bright and breezy little places. That he did not realize the horror of the place, its tricksy and garish cheapness was not remarkable. He could flatter himself that he knew what people wanted and that he had given them their heart’s desire. Actually, he considered himself a public benefactor, a good citizen who gave employment and spread money around. As for the Crabtree horrors, they were built for him by contract, and their like can be seen in most suburban areas. They had flat faces of brick, plaster, or roughcast, steel-framed windows, cheap stained-glass in the front doors, fantastic front gates with ranged slats painted green and red and blue. Some had gables with deal facings to simulate Tudor work. Some gardens had posts and chains, others flimsy brick walls in which the bricks were arranged in every way but the normal. In fact, some of these walls were fantastically conceived to use up bricklayers’ rubbish. Mr. Crabtree had purchased from a firm of architects the designs and plans for six small houses, and he rang the changes on this sextet, and flattered himself that he had cheated uniformity.

“Crabtree” was Mr. Roger Crabtree’s third estate. He had gone into the business of mass-produced houses soon after the War, and he knew all the tricks of the trade. You put out the work on contract, and having cut your figure to the bone the loss would lie with the contracting firms unless they cut their costs and used the cheapest materials, but that was not Mr. Crabtree’s concern. Business is business. If the people who built his houses chose to use poor bricks and slob them over with plaster or roughcast, and put in unseasoned timber that would warp or crack, the sin was theirs. As for the official world he knew how to deal with it. Sometimes he bullied, sometimes he bribed. Bribery had to be conducted with discretion. Bullying could be more open. They wanted a row, did they? Very well, he was a rich man. He would take ’em to court. He would appeal to the Ministry of Health and demand an inquiry. He was not going to be obstructed by a lot of Jacks-in-Office.

As to the fundamentals, Roger Crabtree could not be blamed for his reactions to them. He was topical, big business, a totalitarian in commerce. He had an urban mind. He catered for the urban-minded masses, or thought he did. The country mind was ceasing to matter, with all its feeling for a beauty that was free and individual and lovely. The old craftsmen were dying or dead. The exquisite rightness of a domestic architecture that grew out of the soil had given place to the urban splurge, a nasty niceness that is the product of the factory and the machine. For the urban mind is blind to so many things, and does not know it. Mr. Crabtree was blind and did not know it. The people who came to live in his houses thought them lovely, and so they were to the eyes of those who hardly could distinguish one tree from another. That they were Humbug Houses was just part of the modern tragi-comedy.

Mr. Crabtree and Vowles walked towards that part of the estate where houses were being erected. Erected, so aptly described the procedure, and suggested the scenery in a cinema-studio. The yellow Rolls followed them, and so announced to sundry foremen and their workers the approach of the great man. “Look out, lads, the bloody old beggar’s bullion-box is coming down the road.” The man who had coined that phrase “Bullion Box” might claim a touch of genius. The concrete road ended in a kind of ordered chaos, and a rutted trackway where lorries were unloading bricks. A concrete-mixer, mounds of ballast and of sand, drain-pipes, stacks of tiles, piles of timber left exposed to the weather, decorated what had once been a grass field. Six houses were in various stages of erection. One was being tiled. On two others the bricklayers were working on the upper story, using the cheapest of bricks, whole or in broken oddments. The work was a disgrace, but it would be covered with plaster, and the contractors could argue that the rough surface gave a good key to the plaster. Old Crabtree stumped about, speaking to nobody. He inspected the concrete floats of the last two houses. The material looked more like mud than concrete, but if the official who inspected it had passed the work, well, that was all that was needed. Some of these officials were sympathetic souls.

A foreman approached and saluted the great man.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“Had this stuff passed?”

“Yes, sir. The inspector was down yesterday.”

Mr. Crabtree grunted.

“Well, if he has O.K.’d it, it’s O.K.”

After a twenty minutes’ inspection Mr. Crabtree re-entered his Rolls, and leaving Vowles to walk back to the office, gave Scattergood his orders.

“Opposition Show. Don’t drive in. Park on the railway bridge. After that, Porters Grange for lunch.”

Scattergood was wise as to the procedure to be followed. The Opposition Show was situated less than half a mile from the Crabtree Estate. The Rolls came to rest on the crown of the railway bridge, a most reprehensible parking-place for a car, and Mr. Crabtree was able to survey Canaan. The Opposition Show was not prospering. Most of the houses were neither sold nor let, and work appeared to be at a standstill. Mr. Crabtree gloated. He was somewhat wise as to how competition should be crushed. You out-advertised and undersold the other fellow until you had put him out of business. Then, perhaps, you bought him up as a bankrupt concern, and found yourself in the happy position of being able to control a monopoly.

Old Crabtree rapped on the glass partition, and Scattergood drove on, knowing that his master had seen all that he wished to see. Temple Towers lay back and cogitated. Yes, free competition was the sap of life, provided you were able to drain the other fellow’s juices. Cunning and cash. And Mr. Crabtree’s thoughts travelled homewards and hovered menacingly over that parcel of ground that he coveted. Yes, that was an idea. If young Ghent wouldn’t sell and get out, the obvious thing to do was to establish an opposition show next door to him, and squelch the young gentleman with some healthy competition.

“Damn it, I’ll do it,” thought Mr. Crabtree. “If he won’t sell, I’ll start a nursery next door. I’ve got the land, and a frontage. Yes, that’s the idea. I’m a man of ideas.”