Nightingale Wood (29 page)

‘It says “Staff too, please!” on the back,’ said Tina, craning.

‘So it does,’ murmured Mrs Wither, turning the card round. It was pretty, it was exciting. All the same, she did not quite approve of it.

‘It must be going to be a jolly big party,’ said Madge.

I’ll wear my pink, thought Viola, her happiness mounting because she would see Victor again, in the sunny gardens of his own home, and hear from him why he had not had time to write and fix up definitely about the theatre. She wandered off into delightful thoughts about Victor and clothes.

‘Did you see this, m’m?’ inquired Cook, primly, but looking rather pleased, when Mrs Wither went down later to see her about some domestic matter. It was another card, addressed to The Staff, The Eagles, printed in white on dark blue with a lawn-umbrella in one corner. ‘From the staff at Grassmere, m’m. It’s a garden party they’re giving next Saturday. Quite a big affair, I should think, m’m.’

Cook then shut her lips, lowered her lids, and gazed modestly at the floor. The next move was Mrs Wither’s.

‘Oh yes. Yes. We have had one too, Cook. We are
all
invited, it seems. Very kind of Mrs Spring,’ said Mrs Wither, who thought it very odd and ostentatious of Mrs Spring, but felt that she, as gentry, must back up other gentry, even in their eccentricities.

‘Will it be convenient for me and Fawcuss and Annie to go, m’m?’ pursued Cook, firmly.

‘Oh yes, Cook, by all means. We will all go. We will have a cold, early lunch,’ went on Mrs Wither, a faint eagerness invading her voice, ‘and lock up the house—’

‘I suppose that would include Saxon, m’m?’

‘Oh yes, certainly, by all means. Saxon, of course.’

And they went on to work out plans for Saturday in detail, enjoying the party a week before the party was due. This is one of the many advantages of leading a quiet life.

‘Well, I’m sure I hope they have better weather than we had, m’m,’ said Fawcuss, coming leisurely in to fetch a new tin of Vim from a cupboard. ‘I’m sure everything was against us the day we had our garden party, m’m, of course,’ said Fawcuss, stooping slowly to get the Vim out of its dungeon, ‘weather makes such a difference; all the difference, you may say. It’s easy enough to make a show, isn’t it, m’m, if everything goes right. But what with the weather, and that dreadful man, and that woman, and the Doctor’s dog, and them cakes—’

By this time a sobriety had fallen upon the kitchen. Murmuring yes, it had all been most unfortunate, Mrs Wither retreated.

As they drove through the lanes to Grassmere on the day of the garden party, Viola was happier than she had ever been in her life. Her own feelings, the flowers and trees, the sun high in the blue sky, seemed slowly rising, rising towards some wonderful moment. The whole of life was moving upwards, like music, or a wave before it breaks. At any moment now – as they drew nearer to Grassmere – the marvellous thing would happen, and nothing would ever be the same. She did not think clearly about her feelings, but sat quite still in the heart of happiness with eyes half closed and parted lips. Bright pink roses glowed in the dusty hedges. Summer heat came up from the glaring road and fell from the darkening elms. The day, and Viola, were wonderfully, triumphantly happy.

When Grassmere came in sight they all exclaimed, for the trees were looped with white and scarlet bunting, and there was an awning in those colours over the gates. Music drifted through the trees and they could see light dresses moving across the lawns.

‘Quite gay. Must have cost young Spring a pretty penny.’ Mr Wither’s tone expressed approval, and some awe at the temperament which could spend a pretty penny on a festival so at the mercy of chance as a garden party.

Mr Wither was mistaken. Victor never took chances. If he saw his plans were about to be upset by God, he altered them before God had time to act. Had he not been sure of perfect weather, that garden party would have been turned at the last minute into another sort of party, suitable for indoors.

Saxon, giving Tina a faint smile, drove off to fetch the three maids from The Eagles, and the party moved slowly in through the gates.

It was a far bigger affair than they had expected. There must have been over a hundred people, walking leisurely about, playing tennis, listening to the string band, reclining in deck-chairs and lying on swing-seats, stepping out of the drawing-room french windows with drinks in their hands and exclaiming: ‘Isn’t it scorching! Couldn’t have had a better day for it! Just Vic’s luck, of course.’ Laughter and the low roar of voices almost drowned the music. White-jacketed waiters moved deftly in and out, feeding and oiling the crowd, popping piles of exotic sandwiches under people’s noses, saying: ‘Certainly, sir. Very good, sir. Excuse me. Pardon, sir. Pardon, Madam … pardon …’

The party from The Eagles felt quite bewildered. They could not see one person they knew; the host and hostess were not to be detected, and they did not know where to look for them. The party was so much larger and more luxurious than they had expected that they were almost shocked. It was like finding themselves at the Royal Garden Party in a nightmare.

But after they had all found deck-chairs, and been fed and given tea by the waiters, and recognized one or two people, they began to enjoy the party, though they were content merely to sit and watch. Mrs Wither did say once that they really ought to go and find Mrs Spring, but the chairs were so comfortable, the tea so delicious, and the afternoon so hot that they lingered on, under their rose-pink umbrella, without making a move.

People were still arriving, fashionable strangers, presumably from London, or from Stanton where the Springs had many friends. Viola was quite content, studying the clothes of the women and wondering who they were. She was not jealous of them, because Victor had kissed her. He would not have kissed her unless he liked her better than all these beautifully dressed girls. Presently she would see him.

‘Hullo – good afternoon! Have you had tea and everything? Yes – good. Unpleasantly hot, d’you not think? I am so glad that you could come.’

It was Hetty sauntering up to them, pallid with the heat and looking bored, a tail of hair poking out under her shady hat.

‘How do you do … oh, not too hot, surely? We were just saying what a perfect afternoon it is – provided that one can sit still, of course … ! and a
delightful
party, really delightful, so original, and it was so kind of your aunt to ask the maids, too. Are they having their party—?’

‘Oh yes, at the other side of the house. May I sit here?’ pulling up a chair. Mr Wither, who ought to have bounded to do this for her, slept.

‘Do.’

‘I am relieved to hear that you are not finding the entertainment too deplorable,’ went on Hetty, drearily.

‘My dear! Of course not. What a strange thing to say!’ Mrs Wither gave a shocked little laugh; what a peculiar girl Miss Franklin was. ‘How could anyone not enjoy it? And the maids were so pleased to come – of course, that class doesn’t get much pleasure, does it? Perhaps that’s all for the best, really, for pleasure seems to have a bad effect on them, doesn’t it, though one ought not to say so in these “Socialist” days, I suppose.’

Mrs Wither would have been surprised to learn how much pleasure the Hermit and Mrs Caker had.

‘Does it?’ said Hetty vaguely, who did not think much about the lack of pleasure among the English working classes. ‘Does it not, I mean?’

Her voice went off into silence, and she fell into a reverie about the staff at Grassmere and decided that they had a good deal of pleasure, what with their wireless, separate bedrooms, good table and servants’ hall. But it was too hot to argue. She stared dreamily through half-shut lids at the bright dresses floating over green lawns, the pink lively faces with open laughing mouths, the heavy boughs of the trees hanging down.

‘Where is your aunt?’ inquired Mrs Wither, after a sleepy pause. ‘I have not seen her yet, nor your cousin.’

‘She is in the drawing-room, I imagine, with Vic and Phyl. They are still being congratulated,’ replied Hetty; and then, with a disagreeable shock of dismay, realized what she had said.

‘Congratulated?’ exclaimed Mrs Wither, animatedly, sitting up. ‘What for? Is your cousin—?’

‘Yes, engaged. Yes,’ stammered Hetty, aware from the corner of her eye that young Mrs Wither was staring at her with a face going ever paler, even under the glow shed by the rosy lawn-umbrella, while her eyes were widening as though she saw a blow coming.

‘Yes, it was in the
Daily Telegraph
yesterday, but perhaps you do not take the
Telegraph
’ (Mr Wither woke up and shook his head, muttering, ‘No,
Morning Post
’) ‘and this party is really to celebrate the engagement, you see.’

(I must keep on talking, so they won’t notice her … fancy looking like
that
over a sunburnt void like Vic, indeed and indeed, tastes do differ …)

‘Oh yes,’ she drawled on, not giving Mrs Wither a chance to speak, ‘he’s been unofficially engaged to Phyl for two years but they only affixed the ring (platinum, I need hardly say, and inevitably, three very large diamonds) this morning; they’ve known each other since they were at school …’

‘A boy-and-girl affair! How romantic!’ exclaimed Mrs Wither, feeling envious. Why did none of her children get engaged properly? Victor Spring had, as usual, done the correct thing. He would never have blundered into marrying a shopgirl.

‘Was that the pretty dark girl in your party at the Infernal Ball?’ inquired Tina, feeling warmly generous towards the world and showing her mood in her voice.

‘That would be she. She is generally admired, I believe.’ (No, she’s not going to faint, she’s going to cry; I must get her out of this; it wouldn’t be civilized to let her see Vic and Phyl with that look on her face, poor little idiot. What has he been doing to her? But how tiresome and unnecessary all these emotions are. Thank heaven for books.) ‘But I think her looks are dull,’ she ended calmly. She sometimes made these candid avowals, which went rushing off over the idle plains of gossip and returned like boomerangs to stun her aunt by their indiscreetness. (That will show her I am no friend of the immaculate Phyl’s – but heaven forbid that I should have to take sides. Nothing so tedious.)

‘Well, after that, I must certainly go
at once
and offer my congratulations,’ announced Mrs Wither. ‘Madge – Tina?’

Everyone stood up and began to move towards the house; but though Viola got up with the others, she did so without knowing what she was doing and made no movement to follow them, but stood there, staring at the blurred colours of the crowd through thick tears, a lump aching in her throat, lost.

‘Would you care to come down to the river? It is quieter there. I will take you.’

A cool plump arm came through her own and Hetty led her away.

Down in the shrubbery on the river bank, a few chairs had been arranged for those older guests who liked shade, solitude and the smell of rhododendrons, and it was into one of these temporary bowers that Hetty steered Viola, who was now crying freely, with her head bent and sharp little gasps escaping now and again from between her bitten lips. She sat down on the very edge of the chair, upright, and cried into a pair of crumpled yellowish-white gloves, while Hetty, leaning back in the other, glanced uneasily round to make sure that no other guest was near, and wondered what on earth to say. She felt sorry for the other girl but also scornful and impatient. No one but a person without taste could be so infatuated with Victor, and only a person without courage and reserve would so display their feelings.

How I wish that I had been anywhere but with the Withers when she heard the news, thought Hetty. And how hard she is taking it! I had a suspicion, ever since the Ball, that Victor was attracted, but I had no idea it had gone so far. And I must go and blurt out the one thing I did not mean to. Oh well. Heat-waves always rob me of intelligence.

‘Have you no handkerchief?’ she inquired, at last, brusquely; and when Viola shook her head, brought out an inky one of her own from the top of her stocking and worked it between the mourner’s hands.

‘Thank you.’ Viola’s voice was hoarse and exhausted. With bent head she scrubbed at her eyes, blew her nose, which was pink as an end-of-season gooseberry, then carefully rolled the handkerchief into a ball and stared down at her shoes.

‘Awfully sorry to be such an ass,’ she said at last.

‘That’s all right.’ Hetty was staring down between the dark leaves at the blue river where the boats swayed at anchor.

‘Only, you see, I had a bit of a shock. I’m all right now.’

‘That’s good.’ Miss Franklin’s tone was not encouraging. She relished morbid psychology; but she preferred to observe it from a distance; when it came close, it embarrassed her.

‘You see’ (Viola never had much reserve and now what she had was in ruins, and she was longing to pour out her misery to someone) ‘promise honour bright, you won’t tell anyone.’

‘My patience, yes,’ exclaimed Hetty, amused and softened by the schoolgirlish nature of Viola’s oath, ‘I only wish to mind my own business, I assure you. Pray do not tell me anything you would rather keep to yourself.’

‘Oh, I’d like to tell someone,’ said Viola, watering at the eyes again. ‘It’s only that – oh, I suppose I’m an ass. Only I did think He – Mr Spring – your cousin – was rather, well, a bit keen on me, you know; he did make a dead set at me, at that dance, you know, and he was going to take me out to a show in town, he promised to write to me, and I was so looking forward to it, and I was so awfully happy coming along here today and then when I – when I heard he wh – wh—’ her voice fluttered, and up went the handkerchief-ball again, ‘– was engaged, it was such a shock, I couldn’t help crying. You see, that isn’t everything – dancing with me, I mean, and saying he’d write. He – kissed me, as a matter of fact. Quite a lot.’

‘Never!’ cried Hetty.

Viola’s narrow, wet grey eyes looked at her in mournful suspicion.

‘Do you mean he often kisses people? Like that, I mean?’