Giant's Bread (14 page)

‘Don't be so damned impatient, Joe. Wait till I'm twenty-one.'

That cheered her a little. One could always depend on Vernon.

Myra asked Vernon about the Levinnes. Was Mrs Levinne's asthma any better? Was it true that they spent almost all of their time in London nowadays?

‘No, I don't think so. Of course, they don't go down to Deerfields much in the winter, but they were there all the autumn. It'll be jolly to have them next door when we go back to Abbots Puissants, won't it?'

His mother started, and said in a flustered sort of voice:

‘Oh, yes – very nice.'

She added almost immediately:

‘Your Uncle Sydney is coming round to tea. He's bringing Enid. By the way, I don't have late dinner any more. I really think it suits me better to have a good sit down meal at six.'

‘Oh!' said Vernon, rather taken aback.

He had an unreasoning prejudice against those meals. He disliked the juxtaposition of tea and scrambled eggs, and rich plum cake. Why couldn't his mother have proper meals like other people? Of course, Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie always had high tea. Bother Uncle Sydney! All this was his fault.

His thought stopped – checked. All what? He couldn't answer – didn't quite know. But, anyway, when he and his mother went back to Abbots Puissants, everything would be different.

Uncle Sydney arrived very soon – very bluff and hearty, a little stouter than of old. With him came Enid, his third daughter. The two eldest were married, and the two youngest were in the schoolroom.

Uncle Sydney was full of jokes and fun. Myra looked at her brother admiringly. Really, there was nobody like Syd! He made things go.

Vernon laughed politely at his uncle's jokes which he privately thought both stupid and boring.

‘I wonder where you buy your tobacco in Cambridge,' said Uncle Sydney. ‘From a pretty girl, I'll be bound. Ha! Ha! Myra, the boy's blushing – actually blushing.'

‘Stupid old fool,' thought Vernon disdainfully.

‘And where do
you
buy your tobacco, Uncle Sydney?' said Joe, valiantly entering the lists.

‘Ha! Ha!' trumpeted Uncle Sydney. ‘That's a good one! You're a smart girl, Joe. We won't tell your Aunt Carrie the answer to that, eh?'

Enid said very little but giggled a good deal.

‘You ought to write to your cousin,' said Uncle Sydney. ‘He'd like a letter, wouldn't you, Vernon?'

‘Rather,' said Vernon.

‘There you are,' said Uncle Sydney. ‘What did I tell you, miss? The child wanted to, but was shy. She's always thought a lot of you, Vernon. But I mustn't tell tales out of school, hey, Enid?'

Later, after the heavy composite meal was ended, he talked to Vernon at some length of the prosperity of Bent's.

‘Booming, my boy, booming.'

He went into long financial explanations, profits had doubled, he was extending the premises – and so on, and so on.

Vernon much preferred this style of conversation. Not being the least interested, he could abstract his attention. An encouraging monosyllable was all that was needed from time to time.

Uncle Sydney talked on, developing the fascinating theme of the Power and Glory of Bent's, World without End, Amen.

Vernon thought about the book on musical instruments which he had bought that morning and read coming down in the train. There was a terrible lot to know. Oboes – he felt he was going to have ideas about oboes. And violas – yes, certainly, violas.

Uncle Sydney's talk made a pleasant accompaniment like a remote double bass.

Presently Uncle Sydney said he must be getting along. There was more facetiousness – should or should not Vernon kiss Enid good night?

How idiotic people were. Thank goodness he'd soon be able to get up to his own room.

Myra heaved a happy sigh as the door closed.

‘Dear me,' she murmured, ‘I wish your father had been here. We've had such a happy evening. He would have enjoyed it.'

‘A jolly good thing he wasn't,' said Vernon. ‘I don't remember he and Uncle Sydney ever hitting it off really well.'

‘You were only a little boy. They were the greatest of friends, and your father was always happy when I was. Oh, dear, how happy we were together.'

She raised a handkerchief to her eyes. Vernon stared at her. For a moment he thought: ‘This is the most magnificent loyalty.' And then suddenly: ‘No, it isn't. She really believes it.'

Myra went on in a soft reminiscent tone.

‘You were never really fond of your father, Vernon. I think it must have grieved him sometimes. But then, you were so devoted to me. It was quite ridiculous.'

Vernon said suddenly and violently, and with a strange feeling that he was defending his father by saying so:

‘Father was a brute to you.'

‘Vernon, how dare you say such a thing. Your father was the best man in the world.'

She looked at him defiantly. He thought: ‘She's seeing herself being heroic. “How wonderful a woman's love can be – protecting her dead,” – that sort of thing. Oh! I hate it all. I hate it all.'

He mumbled something, kissed her, and went up to bed.

Later in the evening Joe tapped at his door and was bidden to enter. Vernon was sitting, sprawled out in a chair. The book on musical instruments lay on the floor beside him.

‘Hallo, Joe. God, what a beastly evening!'

‘Did you mind it so much?'

‘Didn't you? It's all wrong. What an ass Uncle Sydney is. Those idiotic jokes! It's all so cheap.'

‘H'm,' said Joe. She sat down thoughtfully on the bed and lit a cigarette.

‘Don't you agree?'

‘Yes – at least I do in a way.'

‘Spit it out,' said Vernon encouragingly.

‘Well, what I mean is,
they're
happy enough.'

‘Who?'

‘Aunt Myra. Uncle Sydney. Enid. They're a united happy lot, thoroughly content with one another. It's we who are wrong, Vernon. You and I. We've lived here all these years – but we don't belong. That's why – we've got to get out of it.'

Vernon nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes, Joe, you're right. We've got to get out of it.'

He smiled happily, because the way was so clear.

Twenty-one … Abbots Puissants … Music …

‘Do you mind just going over that once more, Mr Flemming?'

‘Willingly.'

Precise, dry, even, word after word fell from the old lawyer's lips. His meaning was clear and unmistakable! Too much so! It didn't leave a loophole for doubt.

Vernon listened. His face was very white, his hands grasped the arms of the chair in which he was sitting.

It couldn't be true – it
couldn't!
And yet, after all, hadn't Mr Flemming said very much the same, years ago? Yes, but then there had been the magic words ‘twenty-one' to look forward to. ‘Twenty-one' which by a blessed miracle was to make everything right. Instead of which:

‘Mind you, the position is infinitely improved from what it was at the time of your father's death, but it is no good pretending we are out of the wood. The mortgage –'

Surely, surely, they had never mentioned a mortgage? Well, it wouldn't have been much use, he supposed, to a boy of nine. No good trying to get round it. The plain truth was that he couldn't afford to live at Abbots Puissants.

He waited till Mr Flemming had finished, and then said:

‘But if my Mother –'

‘Oh, of course. If Mrs Deyre were prepared to –' He left the sentence unfinished, paused and then added: ‘But, if I may say so, every time that I have had the pleasure of seeing Mrs Deyre, she has seemed to me to be very settled – very settled indeed. I suppose you know that she bought the freehold of Carey Lodge two years ago?'

Vernon hadn't known it. He saw plainly enough what it meant. Why hadn't his mother told him? Hadn't she had the courage? He had always taken it for granted that she would come back with him to Abbots Puissants, not so much because he longed for her presence there, as because it was – quite naturally – her home.

But it wasn't her home. It never could be in the sense that Carey Lodge was her home.

He could appeal to her, of course. Beg her, for his sake, because he wanted it so much.

No, a thousand times no! You couldn't beg favours from people you didn't really love. And he didn't really love his mother. He didn't believe he ever really had. Queer and sad, and a little dreadful, but there it was.

If he never saw her again, would he mind? Not really. He would like to know that she was well and happy – cared for. But he wouldn't miss her, would never feel a longing for her presence. Because, in a queer way, he didn't really
like
her. He disliked the touch of her hands, always had to take a hold on himself before kissing her good night. He'd never been able to tell her anything – she never understood or knew what he was feeling. She had been a good loving mother – and he didn't even like her! Rather horrible, he supposed, most people would say …

He said quietly to Mr Flemming:

‘You are quite right. I am sure my mother would not wish to leave Carey Lodge.'

‘Now, there are one or two alternatives open to you, Mr Deyre. Major Salmon, who, as you know, has rented it furnished all these years, is anxious to buy –'

‘No!' The word burst from Vernon like a pistol shot.

Mr Flemming smiled.

‘I was sure you would say that. And I must confess I am glad. There have been – er – Deyres at Abbots Puissants for, let me see, nearly five hundred years. Nevertheless, I should be failing in my duty if I didn't point out to you that the price offered is a good one, and that if, later, you should decide to sell, it may not be easy to find a suitable purchaser.'

‘It's out of the question.'

‘Very good. Then the best thing, I think, is to try and let once more. Major Salmon definitely wants to buy a place, so it will mean finding a new tenant. But I dare say we shall have no great difficulty. The point is, how long do you want to let for? To let the place for another long term of years is, I should say, not very desirable. Life is very uncertain. Who knows, in a few years the state of affairs may have – er – changed very considerably, and you may be in a position to take up residence there yourself.'

‘So I shall, but not the way you think, you old dunderhead,' thought Vernon. ‘It'll be because I've made a name for myself in music – not because Mother is dead. I'm sure I hope she'll live to be ninety.'

He exchanged a few more words with Mr Flemming, then rose to go.

‘I'm afraid this has been rather a shock to you,' said the old lawyer as he shook hands.

‘Yes – just a bit. I've been building castles in the air, I suppose.'

‘You're going down to spend your twenty-first birthday with your mother, I suppose?'

‘Yes.'

‘You might talk things over with your uncle, Mr Bent. A very shrewd man of business. He has a daughter about your age, I think?'

‘Yes, Enid. The two eldest are married, and the two youngest are at school. Enid's about a year younger than I am.'

‘Ah! very pleasant to have a cousin of one's own age. I dare say you will see a good deal of her.'

‘Oh, I don't suppose I shall,' said Vernon vaguely.

Why should he be seeing a lot of Enid? She was a dull girl. But of course Mr Flemming didn't know that.

Funny old chap. What on earth was there to put on such a sly, knowing expression about?

‘Well, Mother, I don't seem to be exactly the young heir!'

‘Oh, well, dear, you mustn't worry. Things arrange themselves, you know. You must have a good talk with your Uncle Sydney.'

Silly! What good could a talk with his Uncle Sydney do him?

Fortunately the matter was not referred to again. The extraordinary surprise was that Joe had been allowed to have her way. She was actually in London – somewhat dragoned and chaperoned, it is true – but still she had got her way.

His mother seemed always to be whispering mysteriously to friends. Vernon caught her at it one day.

‘Yes – quite inseparable, they were – so I thought it wiser – it would be such a pity –'

And what Vernon called the ‘other tabby' said something about ‘First cousins – most unwise –' And his mother with a suddenly heightened colour and raised voice had said:

‘Oh! I don't think in
every
case.'

‘Who were first cousins?' asked Vernon later. ‘What was all the mystery about?'

‘Mystery, darling? I don't know what you mean.'

‘Well, you shut up when I came in. I wondered what it was all about?'

‘Oh, nothing interesting. Some people you don't know.'

She looked rather red and confused.

Vernon wasn't curious. He asked no more.

He missed Joe most frightfully. Carey Lodge was pretty deadly without her. For one thing, he saw more of Enid than he had ever done before. She was always coming in to see Myra, and Vernon would find himself let in for taking her to roller skate at the new rink, or for some deadly party or other.

Myra told Vernon that it would be nice if he asked Enid up to Cambridge for May week. She was so persistent about it that Vernon gave in. After all, it didn't matter. Sebastian would have Joe and he himself didn't much care. Dancing was rather rot – everything was rot that interfered with music …

The evening before his departure Uncle Sydney came to Carey Lodge and Myra pushed Vernon into the study with him and said:

‘Your Uncle Sydney's come to have a little talk with you, Vernon.'

Mr Bent hemmed and hawed for a minute or two and then, rather surprisingly, came straight to the point. Vernon had never liked his uncle as much. His facetious manner had been entirely laid aside.