The Oracles (13 page)

‘Is it thought to be good?’ asked Dickie.

‘Good? Oh, I see what you mean. How does it rate? I don’t know. I’m not up in these things. I’d never heard of Swann when I bought it, but he seems to be coming to the front. I just bought it because I liked it.’

‘You … er … didn’t get advice?’

This question tickled Pethwick. He laughed and asked how anybody could have advised him upon such a point.

‘Nobody else can tell me what I like, can they?’

Dickie scarcely knew what to make of such
independence
. He had always understood that the man who knows what he likes, and says so, is the lowest kind of barbarian. He hoped to buy some pictures, or something of that sort, when he had rather more money, but he had very little faith in his own judgment. He was by nature
modest, and had contracted an almost pathological humility from hearing so often that Art and what the grocer thinks he sees are two quite different things. He had read a good deal of contemporary criticism and had digested this famous precept as thoroughly as even Martha could have wished. He believed himself to be a grocer and therefore assumed that what he thought he saw was of little consequence. Anything agreeable, anything immediately attractive, in a work of art must be suspect until he got permission to like it from
somebody
who was not a grocer.

‘I’ve never been able to care for anything of Swann’s that I’ve seen before,’ he exclaimed. ‘I was sorry I couldn’t because I like him, personally, so much. But this … I envy you!’

Pethwick, watching him, was also a little envious at the spectacle of so much pleasure. He had never enjoyed it as much as Dickie obviously did; perhaps he had never possessed the same capacity for enjoyment. But this young man, he remembered, went in for that sort of thing. He had been to Italy for his honeymoon. He and his wife were in with the Rawson set; they had been invited to that party.

A pity, thought Pethwick, and then reproved himself for thinking it a pity. He had wondered a little why a man of such ability should have been content to settle down in East Head, where the services of a first-rate lawyer could seldom be needed. Most of the work must be sheer routine and very little of it could set any serious problems. In some large and important firm he might have found more use for his brains; here he had got as far as he would ever go and would remain exactly where he was for the rest of his life. He had, apparently, no ambition.

Cultural interests, Pethwick remembered, are a
handicap
to an ambitious man, since they enhance the value of leisure. A fellow who is determined to get on in the world cannot afford to indulge them beyond a certain point. Dickie, in East Head, could undoubtedly
command
a great deal more leisure than he could ever hope to enjoy should he find work commensurate with his abilities. If he preferred leisure to success he was probably quite right to choose as he had, especially since his wife shared these tastes. Such companionship must be very delightful, and Pethwick was almost envious of it, although he had lived so very different a life himself. But then his own wife, although lovable, had been an exceptionally stupid woman; the prospect of leisure spent in her company had seldom lured him from his work. Upon the whole, he believed that a man is more likely to get on in the world if his wife bores him, although he had known some very brilliant men who had died of it, who had worked themselves to death rather than endure domestic relaxation. The ambitious man should work in the evening for five nights in the week, and the conversation of his wife should not, therefore, be too great a temptation. But if, rather than talk to her, he works on seven nights, the consequences are
sometimes
fatal.

Dickie Pattison would not die in his prime. He would follow in his father’s footsteps, live to a fine old age, do the minimum of work, and enjoy himself very much. He might, moreover, preserve certain virtues, an
unworldliness
, a fresh enthusiasm, which ambition would have destroyed. How wrong to consider such a choice deplorable! Specialists of all kinds are needed in the world, and specialists in appreciation are rare.

‘I’m wondering what to do with it now I’m going to
the Argentine,’ said Pethwick. ‘I’m sure my daughter won’t cotton to it. I’m getting rid of a lot of things. Would … would you care to have this?’

‘Sir?’

‘If you would, I should very much like to give it to you. I’m leaving a troublesome job on your hands. It’s a relief to me to be so sure it will be well done. I’d meant to ask you if you wouldn’t choose something by way of a parting gift.’

‘Sir!’ Dickie was incoherent with thanks. ‘I couldn’t tell you how grateful … it’s too good of you … to be able to look at it often.…’

Pethwick had a pleasant vision of the cultured young Pattisons sitting at their fireside complacently admiring their Swann. He was not to know that this was a most improbable picture. He had not spoken above half a dozen words to Christina in his life, but he had always heard that they were an exceptionally happy couple. He had never seen their lounge. That Christina would be most unlikely to admire any Swann, and that they would have nowhere to put such an acquisition, save on the table where she kept her sewing machine, did not for a moment occur to him.

Dickie continued to walk round his new possession, gazing at it in ecstasy. He knew that he ought to be going, but it was almost impossible to tear himself away. At length he did so, took his leave, and drove home, transported, exultant, as though some new, and much more agreeable, phase in his life was about to begin. Having learnt to like one Swann, he might make other discoveries. He remembered with pleasure Martha’s message about the Apollo, which he had not, hitherto, particularly wished to see. Now he was most anxious to see it. Now a new planet had swum into his
ken. Now, like stout Cortez, he had got a glimpse of the Pacific.

Since he was alone he gave way to an impulse which always assailed him when he was happy. He sang. All the way home he sang at the top of his voice, a thing which he never did normally save in his bath. He was a member of the Choral Society, but he did not sing very loud there, for fear of making mistakes. The music which he had been hearing for the last half-hour burst from him; it took shape and words from a chorus which the society had sung at the Easter Sacred Concert.

He changed gear and charged the top of Brinstock Hill. He swung over it. His eagle eye fell upon East Head, extended below him, and the Channel, and the far, blue Welsh mountains. How glorious a sight! He was himself the flame bursting from the rock:

F
RANK TOOMBS
and Benbow had gone down to the sports field to see the inscribed stone hoisted into place. In their absence the yard seemed empty and silent. No sound of work or voices disturbed Mrs. Toombs and Ivy as they sat in the kitchen; this
circumstance
loosened the elder woman’s tongue. She had, so far, merely hinted at her dissatisfaction. Now she gave full rein to it.

‘It isn’t that I dislike the poor soul. I don’t. There’s no harm in him and it halves the work for your father, having somebody in the yard that really understands it. These boys, these apprentices, are more trouble than they’re worth. They spoil half they do while they’re learning. But I’d just as soon not have Benbow in the house with us. After all, a tramp’s a tramp.’

‘Oh, Mum, he’s not a tramp. Anybody can see he isn’t, now he’s washed and tidy.’

‘If he’s not a tramp, who is a tramp, I’d like to know? No money. No clothes. Won’t say where he comes from. I keep thinking what if he’s been in trouble?’

‘What if he has? Though I don’t think it’s that; not the sort of trouble you mean.’

‘But there’s something, or why does he act so queer?’

‘I don’t think he can help it.’

‘You mean he’s not quite right here?’ Mrs. Toombs tapped her forehead. ‘I’ve thought that too, and I don’t like it any better. You don’t want a person like that with
sharp tools in their hand. They may be ever so quiet and then break out all of a sudden.’

‘I think he’s had a terrible shock,’ said Ivy. ‘But if he stops here quietly, perhaps it will pass off.’

‘You think he’s lost his memory or something?’

‘Well, he can’t answer questions.’

‘Can’t or won’t.’

‘I think it’s can’t. He’s happy here and doing a job he likes. That must be good for him. You can’t say he gives much extra trouble. He does every little thing he can for you.’

‘Yes. I give him that.’

‘Where else could he go? Any other place there’d be a lot of questions asked, and I believe that might set him right back. He’s already looking so much better. And we don’t want a lot of talk in the village about how we came to take him. People would think Dad is crackers.’

‘They would, because he is. I never knew him to do such a thing before. Usually he’s so careful who he takes on. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he came into the kitchen and said: “This is Benbow. Give him some bacon.’

‘It’s turned out lucky, Mum. We couldn’t have a better man for work. Dad says so.’

‘Thanks. If I hadn’t heard him say so I’d be deaf. He isn’t generally so easily satisfied. But he’s soft about this Benbow, and so are you, if you ask me.’

Mrs. Toombs threw an irritated glance at the sock which Ivy was darning. It was one of an old pair which they had given to Benbow, together with a spare shirt.

‘Taken him properly under your wing,’ scoffed the mother. ‘I never knew such a girl for wanting to look after people!’

‘I’m not a girl any more,’ said Ivy quietly. ‘I’m thirty-three, and I’ve got nobody much to look after, what with Dad so spry and you so bossy.’

Ivy was a widow. Her husband had been killed at Arnhem. She had come back to Coombe Bassett with her little girl. Now the child was dead too, killed on the road by a truck as she bicycled to school. Ivy lived on with her parents, sometimes going out as a temporary cook to houses in the district. Her fame as a cook was widespread and she could afford to pick and choose among ladies all over the county.

‘He’s not a gentleman,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I shouldn’t wonder if he’s lived with gentry, and not as a servant, either.’

‘He’s not rough or awkward,’ agreed her mother. ‘But … good gracious! Supposing if he’s lost his memory, like you say, there might be people seeking him.’

‘I’ve thought of that.’

‘You have? You seem to have been thinking a lot, my girl.’

‘I believe he’s been married and lost his wife.’

‘Why ever do you think that?’

‘I just do. It’s just a feeling I’ve got. I think that might be at the bottom of the trouble. So he ought to have friends beside him when he gets his memory back.’

‘But has he said anything to make you think …?’

‘Nothing much. But this morning, when I took in his tea …’

‘You never take him tea in the morning!’

‘I bring tea to you and Dad when I’m home. Why shouldn’t Benbow get a cup?’

‘Tea? In his room? What next? A workman like him!’

‘He’s a Christian, I suppose.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Mrs. Toombs, pursing her lips. ‘But go on! What happened this morning?’

‘He was asleep. I put the tea on his chair and said: “Wake up, Benbow!”’

‘I wonder you didn’t offer to dress and shave him while you were at it.’

‘So he muttered something … it sounded like
Maddy.
I think his poor wife must have been called that.’

‘Oh, you make a lot out of a little. How do you know it wasn’t Daddy?’

‘A man doesn’t say Daddy when he wakes up in the morning. He says a woman’s name, if he says anything.’

‘Still, that’s not to say this Maddy was his wife. My goodness! Is his name really Benbow, do you suppose?’

‘No I don’t. And I’m sure he knows it’s not.’

‘For two pins I’d go to the police.’

Ivy smiled. She took two pins from the work basket beside her and pushed them across the table to her mother.

‘Funny, aren’t you?’ said Mrs. Toombs, pushing them back.

Nobody in Coombe went to the police if they could help it, for the policeman’s mother was the nosiest woman alive. Any appeal in that quarter would ensure the widest publicity for Frank’s strange conduct in engaging a nameless tramp after ten minutes’
conversation
. The Toombs family, who had always kept themselves to themselves, would have detested this.

‘Dad’ll create if you upset Benbow before they get all those orders done,’ said Ivy.

Her mother nodded.

‘Perhaps you’re right. No harm in waiting a bit. After all, we don’t know, do we?’

‘That’s them coming back,’ said Ivy.

Footsteps and voices were heard in the yard. Ivy rose, put away her sewing, and began to lay the table for supper. Presently her father came in, looking very much pleased with himself.

‘Mr. Headley was in the field,’ he reported. ‘And he said what I say. There should have been a inch extra each side of the lettering. We won’t say so to Mr. Simms, he said, but you were quite right, Mr. Toombs, he said. It looks a treat now it’s up.’

‘Anybody else there?’ asked Mrs. Toombs.

‘Mr. Saunders. He’s still a bit sore, I fancy, that it wasn’t a library.’

‘That wouldn’t have been the same thing,’ said Ivy. ‘Those two poor boys, Mr. Bill and Mr. Maurice, they were all for games, not books. Where’s Benbow?’

‘He stopped in the shed. He’ll come in when supper’s ready, if we give him a call.’

There was a short pause. Benbow’s position as a lodger was scarcely settled yet. He ate with them but he had nowhere to sit. He spent all his leisure hours in the sheds.

‘He’s welcome to sit here evenings,’ said Mrs. Toombs, taking a fish pie out of the oven.

Her husband gave her a grateful glance. He had not liked to be the first to suggest it.

‘I’ll tell him,’ he said. ‘But I really think he likes pottering about in the sheds. He’s no talker.’

‘He can listen to the radio,’ said Mrs. Toombs.

They all laughed. Frank was old-fashioned about the radio. He did not like to have it turned on all day as their neighbours did. He complained of the row it made, and would only turn it on for the purpose of listening to it.

‘He might like
The
Archers
,’ said Ivy.

He looked at his watch. He was as much interested in the adventures of the Archers as were his women.

‘Plenty of time for supper first,’ he said. ‘They don’t come on till a quarter of seven.’

‘I’ll go and fetch Benbow,’ said Ivy.

‘You’ve no call …’ began her mother.

But she had gone.

‘All this fussing over Benbow!’ complained Mrs. Toombs.

‘She’s a good-hearted girl, is Ivy,’ said Frank.

‘Yes, but we don’t want …’

She stopped. To put into words what they did not want would be to bring it nearer. She did want, more than anything in the world, for poor Ivy’s aching heart to be filled again. She had prayed for some nice chap to come along. But Benbow! She thrust the idea from her without naming it. That’s Ivy’s way, she told
herself
. Always running after lame dogs.

Ivy found him chipping away in the big shed. He rose and smiled at her as she came in.

‘Always at it!’ she scolded gently. ‘Too much is as bad as too little. You should take your proper time off. Now it’s supper, and after that you’re not to come rushing out here again. You’re going to stop with us and listen to the radio.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’d like to.’

‘It’s the Archers. They …’

She was pulled up by the expression on his face, the spasm of doubt and fear. He knew that name. It meant something to him, something which had no connection with the radio. Could it be his name? She did not think so.

‘That family,’ she said. ‘You know. On the radio.’

He shook his head and picked up a chisel. She had
noticed his habit of doing that, his liking to hold some tool in his hand, as though it gave him confidence.

‘I don’t remember,’ he said, in a low voice.

Yes, but he could though, she thought. He could remember a lot, but he doesn’t want to.

That name was a clue. She would try it again. She was sure that, by her own methods, she would get at the truth sooner or later.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll remember by and by.’

At that he gave her a puzzled smile.

‘By and by? That’s a song, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. “In the Sweet By and By”, it’s called.’

‘No. Not that. There was another one we used to sing.’

‘You’re fond of singing?’

Her mother would rebuke them for dawdling, but she was not going to miss this chance of getting him to remember something.

‘I used to be.’

‘You haven’t forgotten all your songs?’

He shook his head, turning the chisel in his hand. Then he sang:

‘You ought to sing in the choir,’ said Ivy. ‘You’ve got a nice voice and we’ve got no good bass. Did you never sing in a choir?’

‘Yes. At home. When I was a boy.’

‘You had a yard like ours at home, didn’t you?’

‘My father had.’

‘Where was that? Up in the Shires?’

‘In New South Wales.’

She felt that this was disconcertingly far off. Instinct forbade her to ask any more. He was beginning to look hunted.

‘Well, you don’t need to listen to the radio if you don’t like it,’ she said. ‘All I mean is, it’s not expected you should work evenings.’

‘I thought I’d like to finish this,’ he explained.

He picked up a lump of stone. She recognised it: they used it as a doorstop to the wash-house, but she had not seen it since Monday, when they washed the sheets.

‘I thought it looked so like a cat,’ he said, showing it to her.

It looked much more like a cat now, although he had not done a very great deal to it. Ivy gave a gasp:

‘Why! It’s our Flo!’

‘I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I should think not! Well, I do think that’s clever of you, Benbow. Really I do. So that’s what you’ve been doing evenings? How could you get it so like?’

‘You can still use it for the door.’

‘I must show it to Mum and Dad. They’ll laugh.’

‘It’s not finished yet.’

‘Never mind. You can finish it afterwards.’

She hurried back to the house, followed by Benbow, who looked rather worried. Mrs. Toombs stopped short, in the middle of a tirade against their
unpunctuality
, when she saw what had happened to her
door-stopper
.

‘Flo to the life!’ she exclaimed. ‘If you’d smooth it down a bit.’

‘He hasn’t finished it yet,’ said Ivy.

‘I’ll put it back for your door on Monday,’ he promised.

‘Oh, it’s too good for a door-stopper now,’ decided Mrs. Toombs. ‘If you finish it nicely I’ll put it …’

She was upon the point of saying that she would put it in the front room. But this would be going too far.

‘I’ll put it somewhere in the house where we can look at it. Really, it’s a lovely likeness, isn’t it, Frank?’

Toombs, who had been considering it solemnly, now spoke for the first time:

‘It’s more than a likeness. It’s a heffigy.’