The Pandervils (50 page)

The last straw was added to his burden of exasperation by Jane, who suddenly darted out of the house to intercept him. ‘Must you go to market this morning?'

He stared at her crossly. ‘Must I go to market! What d'ye mean, child?' There was a plot against
him. She thought him too old for his work, too old to manage his son's farm: the suspicion was gall to him. ‘What else should I be doing, pray?'

‘I wish,' said Jane—she was red-eyed, she's been crying thought Egg, but her face wore now a mulish look—‘I wish you'd let
me
take the fruit in this morning. You didn't ought to do so much.'

‘So that's it!' He thought his guess confirmed. ‘Well, let me tell you, m'dear, I can manage well enough yet a bit. Not many could at my age perhaps, but I can. See?' In spite of his annoyance he smiled at her kindly. I'm a difficult old fellow to lead, that's what she's thinking, bless her little heart! And so I am, and so I will be. ‘You run along in like a good girl,' he added, seeing she made no movement to go, ‘and cook me a nice dinner against I get back.'

Still Jane did not move. ‘Let me come with you then.'

‘Why?' He began losing patience again. ‘What's come over you?'

‘I want to come,' said Jane stubbornly, ‘ that's why.'

He eyed her pale face intently. ‘You're not ill, are you, my dear?'

‘I'm not feeling so well. I don't want to be left alone. There!' she said eagerly, ‘now you've got it, Dad. So just wait while I get my coat on.'

Egg did not quite believe this story of not feeling well, though her appearance was consistent
with it. He felt that she was hiding something, ‘And who's to see after the little'un, tell me that.' Ah, he thought, that'll have cornered her.

‘Mary's here. Mary Curtis. She'll be staying with him an hour or two till I'm back. She came and offered.'

‘Mary Curtis here! First I've heard of it,' complained Egg. ‘Seems you've made y'r plans, my girl.'

‘And I can be back in time to feed him when he wants me,' she quickly added.

‘Oh, very well…' Egg grumbled acquiescence, still peevish to think that he was being managed; but during the drive to Keyborough, a matter of fifteen to twenty minutes, he forgot his grievance and was free to notice with more solicitude how silent and listless she was. Still, women were like that sometimes, poor things, and I dare say, he said, there's no call to worry. ‘Got a headache have you Jane?'

She brightened at once, but with a brightness that seemed not quite natural. ‘Oh nothing much! I had a letter from Mother this morning. Did I tell you?'

‘Indeed you did not.' He wondered why she had not told him of this; for any letter was an event, something to talk about and share.

‘Yes, and what do you think! She's expecting a baby, Mother is.'

‘A baby. Where from?' Engaged with his problem Egg answered absent-mindedly. He knew, as everyone did, that twelve months ago Mrs
Marsh had consoled herself for the loss of Jane by marrying George Withers, an old admirer; but the meaning of Jane's news did not immediately penetrate his anxious reverie.

‘Where from? What a question!' Jane smiled, though wanly. ‘Her own, I mean. She's going to have a baby. Just fancy!'

‘God bless my soul!' Egg laughed to himself. ‘Lemme see, how old would y'r mother be now?'

' She's just forty-five, according to my reckoning. What a surprise for everyone!'

‘Forty-five, eh? Well, Nicky's mother was forty-nine turned, I remember, and a bit more, when Nicky was born. Some folks say old parents have poor children, but Nicky wasn't so poor.' He smiled at a memory. ‘When he was little I sometimes used to bath him. A sturdy child he was, although they pretended he was delicate. Stuff and nonsense. … No, I wouldn't a called Nickey a poor child. And I wouldn't call 'im poor
now
. Whadda
you
say, Jane, eh?'

Jane did not seem to have heard the question, for she had turned her back on him and was burrowing mysteriously among the cargo of apples. Disappointed to find her not responding to his sentiment, he said no more. He did not even ask Jane why she sat so silent, her face half-averted from him; for he was becoming impatient of the mystery. She's not enjoying the trip: why did she come? He remembered that postman and the way he had looked at her—almost a loving look, you could a called it, and there she was, with
Nicky's letter in her hand, and dint seem to care whether she read it or not. Not a very cheering letter, he reflected, no more talk of leave in it, but nothing to be so put out about. I give it up; they beat me, women do. Ah, there's Allchurch. ‘Morning, Mr Allchurch! Fine morning!' He turned his horse's head into the market square, glad to see that he was arrived in good time after all.

‘Morning, Mr Duke!'

‘Morning, Mr Pandervil!'

Duke seemed surprised to see him. So had Allchurch, now he came to think of it. What was the matter with them?

‘Jane, did you see how those two stared?'

‘Did they?' asked Jane. ‘I don't think they did. Just your fancy, I expect.'

‘I tell you they
stared,'
insisted Egg, petulantly. ‘I've got eyes, haven't I? Take a look at me, Jane. Is there anything wrong wi' the look of me?' He fingered his collar and tie, and, finding nothing wrong there, jumped out of the cart and called to one of the market porters to come and unload for him. At the sound of his voice a group of men standing near stopped talking and looked up at him. On their faces he read the same baffling story. He returned their stare angrily, and they instantly looked away, looked uncomfortably away. Feeling more selfconscious than he had felt since boyhood, he strolled round the market, nodding to this man and speaking to that and discussing prices with a third; and he was nettled to
find Jane always at his elbow, a preposterous Jane, a talkative Jane, altogether too eager to chip in, and sometimes pulling at his sleeve and whispering some nonsense about his catching cold if they stood too long chattering. Trying to make an invalid of him! And he had never, he swore, felt better in his life, except for these pains that beat in him, with the beating of his heart, whenever he dared to imagine Nicky's return.

Jane's silences, by making him feel shut out of her confidence, forced Egg to indulge these fond imaginings more freely than was his habit. During the next few days he was for ever starting conversations that would lead to Nicky if carried far enough, and Jane acquired quite a knack of cutting them short without apparent violence. But it can't go on, she said,
I
can't go on; and on the eve of the next market, which was Mercester market, sooner than endure another public ordeal she resolved to make an end of this silence between them that was now, like a dividing sword, so sharp and glittering a thing. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lit. Nicky's child was asleep upstairs; Jane and Egg sat warming themselves by the kitchen fire.

‘I wonder what the boy's doing now,' said Egg, more than half to himself.

Jane rose from her chair. ‘I must tell you something,
Dad. I thought to keep it back.' Her voice was cold; he could see that she trembled. She came and stood close by his chair, put a hand on his shoulder, and kissed his forehead.

‘Well, my dear?' He patted her hand.

She spoke again, but in a different voice. ‘We'll need to be brave, darling. It's Nicky, he … he won't be coming home to us.' She leaned nearer to him, pillowing the aged head on her bosom. Maternal, she was old as the earth, and he, bewildered, a child in her arms. ‘I had the message Monday. Four days and nights I've had it.'

He was restive in the embrace. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arms' length, gazing strangely into her face. ‘What d'you mean?' His voice rose. ‘ Say it again. Something about Nicky coming home.'

She faced him, and was firm. ‘He's not coming home. They've killed him.'

He stared stupidly. ‘Not Nicky. Not
killed
. There's some mistake.'

‘Here's the letter,' said Jane.

A white shape fluttered under his eyes. He pushed it away.

‘Not Nicky!' he insisted.

He could not bear this truth; with all his being he rejected it. The walls of the kitchen were misty; they crumbled, they grew dark, and he felt himself falling into a great pit. He was walking down a long grey tunnel, and he could hear the pad pad of pursuing feet, but from which direction they came, whether overtaking or meeting
him, he could not decide, and while he stood with cowering head expecting something to leap on him the tunnel became a shaft going straight down into the heart of the earth, but if I can only get low enough, he thought, if I only run fast enough down the hole I shall get to Australia or somewhere and make a fresh start with the grocery, if only I run fast enough, but he was now in a bottle, packed tight and corked in, and a huge hand lifted the bottle up and an enormous eye stared at him, like a big goldfish, he muttered, and wondered whether the thing with the eye could hear him and wondered how soon the hand would draw the cork and drink him out of the bottle, and at once a large mouth came into view and the cork began squeaking, there was an explosion, he felt himself foaming out of the bottle's neck and crawling over a large pink finger of which the pores were as big as rabbit-holes, and if I fall into one of 'em, help! help!—but it was already too late, he had fallen, he was falling still, into a great pit, and now he was in a long grey tunnel that bored through the earth, he thought, and if only I can run fast enough and get to the other side and make a new start in life, with firelighters so cheap and all the customers satisfied, if only I can get out of this bottle … A voice came, gentle and soothing. ‘Just a drop more! I've got you safe.'

The mist wavered and vanished, and he could see a young woman bending over him. It was she, no doubt, that had spoken. Her right arm pillowed his head, and her left hand held to his lips
a teacup from which rose the fumes of brandy. A fire tingled in his throat. Fve been ill, he thought, I've been run over. Obediently he swallowed a little more brandy. He stared dazedly, first at the young woman, then at the room: at the brick floor, at the dresser full of shining crockery, at the fire on the hearth. How did I get here?

‘Have I been ill?'

‘You sort of fainted, that's all.' The young woman smiled; a wonderful kind face, he thought, and smiled back at her.

‘Fainted? First time in my life!' He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to puzzle things out. ‘Where's Carrie? Does she know—about me fainting, I mean?'

‘It was only for a minute,' said the young woman. ‘And you're not quite yourself yet, darling,' she surprisingly added. ‘But you're better. Your colour's coming back.'

To be called darling by this lovely young stranger gave Egg a very queer feeling, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he was dreaming or had died and was now in heaven. Am I young again? I feel young. The kindness shining in her face made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her. He could well believe her to be an angel. And she recalled to his mind someone who had been very precious to him.

‘I feel,' he said, ‘sort of funny. I don't seem to quite know what's been happening and … where I am. And I don't seem to know
you
, young lady.'

‘You don't know
me
!'

Her cry, whether of pain or fear he hardly knew, made him feel ashamed of having blundered into speech. Staring, he searched his mind for some clue to her. He clutched eagerly at a fancy. ‘Are you … you're not … you're not Monica, are you?' The name, so long unspoken even in his thoughts, surprised himself.

‘I'm Jane, of course. You know me, Dad. Of course you do. I'm Jane.'

‘Jane?' His face fell. ‘I don't remember … now what Jane would that be, my dear?'

‘Oh dear!' He saw that she was distressed. ‘Your Jane. Nicky's Jane. Jane Pandervil.'

‘Oh!' A light began dawning in his eyes. ‘Then you're my little sister.' He spoke his thought aloud. ‘So it
is
heaven, because,' he argued triumphantly, ‘you died a year or two back, didn't you, Jane!' He got out of his chair and gaped round the room. ‘And this is our old kitchen again.' His glance coming to rest at last on Jane, he marvelled anew: nearly fifty when she died, his sister Jane was now, in this blessed place, a young girl. ‘Are they all here, Mother and Willy and all?'

‘Listen!' she said, taking his two hands in her own. ‘I'm Nicky's Jane.' Fear stared from her eyes. ‘Not your sister, your daughter-in-law.'

‘I don't understand.' He felt puzzled beyond endurance, and hurt, and on the verge of tears. His mouth trembled.

‘Your son Nicky. I was his wife.'

Egg frowned. Was she playing some silly trick on him? ‘No son of that name.'

‘Think, Dad. Try to remember. Your youngest son, Nicky.'

‘No,' said Egg. ‘I don't know what makes you say things like that. Harold's my youngest. Eleven, Harold is; and his brother Bobbie's fourteen. And'—his face grew anxious—‘where's Carrie? I want to speak to Carrie.'

The young woman who called herself Jane had sunk into a chair and was quietly crying. She answered him through tears. ‘There's no Carrie here. There's only me.'

‘Don't cry, my dear.' He put out a thin hand and stroked her bowed head. ‘You meant no harm. But I
must
be getting back to my wife, don't you see, or she'll be flying into one of her tempers.' He paused, his hand still resting on the girl's head. Could he tell her more? She seemed the understanding sort: not one to be shocked. ‘You see, young lady, my wife's what they call expecting, almost any day now it might be. And at her time of life, which is near fifty, folks can't be too careful with themselves.'