Long Summer Day (79 page)
‘How does your mother get along with that fellow?’ he asked and Cis said that Meg looked upon him as a son, Vi adding, resentfully, ‘An’ no wonder, for since Jem came ’er’s never done a stroke o’ work about the varm, the lazy old slut!’
‘Well,’ said Paul grudgingly, ‘I must say I’ve never seen the place looking tidier but Parson Horsey was very shocked indeed when he heard about those babies. It wouldn’t surprise me if he doesn’t pay you three a visit soon and insist on one of you getting married and living a respectable life, like your sister Pansy.’
The girls’ faces fell and Violet said, virtuously, ‘What bizness is it o’ the Passon how us arranges things? Jem loves the pair of us equally, dornee, Cis? Besides, Jem won’t take no account o’ what Passon says, ’er was brought up strict Baptist.’
Paul could think of no reply at all to this so he left them, chuckling as he crossed the cliff fields to call in upon Smut, whose glasshouse was now a blaze of colour and who greeted him cheerily. When Paul told of the death of the King he stood to attention, as though on parade and said, ‘’Er’s dade, is ’er? Then God bless him, Squire, us’ll miss him, I reckon!’, after which, having paid his respects to the House of Hanover, he drew Paul’s attention to a well-stocked wire basket swinging from the cross bar of the greenhouse and said, ‘Do ’ee think Mrs Craddock could vind a place fer that on the terrace o’ the big house, Squire? I’ve a few left over and I’d like to maake her a present of un, seein’ as she so admired the early ones us had when her was yer last.’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted, Smut,’ Paul said, ‘but she would want to pay the proper price for it.’
‘No, ’er worn’t, Squire!’ said Smut, ‘for you stood by me like a brother backalong and I’m the last man in the Valley to forget it! Us’ll put the basket aside and the boy can drop it off on the way back tonight!’
Smut was sufficiently unprejudiced, Paul decided, to give advice on the situation in the Dell and after thanking him for the gift said: ‘Can’t you persuade your mother to talk Jem into making a choice between Cissie and Violet? She must know that everyone from here to Paxtonbury is sniggering about what is going on down there!’
‘Well,’ said Smut, with a grin that recalled the poacher for a moment, ‘tiz been goin’ on ever since they was young maids, Squire an’ the only diffrence is that now all us knows where they be whereas us never did in the old days! If you want my advice, Squire, leave things to zettle ’emselves, for not even old Tamer could keep the drawers hoisted on they two, nor their sister Pansy neither ’till her got ’erself married and was brought to bed once a year reg’lar! The fact is Jem’s a match for the two of ’em and they lives in fear an’ dread of ’im half the time, which do make for peace an’ quiet over there as well as gettin’ a yield out o’ fields that was left lyin’ fallow in Tamer’s day!’
‘You mean Jem is a brute to them?’ said Paul, surprised that such a genial-looking man could terrorise two such experienced harlots as Cissie and Violet Potter, but Smut said he was not, not by any means, and would always defer to Meg, but was not above whopping the girls when they needed it, a privilege the law did not deny any husband in the land!
‘But hang it, man, Jem isn’t married to either one of them,’ Paul argued. ‘He’s only a hired man as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Arr, that may be, Squire,’ Smut conceded, ‘but they maids have never been partic’lar about churching, ’ave ’em? And since you ask me I woulden wish either one of ’em on any man in the Valley save Jem, who can look after himself! No, Squire, you let the tongues wag, same as they have ever since the girls growed big enough to start ’em waggin’! Us is doin’ very well over this side an’ tiz all on account o’ Jem knowing when to give rein an’ when to shorten it!’—and with that Paul had to be content, reflecting that it was precisely the same advice given him by his wife on the subject. He turned the grey on to the cliff path and rode over the shoulder of the Bluff to the head of Coombe Bay’s single, broad street, lifting his hand in acknowledgement to almost everyone he met and recalling the first, scorching day he had ridden down to the tiny harbour in the company of John Rudd.
The village was a good deal changed now. Nearly a score of cottages had been gathered into the estate, rethatched and let on long leases. There had been social changes too, for the low-church Parson Horsey had reconciled the agricultural church folk and noncomformist fishermen. A sub-post office had opened next door to The Raven, so that it was now possible to send telegrams if despatchers did not mind their contents being broadcast all over the Valley within the hour. One of the ugly Victorian villas, where Grace’s stepmother Celia had lived, was occupied by a retired army major who collected butterflies, and the other by an elderly German, called Scholtzer, said to have exiled himself as a protest against the Kaiser’s militarism and to save his son from being conscripted into the Prussian army. Paul had spoken to the German once or twice and found him civil enough, a short, fat, moon-faced man, who looked as if he had strayed out of a German band but was, according to John Rudd, a former professor of history at Jena University. He stopped and had a word or two with Abe Tozer, the smith, and saw Mrs Walter Pascoe, Pansy Potter that was, with her tribe of children on the strip of sand where the nets were drying. Then he turned west, through the back lanes, intending to cut across the dunes and rejoin the river road beyond the Four Winds southern boundary, but on the outskirts of the village he stopped at the ruined brickworks, recognising a slim, bespectacled youth engaged in some kind of survey of the derelict area. It was Sydney Codsall, now nineteen, and articled to Snow and Pritchard, solicitors of Whinmouth.
It was over a year since he had seen the boy, so he reined in and hailed him across the ruined wall. Sydney looked startled and fumbled with the reel of tape he was holding, so Paul called again, ‘What’s going on, Sydney? Is somebody thinking of restarting Manson’s kilns?’
The boy came towards him reluctantly and Paul realised that, although he had always felt sorry for him, he was a difficult boy to like. He was a misfit in the Valley and his year or so in an office since leaving school had encouraged him to slough off what little influence the jolly Eveleigh family had had upon him, when he lived at Four Winds. His face was long and narrow and his carroty hair was sleekly brushed and evidently oiled, for it gleamed wetly in the afternoon sun. He favoured neither his father nor mother, Paul thought, and walked alone, exuding a faint odour of patronage, as though he had been glad to shed the stigma of sweat and stable straw and climb into the more genteel atmosphere of streets and offices. Seeing who it was Sydney touched his cap politely, composing his sharp features into an expression of cautious humility.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see who was calling,’ he said in a reedy voice that recalled Arabella nagging her husband across the kitchen table. ‘The fect is, I was busy! I was sent heah by Mr Vicary himself!’
‘Who is Mr Vicary?’ Paul asked and the boy’s expression slipped a little, as though this was a question that only a fool would ask.
‘Why, he’s our Chief Clurk, Mr Craddock, my immediate superior at Snow and Pritchard’s. He’s not articled, of course, but he had the responsibility of training me and this is the first assignment I’ve been given, measuring up so that the deeds can be proved, you see.’ He went on to explain that Manson’s heirs had disposed of the property and Paul did not conceal his surprise. He knew Manson had died back in the spring and that his odd bits of property, including the brickyard, had been willed to a relative in London but it piqued him that the solicitors had not approached him to buy the plot, for it was known that he was always in the market for land or cottages adjoining the estate boundaries. He had bought what was now Periwinkle Farm through Snow and Pritchard, and also the cliff land added to the High Coombe holding, and it now struck him that the boy found his presence here embarrassing. He said shortly, ‘Who bought it, Sydney?’ but Sydney’s face went blank once more.
‘Well, I … er … I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Craddock! I don’t think Mr Vicary would like me to discuss the firm’s business with a third party!’
‘Damn it, I’m not a third party, and both you and Vicary should know it! Half the houses hereabouts are on the Shallowford maps and I particularly asked Mr Snow to tell me when any others came on the market. Do you suppose he forgot about it?’
‘I reely couldn’t say, Mr Craddock,’ replied Sydney, slightly intimidated now, ‘but I’ll certainly tell him you enquired. However,’—and Paul was now reminded of Arabella, in a malicious mood—‘I do assure you it is sold and the purchaser won’t consider re-selling. Shall I make an appointment for you, sir?’
‘No,’ Paul growled, looking across the brick-strewn yard and deciding that it was hardly worth his trouble and then, relenting somewhat, ‘How do you like working in an office, Sydney?’
‘I’m very well suited, thank you,’ Sydney said primly. ‘I find the work very much to my taste.’
Paul smiled, reflecting that this was the way Arabella might have replied. ‘Well, that’s splendid,’ he said and rode on, finding his humour slightly soured by the encounter but forgetting Sydney the moment he caught sight of the sun dancing on the shallow river under the Bluff. Sydney, however, did not forget him and pondered the conversation all that day, wondering if Vicary would cover up for him when the Squire raised the matter and deciding that he probably would, for it had been Vicary who had suggested Sydney should lay out some of his savings on the Manson property. Having reassured himself as regards this he began to rejoice in his brush with the Squire, telling himself that he had got the best of it. Sydney Codsall had never heard of the Chinese proverb ‘Why do you hate me? I have never helped you!’ but he would have appreciated its wisdom. It was some years since he had declared secret war on Shallowford and the purchase of the brickyard, and other bits of Manson property, were his opening shots in this war. Vicary, the ageing clerk of Snow and Pritchard, had taken a liking to his junior, seeing in him the makings of a first-class businessman and an astute legal mind. Childless, he had set himself the task of guiding and inspiring the boy for it was no secret that Sydney Codsall would share equally in Martin Codsall’s estate when he was twenty-one, and at sixty-plus, with small prospect of a pension, an unarticled clerk had to look out for himself. He found the boy quick to learn, very neat and tidy, but, above all, refreshingly lacking in sentiment. When the matter of the Manson property had come up he had counselled Sydney to buy, pointing out that, although the new land taxes made it something of a liability this would be more than compensated by an inevitable rise in the price of building land and that Coombe Bay, a trifling community today, would expand as time went on and seaside holidays came within reach of all. Sydney had thought this sound reasoning and learning that brickyard, cottage and derelict shop were to be had for a little over a hundred pounds, he put his money down straightaway. What he would do with his purchases he did not know but whatever it was it must, he felt, yield a profit. In the meantime it added greatly to his status. Perhaps, as time passed, there would be other and better opportunities but in the meantime he could wait. He was only nineteen and there were many examinations ahead; after all, Lloyd George had started life in a solicitor’s office and was now Chancellor of the Exchequer.
IV
I
n mid-July that year, Paul, Claire, John Rudd and Maureen travelled to High Wood to attend the annual athletic sports, the last Ikey would take part in, for he was due to leave at the end of term. They took with them six-year-old Simon, who was much attached to Ikey and sick with excitement at the prospect of watching his hero win races and collect cups. ‘I shouldn’t be too sure about it, Simon,’ Claire warned him, as they climbed out of the carriage and joined the gaily-dressed crowd lining the ropes. ‘We can’t guarantee Ikey will win, he might come second, or third.’
‘Really, Mamma, how can you be so stupid?’ Simon replied. ‘Ikey can run further than anyone in the world without even puffing!’ and it was Simon rather than Claire who was proved right for Ikey, eighteen now, a double colour and Captain of his House, almost literally walked away with the half-mile, the mile and the steeplechase, as well as winning second place in the long jump and throwing the cricket ball.
Paul listened to the cheers with quiet pride, noting that Ikey was idolised by the smaller boys who screamed their enthusiasm when Ikey’s long nicely-judged stride carried him ahead of the field. He thought, as he watched the boy step up to receive five silver cups from the local countess, ‘By God, it’s a miracle. The first time I saw him he was wearing trousers three times too large for him, had a running nose and was driving a cart in a Bermondsey scrapyard! Today nobody could distinguish him from the best dressed of these languid young devils!’ Maureen Rudd had other thoughts, recalling her first meeting with Ikey on Codsall bridge when he had been bewildered by the outcome of his plot to help the Squire. She glanced sideways at Claire, cool and elegant in green and white striped silk and showing off a very trim figure indeed for a mother of two, expecting a third around Christmas-time. The boy, she thought, must have had an instinct about her; how else could he have known that a mis-spelled letter written on the advice of another woman would restore serenity to the Valley? And again she wondered if anything would be served by bringing it all into the open and telling Claire and Paul exactly how much they owed the boy passing back and forth across the headmaster’s lawn to collect his cups but as always she decided to leave well alone and she hoisted Simon level with spectators’ shoulders, so he could get a clear view of his hero.
It was during the tea interval, when Ikey was changing, that she asked Paul what Ikey intended to do now that his schooldays were ending and Paul said that as far as he was aware Ikey intended to try for a commission in a cavalry regiment and sit for the Sandhurst exam in the autumn.
‘Well, I daresay the life will suit him,’ she said, without enthusiasm, ‘he’s a sociable type and has plenty of—what do they call it—“Leadership qualities”? Still, the boy’s undoubtedly got brains and he’ll spend money rather than make it in the Officers’ Mess. Couldn’t he do something more original?’
