Nightingale Wood (32 page)

‘
Saxon
,’ she murmured, staring at him, while her heart began to beat strongly.

‘Yes.’

He braked.

‘Then we could have a nice little holiday together,’ he ended. ‘Darling,’ he added, as an afterthought.

‘Do you mean … in the same hotel?’

‘I mean in the same …’

He let the last word come almost in a whisper, and gave her a country lad’s smile that went straight back into the sturdy green woodland of England’s unwritten love history; a hind lying under the oaks in Windsor Great Park might have smiled at a girl like that, four hundred years ago when the trees were young.

‘Wouldn’t you like that?’

‘Better than anything,’ she nodded, dazed but honest. It was surprising how quickly education, modesty, common-sense and tradition could swallow a shocking idea.

‘Same here,’ and as he leant across to open the door for her he broke into his delightful gay whistle; then stopped long enough to say, ‘That’s settled, then.’

He had taken charge of things now; and he felt utterly self-confident and cheerful. His gaiety spread to Tina; as she ran up the steps she was laughing, the sunrays warm on her lifted face.

Neither of them looked beyond the thought of a weekend’s pleasure.

CHAPTER XVIII

Stanton, most exclusive resort on the coast of Essex, is so well organized in its business of supplying pleasure to wealthy people that melancholy is never permitted to creep over its neat grounds and gay little pavilions even at the dangerous hour of twilight, when any coast town has a habit of looking sea-grey and sad. The red, green and yellow fairy lights twinkle out along the promenade at Stanton a full half-hour before the twilight begins, and all the well-kept, expensive hotels put up their fat gold lights as well, to keep the sea-dusk at bay; while the streets of pretty villas in their luxuriant gardens are so full of young people in white hurrying back from tennis and of groups laughing over pleasant plans for the evening or tomorrow, that the little town seems in the midst of a never-ending party into which melancholy cannot imaginably intrude.

It is a clean, well-planned place with no buildings earlier than 1900, and no slums. The shops are small, dear, and excellent; many exclusive London firms have branches down here. The air is superb, as only East Coast air can be. Some people swear that the air of Bracing Bay (née Clackwell, but the Mayor and Chamber of Commerce got that changed on the grounds that it was vulgar and did not describe the place and would not attract desirable visitors) is even better. But then the air of Bracing Bay, eight miles down the coast, sometimes smells of winkles and shrimps, which the Stanton air does not; Stanton has no pier, and Bracing Bay has two, and piers, as any seasider knows, do encourage winkles. A gay, prosperous, snobby little place is Stanton, with an atmosphere of expensive games hovering over it. Hetty Franklin disliked it more than any place she knew because it has no extremes.

A little girl in well-cut grey flannel shorts and the blazer of an expensive school (no one was shabby in Stanton) was all alone on half a mile of sand newly smoothed by the waves, absorbed in a search for one particular kind of pale pink shell that is found at Stanton and Bracing Bay – and no doubt at other places also, but somehow it seems to belong especially to these two resorts, the refined and the common, lying some eight miles apart on the Essex coast.

‘Looking for shells?’ inquired Viola, sauntering along the sands in her usual before dinner walk, feeling bored and sad.

‘Yes,’ replied the little girl cautiously, nodding without looking up. She had been warned not to talk to strangers.

She went slowly hopping on, making the most of the last fifteen minutes before bedtime, and every now and then pouncing on one of the precious shells.

This place is a bit too posh for me, thought Viola. We’ve been here nearly three weeks now and I don’t know anybody. Except that it’s marvellous changing for dinner every night, I shan’t be sorry to go home.

Doctor Parsham’s verdict upon Mr Wither had not been alarming, but he had explained that the liver was disordered and had recommended that, instead of going as usual to Stanton for a month, the family should go this year to the Lakes, where the softer yet bracing air would benefit the liver more than would the strong breezes of the coast. Of course there had been indescribable uproar over this proposal, which had been debated from every conceivable angle until everybody was exhausted and almost in tears, but at last a plan had emerged, and been carried out. Mr and Mrs Wither and Madge had gone for the month to Derwentwater, whence they could take motor-excursions to what was left of the local beauty-spots; while Tina and Viola repaired for a month to the White Rock Hotel, Stanton, where the family usually stayed.

Tina had entreated her father that she might go to Stanton as usual, declaring that she would die if she did not smell the sea, though as for dying she had been looking noticeably well lately, had put on weight, and so on. But Mr Wither was feeling so out of sorts and so wearied by the discussions about the holiday that he had allowed Tina to have her way, only insisting that Viola should go with her, as the proprietor and staff of the White Rock, where the Withers were known and revered, would think it peculiar if she went alone. Polo was boarded out with Colonel Phillips, the car was put away and Saxon turned loose with a month’s wages, the maids were given permission to ask friends to the house in the family’s absence; and off everybody went.

Tina is a beast, mused Tina’s sister-in-law, turning away from the darkening sea and beginning to walk slowly across the sands towards the twinkling lights of the promenade. Even if she didn’t want me to come (and she looked simply furious when Mr Wither said I was to) she needn’t be so beastly to me, going off all day to see her beastly Elenor Lacey and never saying a word to me when she is here. She used to be so nice; I don’t know what’s up with her lately. She needn’t think I like being here – except the changing for dinner.

At the thought of changing for dinner she looked more cheerful, and turned, as she came to the little water-worn wooden steps leading down to the sands, for a last look at the sea. How big and sad it was! her own face grew sad as she gazed. I wonder if you flew straight across there you’d get to France? I wonder if He’s in France and what He’s doing? Kissing her, I suppose. I wish I was dead. Well, not exactly dead, but I wish I was a nun or something, or something simply marvellous would happen tomorrow.

The reader will by now have divined that Viola’s nature was neither passionate nor deep; nevertheless, its sweet shallows had received from Victor as deep a wound as they could carry. She was so miserable that she was surprised by her symptoms; the way she cried at the least thing, grew thinner, and experienced all kinds of unfamiliar heart-beating and blushings. She honestly endeavoured to control her feelings, saying to herself, Good Lord, girl, pull yourself together for heaven’s sake. Get a Grip of Your Guts, as Shirley would say; but it was useless; all her affection, her youthful healthy senses and her romantic dreams flew constantly back to those moments in the summer-house and fluttered about Victor Spring.

The miserable part was that she could not make herself believe that all was over, and that he would soon be married to someone else. She spun day-dreams through the long hours that she sat on the promenade in the sunshine with a novel by Denise Robins, her white shoes crossed, her curly head resting on the sun-warmed canvas, staring dreamily and unhappily at the cheerful well-dressed crowds, and the worst of these dreams (or silly thoughts, as Viola sternly called them) was that she felt so bad when it was time to stop thinking them and go in to lunch; and Tina was no help, on the days when she was in to lunch, for she only sat with a soppy look on her face, silently eating a good deal and saying over the pudding that she was going over to Elenor’s again that afternoon, if Viola did not mind; and of course Viola could not say that she did.

This Elenor lived about two miles outside Stanton by bus, in a village called Rackwater, and she had an invalid husband who had been in the war. Elenor and Tina had been at school together, and as she had a boring, hard time of it with the invalid husband (she was very fond of him, of course, but he was a great worry to her) she liked Tina to go over there as often as she could and sit in the garden and talk to the invalid husband while she, Elenor, got on with things. When Viola (who would try anything once and liked going to new places even if they sounded boring) asked if she could go too and help to cheer the invalid husband, Tina said no, it was very kind of Viola but Adrian Lacey mustn’t have any excitement or see any strangers or anything.

Viola knew quite well what was up with Tina. She was in love with the invalid husband, and that was why she liked to go over there every day and sometimes in the evenings as well, when the moon was sailing over the mysterious sea. It must be awful for Elenor, thought Viola. I wonder she has her there, I’m blowed if I would. And I thought she was so crazy about Saxon? Some people haven’t any deep feelings. Lucky for them they haven’t.

She went slowly up the magnificent steps of the White Rock, which was one of the largest and most expensive hotels in Stanton.

‘Evening, Mrs Wither. Been having the old constitutional?’

That was Mr Brodhurst. He was the only person in the hotel who took any notice of her. He was a funny man; he always called her walk the old constitutional, and pretended she was in training for some important race that was coming off in the autumn, and they made jokes about it together; but Viola thought that Mrs Brodhurst did not like her very much.

‘Yes.’ She stopped for a moment to smile at him and have the daily joke, standing at the top of the steps with her small white-shod feet a little apart, hands in the pockets of a tough white coat, her curls blowing about.

‘Record time tonight, I hope?’

‘Oh yes … there and back in twenty seconds! … just to see how far it was, you know.’

‘That’s the stuff! Better and better. Ah, you wait till the autumn! We’ll show ’em.’

‘Felix,’ observed Mrs Brodhurst in a low, nasal, mysterious voice, emerging for an instant from behind the
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Yes, dear?’ Mr Brodhurst skipped into the Palm Lounge, where the
Daily Telegraph
swallowed him and Viola saw him no more.

She went on, up the impressive stairs covered with dark-red, non-smelling, noiseless rubber. All along the wide window-sills were cacti in pots. The White Rock kept up with the times. If fashion said that ferns were out and cacti in, then into the White Rock came cacti. It was a luxurious, gay, smart place, and Viola was glad that she had been able to buy some marvellous clothes with that thirty pounds.

That thirty pounds had been sent to her just before she came away by Geoff Davis, Shirley’s husband, with a letter explaining that he had succeeded in selling, though at a considerable loss, some shares belonging to Teddy that she had handed over to him at Teddy’s death. The shares had actually been bought for Viola; so now the money was hers, too. She had forgotten to tell Mr Wither about the shares when they had had their little talk about money; and now she decided that she would not tell him about the thirty pounds, either.

If was lovely to have all that money. She had bought some really marvellous clothes in her usual slapdash taste from which the pale blue ball-dress had been a miraculous exception, and these had cheered her up for a little while.

Oh, there was the sea again, almost invisible behind the tiny bright lamps along the promenade, looking in at her bedroom window. A maid was pulling the curtains, shutting out the early autumn evening.

This is the nicest time of the day, thought Viola, as the girl went out and shut the door. She pulled off her coat and carefully put it away; then began solemnly, like a child playing a well-loved game, to dress for dinner.

She laid out her dress, shoes and stockings, put some fine oatmeal in the washing basin, smothered her face with cream and patted it carefully round her eyes with the tips of her fingers; then she brushed her hair and began to change her stockings.

This half-hour before dinner was the only time in the long day when she almost forgot Victor, for then all the little rites she so much enjoyed helped to soothe and occupy her mind, driving unhappiness into the background. She was comforted each evening, too, by a dim hope that something marvellous might happen after dinner, and it was to welcome this event that she dressed so carefully. It never did happen, of course; but she enjoyed the vague feeling that it might; and she was therefore rather annoyed when Tina suddenly came in, after a hasty knock, looking agitated and dreamy, and at once driving Viola’s own peace away. She was in her outdoor clothes, and Viola supposed that she had just come in from her visit to Elenor.

‘Vi,’ she began, sitting down on the bed and absently pushing Viola’s dress out of the way, ‘can you spare a minute?’

‘Of course.’ Viola rather carefully moved the dress to the other side of the bed. ‘What’s up?’

She never felt cross with anyone for long; her deplorably weak nature hardly seemed capable of sustaining a healthy indignation; and this was quite natural to her; she never had to tell herself to forgive people; she just did it without thinking.

‘Oh nothing much … it’s only that Adrian’s very bad and Elenor wants me to go over there for the whole weekend.’

She stopped abruptly, staring down at the bed, fiddling with the eiderdown.

‘You look swell tonight,’ remarked Viola irrelevantly, lifting her wet face from the oatmeal-water and gazing at her sister-in-law’s reflection in the mirror over the basin. ‘I like that way of doing your hair.’

‘Do I? Do I really, Vi?’ Tina got up and went across to the mirror, peered eagerly at her face. ‘Yes, I do look better,’ she murmured, ‘I’ve put on weight.’

She turned away, sighing.

‘Is he awfully bad?’ asked Viola, her soft deep voice funereally subdued.