Nightingale Wood (39 page)

The door opened and the butler came in.

‘What is it?’ demanded Mr Spurrey, not looking round. Though all his five senses were on the verge of crumbling, they were enjoying an Indian summer, and he was proud of showing Cotton that he could hear him come into the room though his back was to the door. Mr Spurrey was seventy-six, and for the last few weeks had been telling anyone who would listen to him that he had never felt better in his life.

‘There’s a young man to see you, sir. Name of Caker.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Mr Spurrey with satisfaction, still not looking round. ‘What’s he want? Selling something, eh?’

‘He said it was about a Post, sir.’

‘A Post? What does he mean? Send him away, Cotton; I’m busy.’

‘I took it he might mean the post left vacant by Mr Holt’s death, sir.’

‘Why didn’t you say so at first? I’ll see him. Here, wait a bit, Cotton! How did he come to know I want a chauffeur, eh? More in this than meets the eye. You been gossiping, eh?’

‘No, sir. I have not mentioned Mr Holt’s death outside my own circle, sir. I could not say how he comes to know, sir, I’m sure.’

‘Oh. What’s he like, eh?’

‘He seems respectable enough, sir. Rather a smart young fellow, I should say. A good appearance, sir.’

‘All right, send him up.’

A minute later there walked into the room that smart young fellow who had driven Mr Spurrey at the Withers’ last summer.

‘Hey, so it’s you, is it?’ cried Mr Spurrey, staring at Saxon, who crossed the room with deliberation and stood, hat in hand, one knee just flexed, staring respectfully yet calmly down at him. ‘But your name isn’t Caker, no, that wasn’t the name your master told me. Saxby, was it? What d’ye want to change your name for, eh? More in this than meets the eye.’

‘Saxon’s my first name, sir. Mr Wither always called me by my first name.’

‘I see. So you’ve left Mr Wither, have you? What d’ye want to leave him for, eh? No trouble, I hope?’ asked Mr Spurrey eagerly, the parroty ones glinting in his yellowish round face as he stared up at Saxon, his little lips primmed together.

‘Well, yes, sir. I suppose you might call it that. The fact is, I married Miss Wither, sir. Miss Tina.’

‘
Married
her?’ exclaimed Mr Spurrey, his face expressing the strongest interest and amazement. ‘Old Wither’s gel? What, married her, d’ye mean?’

‘Yes, sir. She’s up here with me now, sir. In Town.’

‘Does old Wither know? But of course he does … that was why ye left, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Upset, was he, eh?’ demanded Mr Spurrey, with a glance of the purest spiteful pleasure. ‘Cut up rough, eh?’ He bent forward and added, cunningly, ‘Took it hard I’m sure. I dare say he did. Don’t want to say anything against W., you know, one of my oldest friends, but he’s very narrow-minded, eh? Stuffy. Old-fashioned – Victorian. Married her, eh? Well, well. Married old Wither’s gel. Bless me.’ And Mr Spurrey’s face suddenly split up into hundreds of tiny wrinkles, and for quite a minute he shook silently in a fit of malicious laughter, while his round pale eyes stared out glassily from between rolls of yellow fat in a disconcerting way and his little lips compressed themselves more tightly than ever.

Saxon watched him with a respectful, serious expression. Old T – thought Saxon. Old B.

At last Mr Spurrey bent forward and said in a low spluttery voice, his eyes watering with laughter:

‘Dare say she was glad enough to get you, eh?’

And off he went again, watching Saxon out of the corner of one eye.

The young man smiled demurely, staring down at the hat he held, but did not answer. At the back of his mind there was a thought, that Tina probably had been glad to get him. So there was no reason why he should mind what Mr Spurrey said; and he did not. As man to man, they had their private joke, and Tina need never know.

‘And you haven’t much money, I suppose, eh?’ pursued Mr Spurrey. Saxon shook his head. Mr Spurrey bent forward once more and lowered his voice:

‘She … not in the family way, eh? know what I mean?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ coolly.

Mr Spurrey liked this. He had another fit; then he lit a cigar and became serious.

‘How did you come to know I wanted a chauffeur, eh?’ he said suspiciously, his eyes fixed steadily on Saxon’s face. Mr Spurrey was a malicious old bore, but he was not a fool, and people never imposed upon him; had they been able to, he might have been more popular.

‘I didn’t know it, sir. But you’re the only person in London who’s seen me drive, so I came to you because I thought perhaps you might know of someone who wanted somebody, and recommend me.’

‘Your wife tell you to come, eh?’

‘No, sir. In fact, she was rather against it.’

‘I see. Why was that?’

‘Well, sir, she thought it might be rather awkward, you see; you might have thought it right to … well, to see the situation from Mr Wither’s point of view, sir, you see, and not give me your name as a reference.’

‘But you didn’t think I should, eh?’

‘Well, sir, I thought that if I came to you just as a chauffeur, and asked you to recommend me, you would hardly think it necessary to say I was a bad driver just because I occasionally married my employer’s daughter.’

‘Occasionally “married” your employer’s daughter, eh? That’s good,’ and Mr Spurrey went off again. ‘Thinking of doing it again, eh, when you get one with a bit more money?’

Saxon smiled, trying to put into the smile that youthful cynicism and heartless lechery that Mr Spurrey evidently wished to see. Mr Spurrey was enjoying himself by proxy, and Saxon knew it.

‘Well, as it happens, I want one myself,’ went on the old man. ‘My last man, Holt, been with me sixteen years, no, eighteen, nearly eighteen, died last week,’ said Mr Spurrey indignantly. ‘Went off like
that
,’ snapping dry yellow fingers that smelt of cigars. ‘No warning. He was getting better, in fact. And that wasn’t all …’

Saxon had to listen for five minutes while Mr Spurrey related just how inconvenient Holt’s illness and death had been.

But at last:

‘… and I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t come to me, hey? What’d old W. give you?’

‘Two pounds a week, sir … and I did the garden, too, for that.’

‘Oh, there’s no garden here, no garden or anything of that sort here,’ said Mr Spurrey hastily, as though Saxon were pining for rockeries and montbretia. ‘Two pounds eh? Not much, is it? Don’t want to say anything against W., of course, old friend of mine – but he’s pretty near, eh? Close isn’t the word. Now I’ll give you three-fifteen (that’s fifteen shillings more than Holt had, but you’re a married man, hee! hee!) and there’s your quarters, too. Down the back,’ jerking his head. ‘Two rooms and a kitchen. Use the servants’ bath.’

‘Live in, do you mean, sir?’

‘Why not? Holt did; made himself very comfortable there. Rent free. Bring old W.’s girl, too, of course. Plenty of room for a double bed,’ and Mr Spurrey had another of those fits which Saxon was beginning to find irritating.

‘Mind you,’ added Mr Spurrey, ‘I’d better not know anything about your being married to old W.’s gel, eh? Don’t want to get mixed up in any quarrels, no, no, don’t want anything of that sort. She’d better keep out of my way, don’t you agree? No ill-feeling. Just prudent.’

‘Perhaps that would be best, sir.’

Saxon felt that Tina would not be at all sorry to keep out of Mr Spurrey’s way.

It was then arranged that he and Tina should move into their new quarters that afternoon and that he would start work tomorrow at nine o’clock. He fluently assured Mr Spurrey that he could drive a Rolls, and knew all about Rollses. This was not true, but Saxon knew that he could soon make it true.

So he said good morning to Mr Spurrey, and hurried away to Tina, who was sitting rather forlornly in an expensive snack-bar in the little market round the corner, and told her coolly that he had a job. Tina wished that the job had been with anyone except Mr Spurrey, but she was too wise to spoil Saxon’s satisfaction by saying so: and five minutes later he himself, cautiously prowling round this new development like a handsome tom-cat, observed that it was rather a nuisance its being Mr Spurrey, but a job was a job, and he seemed a spiteful devil who enjoyed doing his old friend W. in the eye and would probably keep on him, Saxon, just out of cussedness.

‘Did you see the rooms?’ asked Tina casually.

She still felt bewildered, and as though she were living in a dream. Even the table at which they sat, and Saxon’s handsome face, were slightly unreal. But she knew that this was an after-effect of nervous strain, so she did not let it worry her, and Saxon’s eagerness, affection and reliability shone steadily through the dream and comforted her.

‘No. Let’s eat; and we can go round after lunch. There’ll be plenty to do this afternoon.’

We’ll have to live with the servants
, thought Tina. Well, this is life, my girl. You wanted it; and you’ve got it.

But the rooms turned out to be a little house in themselves, separated from the back of the big house by a large paved courtyard. They were small, but the sun came into them and they had been redecorated only last year. The furniture was plain and worn, but it could be made pretty with fresh coverings and paint; and after she had opened the windows and stared down into the dirty but picturesque mews below, Tina’s spirits suddenly rose; she kissed Saxon, who looked amused, and decided that she liked their first home.

A narrow staircase led down into the garage, where, in a dusk glimmering with the quiet shine of enamel, the wink of chromium, lived the great urbane god to which Saxon was priest. He went down at once to prowl about in the temple.

The garage was cold, clean and silent. All was arranged; there was even a glory-hole for the cleaning rags. The petrol, the oil, the tools, all the complex implements required by an expensive machine, were ranged in cleanly order. He knew his job, thought Saxon, squatting down to look at the underneath of the Rolls, and mentally saluting the dead Holt as a good workman.

Mr Spurrey, meanwhile, set forth upon the routine of his day with a feeling of relief, even of pleasure. He had a smart new chauffeur; an up-to-date, go-ahead young fellow, not deaf, not short-sighted and rheumatic, like Holt was getting to be when he died. And that was a good joke on old W., too, giving a job to the chap who had run off with his gel. It was not Mr Spurrey’s fault, was it, that he happened to want a new chauffeur, and that the one, the perfectly satisfactory one, who happened to come along, was married to old W.’s gel? Surely old W. would not expect Mr Spurrey to turn down a smart, up-to-date young fellow just because he was married to old W.’s gel? That would not be reasonable. Besides, he enjoyed scoring off old W., stuffy old chap, Victorian, narrow-minded. Why, all kinds of people married their chauffeurs and footmen nowadays, wasn’t there that German princess? and nobody minded any more. Must move with the times. Gel was lucky to get a chap like that. Quite natural, too; gel getting a bit long in the tooth, and a nice-looking young fellow like that comes along … Old W. ought to have seen what was coming. Mr Spurrey would, in his place. And Mr Spurrey, having a fit, sat down in the calm of the club writing-room to write a letter to Mr Wither, casually mentioning that Holt was dead and that he had a new chauffeur, and how were things with Mr Wither? How was Mrs Wither, and the girls? Shaking silently, Mr Spurrey bent over the writing table.

‘Saxon.’

‘What’s the grief?’

Saxon, usually so careful with his English, had a weakness for American. That mocking, curt language, flinging subtle undertones from its pebbly phrases, charmed him as music charms a seal.

‘Come up and take these measurements for me, will you? I’m usually good with windows, but my mind won’t function this morning.’

‘What for?’

‘Curtains. These are awful. I’m just going over to Selfridges to get some spotted net … and the kettle leaks … and there’s no tinopener.’

Pause.

‘
Saxon
.’

‘Coming.’

‘Do hurry! I’ve got masses to do.’

‘All right; but I must just figure this out; it’s interesting.’

Left, mutually figuring.

CHAPTER XXII

Mr Wither was very, very angry, shocked and disappointed with his daughter, but he had not meant her to go off at once like that.

His ‘You leave this house tonight’ had met her passionate longing to escape from The Eagles; and she had rushed off sooner than he had meant her to. In fact, he had been so upset that he had scarcely known what he was saying, and when Mrs Wither ventured into his den about eight o’clock with a glass of port and a biscuit on a tray (the Withers met all crises with biscuits, not sandwiches) he was more upset than ever to hear that Tina had gone.

There were a thousand matters to discuss and plan. Everything possible must now be done to make the situation seem as natural as possible: and Tina, by flying off into the night with a suitcase, had made it seem as unnatural as it could be. Fifty years ago, her flight would have been conventional; now, even to Mr Wither, it seemed melodramatic.

‘But you told her to go, dear,’ said poor Mrs Wither, bewildered.

‘You oughtn’t to have let her,’ was all he would say. ‘It’ll be all over the neighbourhood that I turned her out.’

He sat staring into the black grate, waving the port away every time Mrs Wither wafted it towards him and looking so ill, with such frozen despair on his purple old face, that Mrs Wither forgot her own grief in her attempts to get him upstairs with a hot-water bottle and two aspirins. She finally did so; and sat beside his bed until he fell asleep.

Then she came down again to the drawing-room, where Madge sat staring sullenly into the fire with pink, swollen eyelids, and they talked until after midnight. Madge would hear no defence of Tina, whom she had always despised. Tina had behaved like a street-girl, disgraced her family, and let down her class. Madge asked what Colonel Phillips would say, and – and Hugh, when his mother wrote to him about it, in India? Everybody would say that if that was the sort of thing the Wither girls did, the whole family must be a bit odd. This was the second thing of this sort that had happened to the family in less than three years; first Teddy, marrying that common little beast, and now Tina. Other families didn’t have that sort of thing happening to them, why should the Withers?