The Four Graces (13 page)

Liz was helping at the tea tent. She was extremely busy but she did not mind, for being busy helped to take her mind off her troubles. She had spent all night thinking of Roderick and trying to remember all he had said, and she had been forced to admit to herself (for she was extremely honest with herself) that Roderick had never said anything the whole world might not have heard. He had been friendly, that was all, and, if it had not been for Aunt Rona, Liz would have accepted him as a friend and nothing more. Aunt Rona had not
said
much, but she had
looked
a great deal, and she had so managed things that Liz and Roderick were constantly being paired off, constantly finding themselves in each other's company. She had managed it with consummate tact and guile, just as she managed everything and everybody at the Vicarage. (What a fool I have been! exclaimed Liz, tossing and turning on her bed.)

It was all the more galling because Liz had known from the very beginning that Aunt Rona was a dangerous person and not to be trusted; so why—why on earth—had she allowed Aunt Rona to meddle in her affairs? Why had she allowed the hints and innuendos to affect her feelings? She had accepted the “managing” and gone off with Roderick and all the time Roderick was longing to be with Sal—hating me, thought Liz. But, no, that was not fair. Roderick didn't hate her. In fact, Liz was pretty certain Roderick liked her quite a lot. He didn't hate her—but he didn't love her. He loved Sal. Well, that wasn't surprising. Sal was a darling. Sal was a far finer person than herself.

Now that William had opened her eyes, the whole thing was perfectly plain to Liz, and the more she thought about it the plainer it became; Liz couldn't imagine for the life of her why she hadn't seen it for herself. “Blind!” said Liz aloud. “Stone-blind.” And she raised herself and turned her pillow for the fifth time. Why hadn't she seen? Was it because she was used to receiving attention, because she was used to being admired? (Rather a nasty thought, that.) But let's be fair, thought Liz. I'm used to being in the limelight because Sal and Tilly prefer the shadow. They don't like talking to strangers and I do. Somebody has to talk and entertain people who come to the house. This reflection—which was perfectly justified—comforted her a little, but it did not comfort her for long. She felt angry and sore, and very humble. Everybody knew. William knew, of course, and how thankful she was that William had told her. It really was very considerate of him, but William was considerate to a surprising degree; surprising that such a big, clumsy creature should have so much delicacy of feeling. She remembered their conversation in detail, his remarks about Aunt Rona, for instance: “An unpleasant character,” William had said. “Why don't you tell her to go away?” Well, why don't I? thought Liz. She
must
go before she does any more mischief in the Grace family. Having settled the fate of Aunt Rona, in her own mind, Liz began to think of Roderick again. She had been angry with Roderick at first, but, now that she was getting things clear, her anger had evaporated. It wasn't Roderick's fault. She must dismiss from her heart all angry feelings about Roderick…she must dismiss from her heart
all
feelings for Roderick. Well, that wasn't going to be easy…

So the night had passed and here was Liz in the tea tent, much too busy to do any more serious thinking, but not too busy to be conscious of an aching heart.

“Miss Grace, your table is asking for milk,” said Mrs. Bouse, ambling past with a plate of buns in each hand.

“Oh, sorry!” exclaimed Liz, and she seized a milk jug and flew for her life…for your heart might be broken into fragments, but a table that asked for milk must not be denied. But how ridiculous—a table—asking for milk! It was the sort of silly joke the Graces adored (or
had
adored before the advent of Aunt Rona) and Liz actually found herself giggling as she thought of the manner in which she would present the joke to Sal and Tilly. “Can I have some milk, please?” she would say in a creaking voice, the sort of voice you would expect from a table…and then she thought, but my heart isn't broken, not really; I'm not absolutely shattered as I was when Eric went away. I'm upset, of course, and I feel horribly degraded, but—

“Could we 'ave some more sandwiches, miss?”

“Yes, of course,” said Liz.

“May I have a second cup of tea?”

“Will you bring some more hot water?”

“Are there any chocolate biscuits?”

“Could we have a table for three?”

“Yes,” said Liz. “Yes, certainly. Yes, of course. No, I'm afraid not. No, not at the moment, but this table will be free soon.”

***

Mr. Grace was superintending the children's races. It was extremely hot in the field near the river and there was no shade, so he was very glad that he had flouted his daughters' wishes and put on his panama hat. It was an old hat, yellowed and shapeless, but that did not worry Mr. Grace.

“The girls would like me to get sunstroke, of course,” said Mr. Grace, explaining the matter to Toop, who was helping him to marshal the children at the starting line. And Toop, instead of being horrified at this frightful injustice to Mr. Grace's devoted daughters, nodded quite cheerfully and said, “That's right, sir. Women be all for show.”

“It's a perfectly
good
hat,” continued Mr. Grace, tugging it down over his ears so that it looked like a very shabby halo around his kindly, rubicund face.

“So it be, so it be,” agreed Toop, who was so attached to his vicar that he would have agreed with equal alacrity that black was white.

By this time Mr. Grace had explained his plan of campaign to his helpers, who consisted of William, Jos Barefoot, and Toop. William and Jos were dispatched to the winning post, Toop was to fire the gun. So far so good, the difficulty was to get the children into line, and to keep them standing behind the white line until the moment came to start. They hopped about with excitement; they shrieked with joy and dug each other in the ribs; some of them stood on their hands, kicking their legs in the air, and seemed oblivious to the fact that this was an unorthodox manner of starting the hundred yards. Fond mothers broke through the ropes and rushed at their offspring to tie up shoelaces or hair ribbons or make other small adjustments of dress, and were chivvied away by Toop waving the starting gun in a threatening manner. Mr. Grace was aware that it was essential to obtain a “good start” not so much for the sake of the children as the parents. The parents were watching with the closest attention to see that justice was done and it might cause quite a lot of trouble in the village if any of them had cause to complain. They would complain, of course, whatever happened, but Mr. Grace was determined they should have no just cause, so he went up and down the line putting the children in place, explaining exactly what they were to do and exhorting patience.

“One, two, three,” said Mr. Grace loudly. Toop fired and away they went…it was a charming sight. The boys were in gray or blue flannel shorts and white shirts; the girls in gaily colored frocks. Away they went, their hair flying in the breeze of their passage, fat legs and thin legs, long legs and short legs, all twinkling and scurrying and galloping down the meadow. Mr. Grace watched them, smiling. It was indeed a charming sight.

“George,” said a voice behind him.

Mr. Grace's smile faded. He turned reluctantly.

(“Dashed, that's what 'e was,” said Toop, retailing the incident later to his great crony, Jos Barefoot. “You could see all the 'appiness leakin' out of 'im like a sieve. Why does 'e bear it, that's what I want to know?” “'E be a mild-mannered man,” replied Jos, removing his pipe and spitting into a flowerpot with uncanny accuracy. “Why does 'e bear it?” repeated Toop thoughtfully. “You got to bear things from a wife—badgering an' what not—but she ain't 'is wife, nor won't be neither.” “I b'ain't so sure,” said Jos in his squeaky voice. “She be after Passon, she be. 'E don't get no peace, not in 'is own garding nor nowhere. She be after 'im all day. ‘Jawge,' she bellers. ‘Jawge, where are you? Where are you, Jawge!'” [Toop smiled—he could not help it; Jos Barefoot's rendering of Rona's “Oxford accent” was extremely funny.] “Ar' she be a proper ow'd vixen,” added Jos, shaking his head.)

“George,” said Rona. “George, haven't you finished here? I've been waiting at least twenty minutes. I should like to meet Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.”

“She's over at the Flower Stall.”

“I know. I saw her there. I think it would be the right thing for you to introduce us.”

“Get Liz,” said Mr. Grace. “I must find out from William who won.”

William was walking toward him, smiling and holding a child firmly by each hand. “Timothy Feather first, Lizzie Aleman second,” said William, showing them off with pride.

Timothy was scowling with bashfulness in the sudden limelight, but Lizzie was all smiles. She was a young sister of Joan's—there were dozens of little Alemans—and as she spent a good deal of her spare time at the Vicarage she was in no awe of its master.

“I was second!” cried Lizzie, running up to Mr. Grace and taking his hand. “I come in just after Tim. The gentleman saw I did.”

“She'd 'ave won,” declared Mr. Aleman, who had been watching his daughter's progress with the keenest interest, and now approached to do battle upon her behalf. “She'd 'ave won outright if that young varmint 'adn't rode 'er off. Rode 'er off, that's what 'e did,” said Mr. Aleman bitterly.

“No, 'e didn't, then,” cried Mrs. Feather, bustling up behind him. “It was
'er
pushed
'im
—right at the start—put out 'er 'and an' shoved. I saw it with my own eyes, there now.”

“I don't think so,” said Mr. Grace gravely. “I was watching very closely and the race seemed perfectly fair.”

“'E rode 'er off,” repeated Mr. Aleman.

“She shoved 'im—didn't she, Tim?” said Mrs. Feather.

Tim scowled horribly. He stood first on one leg and then on the other. “Nobody didn't shove me an' I didn't shove nobody,” said Tim gruffly.

“Splendid,” exclaimed Mr. Grace. “Nobody—er—shoved—er—anybody. It was a grand race, a magnificent race…and perfectly fair. You agree, don't you, William?”

“Perfectly fair, and very well run,” said William solemnly.

Mr. Grace wrote down the names of the winners in his little book, and the crowd, which had gathered to see the fun, melted away reluctantly.

This was the last race, and Mr. Grace was just turning away when he was accosted by a very pretty woman, beautifully and fashionably dressed.

“You're Mr. Grace, aren't you? Will you come and have your fortune told?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Grace, smiling at her. “Yes, I'll come. Are you the sibyl?”

“I'm Mrs. Smith,” she replied, missing the allusion.

“Of course! You've come to live at The Beeches! My daughters would have called before this, but we're a very large household at the moment and that keeps them busy.”

“Oh, calling is a bore,” declared Mrs. Smith. “It would be much nicer if they could drop in some evening about seven for a drink…and you, too, of course, if you don't think it very wicked.”

“I see nothing very wicked in it,” said Mr. Grace in surprise.

She smiled. “Oh, I'm so glad you're broad-minded. I hope you're broad-minded in
every
way.”

“No,” said Mr. Grace.

“No?” she exclaimed in amazement.

“Not in the sense you mean, I'm afraid,” said Mr. Grace firmly. “I have noticed that nowadays when people speak of being broad-minded they really mean muddleheaded, or lacking in principles—or possibly lacking the strength to stand up for any principles they may have. Nowadays people are anxious to appear worse than they are,” said Mr. Grace, smiling. “It's a queer sort of inverted hypocrisy, Mrs. Smith…but I must apologize for sermonizing.”

“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Smith. “I always think it's so interesting to hear people talking shop.”

Mr. Grace was a trifle taken aback at this description of his calling. He was silent.

They had been walking toward the fortune-teller's tent, and now they were there. It was a small bell tent, wonderfully decorated with cabalistic signs cut out of black paper. Mr. Grace fished in his pocket for half a crown and prepared to go in, but Mrs. Smith had not done with him; she caught him by the arm and said, “I suppose you believe in Jonah and the whale, and all that?”

Mr. Grace was annoyed. This seemed to him the wrong time and place for a theological discussion, so he did not take up the challenge.

Mrs. Smith waited for a few moments for a reply and as none was forthcoming, she continued, “I don't. You see a whale's throat is very small so it would be quite impossible for it to swallow a man. Perhaps you didn't know that.”

“My dear young lady,” said Mr. Grace. “I don't think it matters in the least whether or not you believe the whale swallowed Jonah. Many deeply religious people are not prepared to take the story literally.” It was rather a neat reply, and Mr. Grace was pleased with it. He was also rather pleased with himself for having denied himself the obvious joke. It had been an effort not to tell Mrs. Smith she need not swallow the whale, but it had been right to abstain.

“We aren't religious, Wilfred and I,” declared Mrs. Smith. “In fact, we don't believe in
anything
.”

Mr. Grace looked at her sternly. This was too much. He was really angry. Was she trying to rouse him, trying to drag him into a discussion, here and now, in the middle of this holiday-making crowd, or was she merely making the position of herself and her husband perfectly clear, or, thirdly, was she just an absolute fool? He was inclined to the third alternative.