The Pandervils (41 page)

‘Hullo, dear!' A thin hard voice. ‘Where are you off to?'

‘Me? Oh, I'm going home,' said Nicky.

‘Aren't you coming with me?' She gave him a penny-in-the-slot smile. ‘I know a place quite near.'

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I've no time.' O Lord what a fool I am! What a mess! He was red with humiliation, thinking how he had wasted this poor drab's time and that she hated him for it. He pulled out some loose silver. ‘Would you … will you …?'

She made no difficulty about that. ‘I don't mind if I do, Clarence. Some other time, eh?'

‘Yes, another time.' He was so grateful to her for accepting his money that he feigned a more than polite enthusiasm. ‘Whereabouts do you … live? I mean, where are you likely to be?' Almost before she had finished her answer, to which he didn't at all listen, he was moving away, eager to put time and space between himself and this encounter, that he might forget it, or explain it away, and so stop disliking and despising himself: in which endeavour he very soon succeeded, knowing once and for all not what he wanted but at least what he didn't want.

On his Sunday evenings he went no more to Mercester but to Upridge, whose little parish church provided a convenient pretext for a two-mile walk across fields. Here, in the following spring, he met Jane. His first sight of her was in the church itself, she sitting but a few yards away,
her profile clearly defined against a pillar; and in that moment it was as if the church, and the world containing it, became empty of all but this girl. Silence came upon him, shutting out alien sounds, so that in time, with much listening, he could hear his heart cry out She is mine, mine—his, not to have, for he was uplifted beyond greed of possession, but to worship and to remember. Until it was time to go he remained in an ecstasy, renewing his wonder in frequent glances, slowly gathering with his mind a knowledge of what had happened in him. In the porch, on his way out, he overtook this girl and heard her companion call her by name. She was tall and very dark; young too, perhaps nineteen, perhaps twenty; her eyes were grave and candid; the curve of her cheek was music to him. She and the woman (her mother?) turned off towards Upridge village, and Nicky went on his way possessed by her. The fields he crossed to reach Crabbe's Farm were warmly tinged with sunset; the blackthorn was in bud, and primroses sprinkled their light along the hedges. After walking a mile or so in a heaven-filled silence, Nicky suddenly began singing hymns at the top of his voice, and didn't stop singing, except to take breath, until he came within earshot of the farm. He wondered how he would keep from grinning at folks when he met them; but he managed to avoid the Crabbes; and James, as usual, was in bed before him.

‘So you're back then?' said James.

‘Not me,' said Nicky. ‘I'm a blessed ghost.' The remark passed for facetious, as he had intended it
should, but bits of remembered verse, with other lovely things, had been running in his intoxicated head, and this phrase of all, at the moment, seemed to describe his condition best. He felt free of the body, radiant and free. Darkness had been cast out of him. ‘In bed early to-night, aren't you?'

James grunted, deprecating such elaborate conversation. ‘Gennelman left a letter for you.'

‘Letter? What sort of a chap was he? Where's the letter?'

‘Come from y'r uncle at Woodithorpe. And the motor car's fetching you in the morning.'

‘The what!' said Nicky. A purely rhetorical question. He was astonished.

‘Motor-car. Not deaf, are you! Y'r uncle's sending his motor-car to fetch you.'

‘Golly! What's Brother Crabbe got to say about it?'

‘He don't mind. It's me does the work, not him. The gennelman soon talked him round.'

‘Talking of that gentleman,' said Nicky, ‘who is he? How did he get here?'

‘In a motor-car. I told you.'

‘In a car? It must have been Tom Meadows.'

‘As big as a greenus,' grumbled James, ‘that motor-car was.' He shut his eyes and gave an aggressive imitation of a man asleep.

Nicky, disregarding this hint, began dancing round the room singing his father's favourite anthem: ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of them that bring good tidings.' Breaking off suddenly he tiptoed to James's bedside and
asked, looking down on the sleeper.
‘Are
your feet beautiful, James? I doubt it.'

Grunt, grunt. ‘What's that?'

‘I was asking about that letter, James. Have you got it?'

‘ ‘Sin one of my pockets.' He pointed with his nose towards the bedrail. ‘You can go through 'em all till you come to it.'

‘May I really! Consider, James! Don't be rash!' He was already at work on the first pocket. ‘Who am I to come prying into your secret life? What if I find a row of little Jameses leaning against a photographer's stile! And their mothers, your lusty paramours! … Good,. I've got it.'

‘Got what?' asked James, staring owlishly. ‘You're soaked, fair soaked. That's what you are, Pandervil. They sell beer at your church, by the look of things.'

Nicky was reading his letter:

My dear young Nephew: I have had a bit of a bad turn, but musent grumble time of the year and none the worse for it. I am sending the Car over in the morning to have a bit of an Outing, it will do you good and I have got a bit of news which will meet with your Aprooval, unless I'm a blessed Dutchman which I have never heard of in our family. But joking apart do not fail me, from

Yr. Affec. Uncle
,
                                     ALGERNON PANDERVIL.

P.S. Away all day tell Mr. Crab
.

The prospect of a day's holiday surprised and delighted him, but it surprised him less now than it would have done a little earlier; for in this new life, in which he had been born not quite two hours ago, happy surprises of this kind and of all kinds were only to be expected. He fell asleep thinking not of his outing with Uncle Algy but of Jane's profile. And chancing to wake in the night he was visited by the idea, which seemed to him quite novel, that he and she must have been always in some mysterious fashion bound to each other, or at the least that he had had prevision of her in dreams: only so could he explain to himself his instant recognition of her.

Very warmly wrapped up, for there was a nip in the air this morning, Uncle Algy slowly and painfully walked the few yards from his breakfast-room to his car, being supported on one side by Nicky and on the other by Tom Meadows splendid in green livery. He had just provided his nephew with a second breakfast, for he still retained a hazy memory of his own farming days: ‘Early birds you farming fellows, eh boy! And the early worm ain't very filling.' Bubbling with excitement, he had talked incessantly throughout the meal, himself eating very little. ‘A little surprise for you, young Nick. Just a bit of a joke up me sleeve. Wasn't going to tell you a thing about
it till arterwards. Going to make it a case of the fay accomply, I was. That's right: eat a good meal boy: you'll need it. There's to be fun to-day, or my name's not Jack Robinson. Altered me mind only yesterday. Dashed if I don't take the boy with me, I thought to myself. Hi Tom, I said, run over to Mr Crabbe's place with this bit of a letter, there's a good chap. And by the way, Nicky' —his voice became wheezily confidential—‘don't bother y'r head about anything Tom Meadows may tell you. Full of doctor he is; doctor this and doctor the other. If you're a good boy I'll let you into a secret. My medical man Brother Physic— that's what I call 'im, takes it all in good part, pleasant young chap he is—well, he don't much want me to go out to-day, doesn't Brother Physic. Take things easy, don't tire yourself, not as young as you were, won't be answerable for the consequences—that kind of talk. And me been looking forward to this bit of a how-d'ye-do for weeks past. Not go out!—that's a fine story. Ah, here comes friend Tom. Car ready, Thomas?'

Seated in the car, after the agony—which he angrily tried to conceal—of the struggle to reach it, Uncle Algy consented to be silent for a while; but before long he was at it again. He drew from his pocket a bundle of papers.

‘Now where d'ye think we're going first, boy?'

Nicky, smiling, said he had no idea.

‘Ever heard of Keyborough?' cried Uncle Algy, infinitely pleased with his strategy.

‘Keyborough.' Nicky acted surprise. ‘You mean
Dad's old place. I remember you pointing it out to me last summer.'

‘I did,' said Uncle Algy. ‘You're quite right, my boy. We were in this very car, and here we are again, going to that very farm.'

‘To have another look at it?'

Uncle Algy shook with delighted laughter. ‘That's good that is. You don't know how good that is, Nicky, not hardly. Yes, we're going to have another look at it. That's just what we're going to do.' He was rosy with joy.

‘What's the game, uncle? You've got one of your schemes on, I can see that.'

‘Schemes?' Uncle Algy contrived a grimace that was all innocence. ‘Me got schemes! Never. Nothing schemy about me, nephew. Everything above board, that's my motto. We're just going to have another look at the old farm that me and y'r dad was boys together on. That's all. And we've got a nice day for it, eh?' He winked with a great show of cunning, and abandoned himself to another fit of laughing, which, however, came to an end with significant abruptness. He glanced guiltily at Nicky.

‘Was it a bad one?' asked Nicky.

‘The dear old rheumatics,' said Uncle Algy. ‘Faithful friends they are, never leave me alone for long.' He grinned defiance. ‘Dunno what I'd do without 'em. But listen to this, boy: For sale freehold with vacant possession all that desirable property known as the Ridge Farm, Saffron Ridge, near Kevborough, in the county of Mershire, comprising
about one hundred acres of grass and plough, together with the large and commodious residence thereto pertaining with all barns, sheds, outhouses and other buildings …'

‘Oho!' said Nicky gaily. ‘They're selling it, are they?' He looked over his uncle's shoulder. ‘And by auction too!'

‘You're right, boy. By auction it is. And not for the first time. Man and boy I've seen that place change owners four mortal times. Here, you read what they say.' He sat back and rested for half a minute, while Nicky read through the notice of sale. Uncle Algy watched him excitedly. ‘See here, boy. You'll come in for a tidy lil bit of cash from me some day, you and y'r dad.' Nicky scowled at the floor. ‘Shut the window up, will you …
That's
better. Not enough to make you lazy: trust me. But a useful lil sum.
But,'
said Uncle Algy, ‘I'm not in any hurry to get to heaven, thank you. No irreverence meant. And I've a fancy for seeing you folks a bit settled and comfortable
now
, if you follow my meaning. That's why we're going to look over the old place 'smorning.'

‘Do you mean,' began Nicky, flushed and shy, ‘do you mean——'

‘I mean,' said Uncle Algy, chuckling and winking, ‘we'll mebbe pick up a cheap pig or two, or a smart lil waggon, against the time when you have a farm to keep 'em on. That's all, boy. Just an idea of mine, just a passing thought. No schemes, you understand, no schemes. No, no, no!'

The car stopped. Tom Meadows, stiff and sulky, stood holding the door open. Towards Uncle Algy, but not at him, he looked with angry deference. Nicky had noticed that these two constantly grumbled at each other like old friends. To-day Uncle Algy was on the defensive: his glance at Tom was half timid, half impudent.

The moment Nicky's feet touched ground Tom shut the door on his employer. Uncle Algy stared indignantly. He tried bluster. ‘Now Tom! Mind y'r manners.'

‘That's all right, Mr Pandervil. I'll show Mr Nicholas round for you.'

‘No such thing. Open the door and give me a hand out. Think I'm going to miss the party, and on me birthday too! Never heard such stuff.' He gave Nicky a confidential wink. ‘Not really me birthday, y'know. That's only my lil joke. Well, Tom Meadows, are you going to do as I tell ye, or must I come and box y'r ears?'

Tom, unrelenting, wouldn't even grin. ‘You know as well as me what doctor said.'

With a rueful grin Uncle Algy surrendered. ‘A rare bully is our Tom. Didja know that, Nicky? Take a good look round, boy. And if you see any lil thing you fancy, a rake or a mowing machine or a couple of milking stools, just speak up and I'll see you get 'em. Money's no object.' He lay back among his cushions, rumbling with laughter. But by the time Nicky returned to him his mood had changed. ‘Wish y'r dear dad could a bin with us to-day. Bad business him not able to come.'

‘Dad! Was he to have come too!'

‘Well, I wrote 'im a letter. One of my breezy letters, y' know, not saying much but giving 'im a lil bit of a nudge on the sly, if you take me. But seems he's bin seedy, y'r dad has, and won't venture out again yet.'

Nicky glared at his uncle accusingly. ‘Dad's been ill! Why the devil didn't someone tell
me!
Hell, do they think I'm not interested in such things? What's wrong with him, uncle?'

‘Eh, boy, don't excite y'rself. Touch of flu, that's all. Better now, he says. A good 'eal better. But not better enough to come with us to-day, more's the pity.'

Uncle Algy stared out of the window with dismal eyes. He was suddenly dispirited. Getting tired, thought Nicky; he'll be better for a meal. Rotten trick of Harold's, not letting on that Dad was ill. Blast. Blast … These blastings were designed to raise a dust of irrelevant anger in which he could hide from himself his anxiety about Egg. Flu at his age is serious, he couldn't help saying; and he thought of death and wished people didn't have to die. By people he meant other people, and especially old people; for that he himself shared this mortality was a notion he could seldom—and at this moment not at all—seriously entertain. He, by an astonishing piece of luck, was young, and only yesterday he had been in the presence of eternal light: a phrase that at last held a definite meaning for him. Instantly and with a sigh of adoration recalling that
face seen in church, and saying in his heart O Jane O Jane, he began to think that perhaps there was something real behind all that talk, to which he had listened so often and often so impatiently, about God and the Grace of God and the peace that passes understanding: something real, but certainly not the something that the Ebenezerites meant by it. Who is she, and how can I get to know her? Lovely, heavenly, an angel. Her darkness, the lovely darkness shining out of her. The way her eyes looked down, and her mouth, and when she flung her head back, and her beautiful chin like … like … How can I get to know her? A tune ran in his head, and scraps of poetry floated up from his memory. Impetuous heart, be still, be still: thy sorrowful love can never be told. I must get to know her soon. Next Sunday. No, tomorrow. I wonder if I'll be back in time to-night: I could just slip over to Upridge on the chance of finding out where she lives. And her name's Jane— perfect! Jane—it couldn't be anything else. There must be dozens in love with her; she's sure to be married or engaged or something. O Lord if I lose her! This very moment someone may be cutting me out, while I'm tied by the leg here. Still I shouldn't stand a chance anyhow, lovely girl like that. Black despair fell on him, but he soon went on planning how he could meet her.