The Feast (6 page)

‘You don’t say much,’ he protested at last.

‘P’raps that’s a good thing,’ said Nancibel.

‘She’s one of the quiet ones,’ said Alice.

‘She doesn’t look it.’

But he had money. His clothes were expensive looking, and the wallet which he produced in the Harbour Café was full of notes.

Her heart was beating quite steadily now. It had only been in that first moment, when she saw him alone on the beach, that it betrayed her. For an instant he had seemed to be some touching counterpart of herself: alone, young and unhappy. And she still felt that she could have liked him if so much had not been wrong.

His accent was wrong: a refined superstructure upon Cockney foundations. Half the idioms which he used had evidently been picked up very recently from one person. They decorated his discourse like ornaments on a Christmas tree. And he was showing off all the time—about the Marine Parade, about his intellectual friends, about his lowly birth. Showing off to her, as she was very well aware, though the thick-headed Alice did not seem to have tumbled to it. And very awkward it was going to be, when they all went home; because he would want to escort her, and Alice would think she had poached.

But Alice had her own problem and was not anxious to let him accompany her, where he might read the notice on the gate. She had been showing off herself, to a certain extent. So, when they left the Café, she suggested that he might see Nancibel up the hill.

‘I’ve got to meet another girl friend. So I’ll say bye-bye.’

‘O.K.,’ exclaimed Bruce, betrayed, by alacrity, into a discarded idiom. ‘I mean, I couldn’t like anything more. Thank you for a delicious evening.’

‘Thank
you
,’
said Alice. ‘Bye-bye, Nancibel.’

‘Bye-bye, Alice.’

For the length of the first street the young pair walked in silence. Nancibel was a little surprised at herself for letting him come with her since she had found so much in him to dislike. But all through the evening, while he
kept talking and glancing at her in hopes that she would say something and she had sat silent, she had been aware of the inevitable climax, the explanation which was bound to follow. They might as well get it over now.

When they got among the little narrow streets and started climbing the hill, he broke out:

‘What kind of girl are you, Nancibel? Why don’t you talk?’

‘Because I don’t like
your
way of talking,’ said Nancibel.

‘Ah? I thought you didn’t. What’s the matter with it?’

‘Well … for one thing … I don’t like what you said about your home.’

‘Don’t you? I suppose I should have concealed my slum origin.’

‘Why do you keep calling it a slum?’ cried Nancibel, exasperated. ‘I think it’s very hard on your mother.’

‘What?’

‘She must have been a good mother. Anyway she gave you plenty to eat, by the looks of you. Why should you tell everybody her house was a slum in that scornful sort of way? It mayn’t have been much of a place, but I’m sure she worked hard to have it as nice as she could.’

There was such a long pause after this that Nancibel thought he was too much offended to say another word. They reached the top of the hill and left the houses
behind
them. A winding lane took them across the cliffs among little fields fenced by high stone walls. The town and its lights lay below, and they could see the great curve of the twilit ocean.

‘I wasn’t born in a slum,’ said Bruce at last.

‘What?’

‘We lived in a nice Council House on a building estate. Five rooms and a bathroom and quite a big garden. Dad was very proud of the garden. He was never on the dole. He worked for the Metropolitan Water Board, and he got eight pounds a week. We had a three-piece suite in the sitting-room, and my mother always had her
washing out on the line on Mondays before any other women in the road.’

‘My goodness gracious! You weren’t born in
Limehouse
at all?’

‘No. All lies. I tell them because Limehouse is easier to live down. People think more of you if you’ve risen from the gutter. But a home like mine is impossible to get away from.’

‘Why should you want to? I think it sounds very nice,’ said Nancibel.

‘Well … I want to be Somebody. I … I don’t want to be mass produced; I want to be original.’

Nancibel nodded. She understood all that very well—the need to be Somebody.

‘You’re not so disgusted you don’t want to talk to me any more?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I did a little bit the same thing once myself. When I went into the A.T.S. I said my name was Rita. I hated my name: it’s so sort of countrified and old-fashioned. I felt I could be a quite different person if only I was called Rita.’

He was so much reassured by her manner that he hardly listened.

‘It’s true about my writing,’ he hastened to say. ‘I’ve written a novel and it’s to be published.’

‘You mean printed?’

‘Yes. And when I’ve got the money I shall do nothing but write. Er … at present I’m a secretary … a chauffeur secretary.’

‘What’s it about? Your book?’

‘I’ll tell you about it, if I may,’ said Bruce happily. ‘It’s about this kid, see? Well … he’s a kid at the beginning of the book.’

The Christmas tree idiom was stripped off, and the native Cockney emerged as he grew excited.

‘Born in a slum …’

‘Oh help!’ cried Nancibel. ‘You’ve got slums on the brain.’

‘Several distinguished writers happen to have seen the book,’ said Bruce a little stiffly. ‘And they think very well of it as a matter of fact.’

‘Oh, I’m sure. Excuse me. Go on.’

‘Some people may find it too outspoken, but if they don’t like it they must lump it. I’m not writing to spare their feelings. These things should be exposed.’

‘Do you begin with him being born?’ asked Nancibel, craftily.

Bruce relented and continued:

‘Yes. He’s a bastard, you see.’

This, to Nancibel, was a reflection on the kid’s
character
, not on his lineage, and she asked:

‘Why? What did he do?’

‘He didn’t do anything. But he had no father. His mother was on the streets. The opening chapter, where he’s born, is pretty strong. So he grows up in these terrible surroundings and then the war comes and he’s evacuated to the country.’

‘And a good thing too!’

‘No, it wasn’t. He gets sent to a terrible farm where he’s treated worse than ever. It’s one of these lonely farms where things go on that nobody dares write about. But I’m going to make people sit up. Well … then he grows up a bit more and he meets this woman … she’s a good deal older than he is, a wealthly, aristocratic woman, and very beautiful of course, and she takes him up, just for a whim, and he becomes her lover.’

‘Where does he meet her?’ asked Nancibel.

‘He’s the Boots in a hotel where she’s staying. But she takes him with her to her house in Mayfair. Of course she’s terribly depraved. And when he finds out what she really is he strangles her and gets hung.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes. I wanted to call it
Waste.
But that title’s been taken. So I’m calling it
Hangman
’
s
Boy
.’

There was a pause, and Nancibel felt she must say something.

‘Well,’ she ventured, ‘I expect you’ll feel better now you’ve got it all written out.’

‘It doesn’t appeal to you at all, as a story?’

‘N-no. Not much. I’m afraid I don’t like miserable books.’

‘What kind of books do you like?’

‘I like books about nice people. And a story where it all comes out right in the end.’

‘But Nancibel, that’s not true to life.’

‘I daresay not. Why should it be?’

‘You’re an escapist.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You don’t want to face facts.’

‘Not in story books, I don’t. I face plenty between Monday and Saturday without reading about them.’

Bruce sighed.

‘I don’t think a book ought to be sad,’ said Nancibel, ‘unless it’s a great classical book, like
Wuthering
Heights
.’

‘Oh! You’ve read
Wuthering
Heights.
Did you like it?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t think it was the right part for Merle Oberon. Running about with bare feet, well she was hobbling most of the time. You could see she wasn’t used to it.’

‘Oh … you mean the film.’

‘Yes. The picture. That was a classic. Like
Pride
and
Prejudice.
Those Bronty sisters were classical writers.’

‘Seeing the picture isn’t the same as reading the book.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s the same story, isn’t it? But what I mean is if you’re a classical writer it’s all right; you can get people so interested they don’t mind its being sad.’

‘And I’m not a classical writer?’ suggested Bruce.

‘You can’t be till you’re dead,’ said Nancibel.

‘The Brontês happened to be alive when they wrote their books. They didn’t wait till they were dead.’

‘Oh. I see what you mean. Well … it’ll just
depend
on if you can get people interested, won’t it?’

‘And it doesn’t interest you?’

‘Not the way you tell it. Look … this is my home. Good night, Bruce.’

‘Good night, Nancibel.’

She ran up a path and opened a cottage door. For a moment he saw her framed in an oblong of light and got a glimpse of a family within, sitting round a table with tea cups. Faces turned to greet her. Then the door shut.

He turned and strolled back to the town. Nancibel was a stupid, almost an illiterate girl. Nancibel was unique; the most delightful girl he had ever met.
Hang
man’s
Boy
was tripe. He would burn it. He was a great classical writer, and he might rank with ‘the Bronty sisters’ if only he could find something to write about. Soon, very soon, he would find something. The world was all before him. He must see her again.

He was cast down and uplifted; humble yet full of a tonic exhilaration. He knew that he had done nothing so far, but he had never been more sure that he was Somebody. He walked on air until the lane brought him within sight of the town again. Down on the marine parade the band was still playing.

His spirits fell to zero. He remembered who he was and what he was.

Miss Ellis heard footsteps coming along the passage and hastily put Mr. Paley’s diary back where she had found it. She did not want, in any case, to read much more of it. Diaries worth reading were seldom, in her experience, left lying about and Mr. Paley’s was no
exception
to this general rule.

Nancibel came in. Mrs. Siddal had ultimately
capitulated
to Miss Ellis’s argument that it takes two to make a bed, and had agreed that Nancibel should help with this part of the upstairs work before starting on the
washing-up
. But she was adamant about the slops.

‘You wouldn’t think,’ said Miss Ellis, ‘that these two had had a child, would you?’

‘I don’t know why not!’ said Nancibel, tugging at the heavy double mattress.

‘Well, they did. But it died.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh … I know a good bit about them.’

Nancibel left off wrestling with the mattress and stood at the side of the bed looking at Miss Ellis. It was the same in all the rooms. She did the work while the
housekeeper
talked. But she had had enough of it.

‘It was quite a tragedy,’ continued Miss Ellis. ‘Her people were wealthy and he was quite poor, and they didn’t want her to marry him. So she made a runaway match. But he couldn’t get over it that they didn’t think him good enough. Couldn’t forgive the scornful things they’d said. He made her cut herself off
completely
; wouldn’t let her write or anything.

Well, they had an awful time. Poor as rats. And she wasn’t used to that, of course. Go on, can’t you? What are you waiting for?’

‘I’m ready when you are, Miss Ellis.’

Miss Ellis laid reluctant hold on her side of the mattress and gave it a mild tug, complaining:

‘She’s no right to have these heavy things. If I get ruptured I shall sue her for compensation. Let’s leave it, shall we? It’s Sunday. Well … they had this little girl and she got ill. T.B. And they hadn’t the cash for a sanatorium, and he wouldn’t let her write to her people. And she said if the child died she’d never forgive him. And the child did die and she never has.’

‘In her shoes,’ said Nancibel, picking up a sheet, ‘I’d have written all the same. Yes, I would. And got the money and carted the kid off to a sanatorium, when his back was turned, and refused to tell him where it was. Oh, I’d have been deedy, in her shoes.’

‘She isn’t the sort that sticks up for themselves. Not that he doesn’t blame himself. He does. He knows it’s his fault that child isn’t alive to-day. And he’s got plenty of money now too. He began to get on after that, and got an Art Gallery or something to build.’

‘Poor things,’ said Nancibel. ‘No wonder they look so sad.’

Voices in the garden below drew Miss Ellis to the window. Nancibel, determined to make no more beds alone, stood still with the sheet in her hand.

‘Do for goodness’ sake come and look,’ exclaimed Miss Ellis. ‘What on earth will those children be up to next?’

Nancibel joined her in time to see the little Coves undergoing the first of seven tests imposed by the rules of the Noble Covenant of Spartans. They were walking blindfold along a stone parapet at the end of the terrace, where the rocks fell steeply away to the beach. The Giffords ran along the path beside them, shouting
exhortations
:

‘Go on! Go on! You’re nearly half way! We’ll tell you when you’re there. Don’t stop. You’re
disqualified
if you stop.’

In single file they staggered and wavered, their arms stretched out, their bare feet clinging to the rough stone. But they never stopped until they reached the end of the
parapet
and Hebe pulled them down, one after another, to safety.

‘It’s that Hebe! She put them up to it,’ cried Miss Ellis. ‘If ever a child needed her bottom smacking, she’s one. But come along; come along, Nancibel! Mrs Siddal doesn’t pay you to stand gaping out of the window. No wonder the beds take such a long time!’

Pendizack Church Town stands in the bare upland fields on the top of the cliff. It consists of seven cottages, a post office, and a public house, crouching in a fuzz of trees beneath an enormous church—the Church of St. Sody, who came long ago out of Ireland, in a stone boat, with ten thousand other saints.

For the best part of the year the services are poorly attended, for most of the cottagers go to Chapel and the better-off parishioners dislike the Anglo-Catholicism of Father Bott. But in the summer season the beauty of the cliff walk, the fame of the choir, and rumours of fantastic ritual, bring a trickle of visitors from Porthmerryn. Mass at St. Sody’s is attended by people from the Marine Parade Hotel who do not generally go to church at all.

Bruce, however, did not climb that steep hill for love of Plain Song, or for the sake of coastal scenery, or to see a man who was said to bring a donkey into the chancel on Palm Sunday. He went because he was told to do so. His mistress had a fancy to see the place and had ordered him to escort her. So he was waiting, rather sulkily, in the hotel lounge, conscious of critical glances from the other residents.

Presently she appeared at the top of the stairs. The cruel light of the morning sun, blazing down upon her from the staircase window, so emphasized her age, her bulk and her dowdiness that he felt considerably reassured. None but the nastiest mind, he thought, could suppose
him to be more than a secretary-chauffeur to so ripe an employer.

‘Don’t you have to wear a hat?’ he asked, as they went out of the hotel.

‘My God!’ said Mrs. Lechene. ‘I hope not! D’you think they’ll throw me out of church? I haven’t got a hat.’

She couldn’t get a hat if she tried, thought Bruce. No hat ever made would go on that head. I ought to be thankful her hair is up and not down.

For Anna Lechene was very proud of her hair which was true gold, very thick, quite straight, and hung to her knees. She missed no occasion for letting it so hang. But when obliged to put it up she braided it in thick cables and wound it round her head. The effect was striking though top-heavy.

‘At least I’m not wearing slacks,’ she said. ‘I’ve put on a dress, haven’t I?’

Yes, but what a dress! All right for a kid of thirteen. Nobody over twenty ought to wear these dirndls. Oh, all right! I know all the grandmas do in Macedonia or wherever it is you got it from. But this isn’t Macedonia.

He stared venomously at Anna’s broad back as he followed her along Fore Street. He was a changeable young man. Not long ago he had admired Anna’s golden head and peasant embroideries. But now he was glad when he had got her out of the crowded street on to a flight of steps which led up the hill.

‘Where is this church we’re going to?’ he asked.

‘It’s on the cliffs, half way to Pendizack. You must have seen the tower.’

‘Oh? Oh yes…. I have.’

His spirits rose. For that tower was quite near
Nancibel’s
cottage. He had noticed it last night, standing up against the evening sky. He might see her again. She might be in church.

Mrs. Lechene, panting slightly for the steps were steep, was talking about Father Bott. She had heard that he was a remarkable man.

‘A celibate,’ she added meditatively.

Lucky So-and-so, thought Bruce, and made vague noises of assent while Anna speculated upon the causes and effects of celibacy in Father Bott.

At the top of the hill they passed an ugly little building called Bethesda whence the first hymn of the morning already resounded:

And he reflected that he ought to be grateful to Anna for not taking him there, unaware that Nancibel was inside it, with all her family. She got time off from Pendizack on Sunday mornings to go to Chapel. But he still hoped to find her among the flock at St. Sody’s, and pressed on towards that tall square tower.

What will she think, he pondered, as the great pure curve of the sea came once more into view. What will she think about me and Anna? Nothing. Why should she think anything? If I meet her again, and she asks me, I shall tell her: That’s Mrs. Lechene. My boss. She’s a writer. A very well-known writer. No. You wouldn’t care for her books. She’s been very kind to me. She got a publisher to take my novel. She’s very kind to young writers. Yes, I know she looks peculiar. So do most lady writers. If you’d met as many of them as I have, Nancibel, you wouldn’t think this one looks so queer. Yes,
Mrs.
Lechene. No … well … I
believe
she’s divorced him. I type her novels and drive her car. Secretary-chauffeur.

‘Pretty up here,’ he said craftily. ‘I think I’ll take a stroll round after church and look at the cliffs.’

Anna turned and said sharply:

‘I
don’t
think so. After church you’ll get back to the hotel and type out those three chapters of the B.B. I can’t think why you didn’t get them done last night.’

The B.B. was
The
Bleeding
Bush,
a novel based on the life of Emily Brontë upon which Anna was engaged.

‘I’m out of carbons,’ said Bruce.

‘My God! You’re always out of carbons. I never knew such a boy. Get some more.’

‘I can’t on Sunday. Shops shut.’

A full peal of bells rang out from the tower, over the fields and over the flat blue floor of the sea. In the distance a long procession of people was coming by a narrow path through a cornfield. Strung out, in single file, it seemed endless. Gerry Siddal led it and after him came Duff, Robin, Canon Wraxton, Evangeline Wraxton, Mrs. Cove, Maud, Beatrix, Blanche, Michael, Luke, Hebe, Sir Henry Gifford, Caroline, a considerable gap, Mr. Paley, Mrs. Paley.

‘Could it be a Butlin’s Camp?’ speculated Bruce.

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘There’s a little hotel down there in the cove. I hear it’s most attractive and comfortable. I was thinking of going there when we leave the Marine Parade. But I’m not sure I like the look of the inmates, if these are they.’

‘Pretty little girl,’ said Bruce.

She thought he meant Evangeline Wraxton, and
exclaimed
:

‘What? That skeleton in tweeds?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The little kid in green. Talking to her father.’

‘Oh,’ said Anna, slightly mollified. ‘You mean Miss Bobby Sox?’

She scrutinized Hebe who was skipping along and
turning
to laugh at Sir Henry, and added: