The Oracles (19 page)

The meek noise of good husbands cutting the grass floated into the house and gratified Christina’s ears as she bustled about putting four children to bed. In Joe’s little room, which looked on to the front garden, it was particularly loud. Joe, in all the glory of his new slumber wear, was finishing a glass of milk. Christina took the glass from him and tucked him up for the night.

Clankety
–
clankety
–
burra
–
wurra
–
wurra
.
…

‘Why doesn’t Uncle Dickie have a sort of … sort of … sort of thing he sits on to do that?’

‘Because the lawn is so little.’

‘There was one in our field. It went round and round and round, and Mr. Hackett sat on it, makin’, makin’ hay. We sawn him when we were in our tree. Weren’t it sad about our tree?’

‘Very sad. You must have missed it.’

‘Our ole chair did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Killed our poor tree. The ole chair what we used to climb on. So the Traitor took it away.’

‘Who’s the Traitor?’

‘Marfa. She took it away in her car, din’t she? Did you know what our chair were called?’

‘No. I didn’t know it had a name.’

‘Nor din’t I till she told me. It’s called Apollo.’

‘Apollo? Your chair? Joe! What do you mean?’

Burra-wurra-wurra-Brck!

‘Couldn’t Uncle Dickie get a very, very tiny small sort of thing to sit on?’

‘I don’t think they make them as small as that. Why did Martha Rawson take your chair?’

‘What for don’t they make them so small?’

‘I don’t know. But when did she take the chair? Where was it? In the field?’

‘Oh no. It were in the shed. We shut it up in prison. Do you think Bobbins would like a nice lickle snail if I catch one for him tomorrow?’

‘Joe! Do try to tell me about the chair. I want so much to know what happened to it.’

Joe wriggled impatiently.

‘I can’t bemember,’ he protested.

‘Try to. Try to tell me all you remember and I’ll … give you a chocolate biscuit.’

This bribe was effective. Joe frowned and then said:

‘We were … we were … we were in the field, and we sawn it, we sawn it, hoppin’ about and shootin’ at us, and pretendin’ to be an Arfitax. So we, we, we put it in the shed and we rescued a poor Form what was in the shed, and we put the naughty ole chair in the shed, and then, and then Marfa, Marfa came and took it away.’

‘That same day?’

‘No. Another day. I … I … I were on guard. So I challenged her and she said, she said it were quite all right. She, she, she wanted to keep it quite safe. And she told me its name. Can I have a biscuit now?’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘No-o-o! She said it were very wonderful. She said Conrad made it.’

‘What day was it?’

‘A long time ago. A year ago?’ suggested Joe.

There was no more to be got out of him. Christina gave him the promised biscuit and went into the girls’ room. Serafina had protested against so early a bedtime but had been packed off with the others because her
company
at the supper table would have been a nuisance.

‘If you don’t want to go to sleep just yet,’ said Christina, sitting on the bed, ‘I’ll bring you a nice book. You can read until Uncle Dickie and I have finished supper, and then I’ll come and tuck you up. What sort of book would you like?’

‘Any book!’ declared Serafina fervently. ‘I haven’t had a book to read for a long time.’

‘I’ll bring you one of the books I had when I was a little girl. Your books were all lost when your poor tree was killed, I suppose?’

There was no doubt about it; both the children froze at the reference.

‘What happened,’ asked Christina carelessly, ‘to that old chair you used to climb up on?’

This question did not seem to disturb them. They looked vague, and said that they did not know.

‘I forgot about it,’ said Serafina.

‘Wasn’t it there when you found your tree was dead?’

‘No. It was gone by then.’

‘Poor chair!’ mourned Dinah.

‘Was there nothing in the field, then, besides the tree?’

Now they were really scared. They looked at her, looked at one another, and looked at her again.

‘No,’ said Serafina at last.

Christina realised that nothing short of the rack would produce any other reply. She let it go. She was sure that she could, in time, get it all out of them.

Down on the path below there was a rattling and a clatter. Dickie was taking the mower back to the
toolshed
.

‘Hear that?’ said Christina. ‘That’s our mower, going to be locked in our shed. You had a shed, didn’t you? What did you keep in it?’

Again she was confronted by that frozen stare.

‘I don’t know,’ said Serafina.

‘I don’t know,’ said Dinah.

‘I’ll get the book.’

Plain as a pikestaff, thought Christina, going
downstairs
. She was almost sure that she knew exactly what had happened, although there were certain details which she must confirm. It must have been on the Sunday, the day after the tree was struck. The chair must have been so much twisted that they did not recognise it; only Joe seemed to have done so. They had put it into the shed, where that fool Martha had found it. All the muddle at the party had been because the Apollo was supposed to be in the shed. So now …

So now there would be no more nonsense about
progressive
schools. Oh no! If Martha started pushing people about she would hear something which would make her jump. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else
yet
, but I thought perhaps you ought to know. Oh no, not at all. I’ve seen a lot of modern statues which looked like thunderstruck garden chairs. I don’t wonder at anybody making a mistake about it. What I’d do, in your shoes, I’d quietly take it away and bury it
somewhere
. Nobody need know. And I’m so glad you think I’d better keep the children. I thought you would. Of course I won’t say anything. Well, you won’t be saying quite so much after this, will you? Not quite so much about knowing better than the masses. I dare say I’ll
tell my husband, someday, but you can be sure he’ll hold his tongue. No, I can’t promise not to mention it to him, because he thinks I can’t give him a surprise. But not yet awhile. Not till I’ve settled with you, Mrs. Rawson. If I told him now, he might warn you.

Dickie had locked up the mower and was watering the tomato plants. There was the clank of the can and the drumming roar of water from the tap outside the kitchen door. Then silence when he turned the tap off. His footsteps went away down the back garden to the vegetable beds. He was whistling a sad old song:

This was a moment which she was to remember for the rest of her life; how she stood in the kitchen and heard Dickie’s footsteps going away down the path. He went and never came back, although it was long before she could believe it. The lover, the young husband who had had her maidenhead, who had brought her to this house, who had given her Bobbins, with whom she had
squabbled
and laughed, went away for ever down the path that evening.

Even at the time a sudden foreboding seized her as she hunted among her books. Such a silly old song, she thought impatiently. Why should it be called
Edward
!
Edward!
Nothing about Edward in it from beginning to end. Yet it always made her sad when Dickie put the record on. It was the tune. Those old tunes had
something
, that was why they lasted. Two men fought, they never knew why, just about a poor
little
briary
bush
! And one killed the other and he had to go away in a ship over sea. And she asked him when he would come home, and
he said never!
That
will
never
be
…
be
…
be
.…
That
will
never
be!

I’ll hide that record one of these days, thought Christina. It’s too sad. There are enough sad things in real life, I say, without making yourself miserable over the gramophone.

‘
C
A MARCHE
!
’ said Martha, as she looked through her morning’s letters. ‘The Brixcombe school has climbed down. They will take the little Swanns at reduced terms. I thought they would,
considering
all the pupils I’ve sent them.’

‘Good,’ said Don.

He was reading the newspaper and answering Martha, an accomplishment which he had mastered pretty well. There was no need to listen to her with close attention. She made four kinds of noise. The first denoted pleasure, the second annoyance, the third was informative, and the fourth asked a question. He rang the changes on four answers.

‘I must let Mr. Pattison know. I shall avoid further dealings with his wife after her abominable rudeness to me over the telephone.’

‘A nuisance!’

‘I’m sure he wants to get rid of them, poor man. He’s had them a fortnight. I shall simply ask him to bring them all here on Wednesday morning, and then I’ll drive them over to Brixcombe. He and his wife can fight it out.’

‘Good.’

There was a short silence while she opened another letter.

‘Nigel Meadowes,’ she said. ‘Proofs for his article on the Apollo, for Friday’s
Gazette
. He wants me to look them over.’

‘Good.’

‘By Friday everyone will have seen it. Yesterday I don’t count because Monday is washing-day for most of them. Hardly anybody goes to the Pavilion on a Monday.’

‘Really?’

‘You could exhibit the Crown Jewels in the Pavilion vestibule on a Monday and nobody would be much the wiser.’

‘A nuisance.’

‘I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Beccles told me over the telephone that he didn’t think anybody had noticed it much. But, did I tell you, Don? Sir Gregory happened to come in. You can imagine what his reaction was.’

‘A nuisance.’

‘Well, I’m not so sure that it was. Controversy is often very stimulating. I’m glad he saw it.’

‘Good.’

‘He went off, so Mr. Beccles said, declaring that it was an outrage and threatening to have it removed. How could he have it removed?’

‘What do
you
think?’

‘Of course he couldn’t. Sir Gregory has no say at all in what happens at the Pavilion. But he went off to bully the Mayor about it. He won’t get much change out of Mr. Dale. He actually called it obscene.’

‘Good.’

‘Well … yes … I agree with you. In a way we couldn’t have a better antagonist than Sir Gregory. He’s such a bully and so unpopular. If he says it ought to be taken away a great many people will automatically feel that it ought not. Yes! I want controversy of that sort.’

‘Good.’

‘Mr. Dale is surprisingly favourable. Of course his taste is non-existent, but he likes to think he is a live
wire—progressive. He likes anything that attracts
attention
to the town. Attention means custom. I think a good many of the tradesmen may take that view. They feel they are putting East Head on the map. A
succès
de
scandale,
perhaps, but a
succès.
’

Martha opened a third letter, saying:

‘Alan Wetherby.’

‘Really?’

The flow of comment ceased. There was such a long silence that Don began to be aware of something unusual. He looked over the top of his newspaper.

She was staring at her letter with a blanched face and a stupefied expression. It seemed to be quite a long letter; there were several sheets covered in Wetherby’s minute, angular handwriting.

‘What does Alan say?’

‘He … he …’

She gave him a strange, despairing look.

‘Martha! Are you all right? Are you quite well?’

‘No.…’

She picked the letter up and put it down again.

‘No,’ she repeated faintly. ‘I … I don’t feel very well. I think I’ll go upstairs … and lie down for a little.…’

‘Has Alan … is he being tiresome about something?’

‘Oh no. No! It’s just that I don’t feel well. I’ll be quite all right by and by. I’ll just lie down quietly for a little.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘No. Nothing. It will pass off. Just a little faint, that’s all. It’s nothing.’

‘You look ghastly. I believe I ought to send for Dr. Browning.’

‘Oh no. Please don’t. I shall be all right.’

She picked up the sheets of her letter and went upstairs to her room, waving him away when he tried to come with her. For nearly an hour she lay upon her bed in the sleepy lassitude which succeeds a tremendous shock. Not immediately could she bring herself to
reread
Wetherby’s dreadful letter. But a moment came when she had to do so.

This second reading brought on a violent spasm of nausea. For the greater part of the morning her physical discomfort was so great as to leave her little leisure for reflection. She had an excellent constitution and did not know how to be ill. But these unpleasant sensations had one merit; they induced a salutary blankness of mind. She could not, she would not, she must not,
understand
what had upset her so much. At one point she burnt the letter without reading it again.

There was an aspect of this calamity which she could never have understood, however often she read the letter. Wetherby’s spite and malice would always have been incomprehensible to her. She might be a pretentious fool, conceited, a bully and an egotist, but she was not cruel and had never in her life taken pleasure in other people’s misfortunes. She had never cold-bloodedly inflicted pain, or felt any temptation to do so. In this respect she was more innocent than many of her betters.

Don came up at lunchtime and again suggested calling the doctor, for he was alarmed by her looks. When she refused all medical advice he brought her a stiff tot of brandy.

This really did her a little good. He had left the bottle, and she took a second tot. After that a few ideas began to float through her mind. They were disconnected and therefore endurable.

One was in no way responsible for Conrad Swann or for anything that he might have done. One had been
very kind to him, but one could not be regarded as his representative. No!

One had arranged this exhibition with the trustees of the Pavilion. That was all.

Dr. Browning was stupid and behind the times. Really she must be quite ill. A London doctor would be better. Get away, to London.

Who could be described as Conrad’s representative? Who would naturally act for him? His solicitor? Had he one? Mr. Pattison? He saw to that business when the truck knocked down the wall.
Mr.
Pattison!
He had the children.

Since she felt so ill, something should be done about it at once. There was no point at all in delay. Delay might even be dangerous. A London doctor ought to be consulted at once.

What arrangements Conrad might have made with Mr. Pattison one didn’t know. One hadn’t been told. Mr. Pattison was looking after the children; that was evidence that he acknowledged some kind of
responsibility
. He had been told about the exhibition, in the boathouse, and he had raised no objection.

Don had looked so worried. It was not fair to worry him. There was no reason why they should not go up to London tomorrow, by the first train.

Perhaps a London doctor might say that she had been doing too much. Travel … a long cruise … he might
suggest something like that. There was nothing to keep her in East Head. If necessary, she could leave it for a very long time. Don had never liked it. He would be happier elsewhere.

One had done one’s best, but it was an unrewarding place. One’s efforts had not been appreciated. These people would really, so it seemed, prefer to be left to their own devices. If they got themselves into some ridiculous scrape, one had better not be concerned in it. One need never really have to know about it. One could be on the high seas.…

Annette! Ahmed! Board wages! Packing!

There were a million things to be done immediately, if one was to get away by an early train tomorrow morning. This brandy was wonderful. It had cured one, for the time being.

She found herself upon her feet again, restored to health and able to think connectedly. She could even address herself to an unpleasant task, which she must undertake before plunging into more welcome activities. By some disclaimer of responsibility she had better make her whole attitude about … about the
incomprehensible
… perfectly clear. She must write a letter to Mr. Pattison.

She sat down to it at once. The ease with which it flowed from her pen surprised her. Somebody might almost have been dictating it to her.