The Great Lover Page 16

  ‘The Poor Law has remained untouched for more than eighty years! The system of the Workhouse is an abomination in a civilised society such as ours! Lumping the poor, the sick, the aged and the crippled together and blaming them equally for their ills is outmoded and–and–why, it is ridiculous!’

  Ha–my strongest sentiments yet. There does not appear to be much disagreement, however. The old gent puffs at his pipe and the boy draws on a non-existent beard with his fingers. Which makes it rather a task to summon up the necessary passion. Where is the argument I’d been anticipating? Where the philosophical objections–the great debate about the fibre of the working man being weakened if he has recourse to the state the moment he breaks his leg? Where is the concern about the moral character of the poor if we offer them greater aid in times of hardship?

  After a few more rousing phrases, the old gent claps his hands together noisily and the boy with the bicycle begins to wheel it away.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen!’ I shout, stepping down from my box. ‘Thank you for your concern, your outrage–nay, your devotion to the cause of reforming the Poor Law. Do, please, take a leaflet.’

  The old man and the young one shuffle away without a word. The leaflets remain on the grass.

  ‘The average British Working Man is a rather lacklustre fellow, wouldn’t you say, Dudders?’

  We chuckle as we set up camp on the village green and, at top speed, make a small fire and fill a pan with water from the village tap to prepare a late breakfast of boiled eggs. Dudley has, in fact, become rather skilled at these. But it’s only a matter of time before the kindly village policeman arrives to shoo us along.

  Only twelve more days of this and as many places. The tour is not a success. It is hard to say which of us is the most ill at ease with the folk whose lives we hope to ameliorate. I am the better speaker. Dudley is the better egg-boiler. That is all.

  We cannot admit this to each other. We wriggle into our sleeping-bags at night with cheering remarks, such as ‘Well, that’s another five fellows who know more than they did a day ago!’ and stirring discussions about Progress and other Marvellous Things. I know that Dudley falls asleep thinking of his German love, Anne-Marie. And that we are both counting the days until the camp at Buckler’s Hard (ha!) with Noel and other girls, where I will be free as the wind, and Dudley as a monsoon. There I might even accomplish a further sighting of Noel’s water-nymph self so that I might make a fair and accurate comparison with my exquisite, my tender new shoot Nellie.

  One night I dream of my days at Rugby before Dick died. I was lying out under a full moon. It was of two people–Charles Sayle and Kenny Cott (the latter in his eighteenth year, perhaps, or even younger) and…Charles got at it with Kenny by pretending he’d lost a Penwiper, and making out Kenny (‘naughty boy!’) had taken it, and searching his pockets–his trouser pockets–for it. Kenny accepted it, giggling. Excitement rose, and finally they left the room together. There were other details. I expect it all happened, really, some time.

  In between our fine speeches (mine infinitely better than those of poor old Dudders, who stumbles, and drops his glasses, whereas I merely blush, which makes me appear passionate), I compose–mentally–my September talk to the New Bilton Adult School about Shakespeare. ‘This glutton, drunkard, poacher, agnostic, adulterer and Sodomite was England’s greatest poet.’ I like telling the story of Shakespeare’s love affairs. It shocks the Puritans, who want it hushed up. And it shocks the pro-Sodomites, who want to continue in a hazy pinkish belief that all great men were Sodomites…

  The truth is that some great men are Sodomites and womanisers. Perhaps when my career as a womaniser has begun in earnest, that will be the category to which I belong.

  The truth is, sex is fundamentally filthy.

  How glorious that my darling girls know better than to give in to my base desires and prefer to let the river cool my ardour.

  Or cool me harder, as the naughty James would say.

  When Rupert returns from his lecture tour and his camping trip he must stay at the Old Vicarage, Mrs Stevenson says. She won’t have him in the house a moment longer.

  I don’t dare to protest. I feel a broad misery as she says it that I struggle to disguise with sweeping. I have heard–Mrs Stevenson has heard–that the lecture tour was not all Rupert hoped for and he is compensating by staying longer with his friends at camp. ‘Silly boy,’ is all she says on that matter. She has much to say about his other misdemeanours.

  Mrs Stevenson says it is the final straw. His bare feet, his friends, his strange hours and stranger requests–it’s all been too much. What is the final straw? I want to ask, but she doesn’t say. I tremble. Is it possible someone saw us at Byron’s Pool? On our way back we stopped in the little boat-shed to dry ourselves with the towels that Rupert had brought, and he showed me the saucy drawings on the walls and kissed me and I flared hot and then cold and felt swamped with confusion, and then he pushed me lightly and said that we should leave separately so that no one would see us. I ran, after I left him, my body aching with hurt but my blood singing from the cold water; in my mind scuttled all the things I didn’t dare ask him. I ran back to my room, praying that Mrs Stevenson would believe my story about washing my hair.

  Now she says, ‘There’s been a mix-up with his room,’ as if that would answer matters. Mrs Stevenson rolls her eyes to the ceiling and wipes her hands firmly on her apron in a look that says, ‘We’re well rid of him.’

  And so, suddenly, his room is filled with another man, a tall, stooped man, who does not admit me when he is bathing or shaving. It’s for the best. It’s surely for the best. If only I believed it was for the best! That day at Byron’s Pool, our conversations, the way he looked at me–his kiss: what sense can I make of it all? I know I wasn’t mistaken about the boy Denham in his room. I know that whatever sport he makes of me, it can only ever be that–cruelty and sport.

  But he doesn’t seem cruel when he smiles, or when he kisses me, or when the early-morning light grazes the blades of his shoulders.

  I put my face in my hands, remembering, and chide myself for such deep, deep foolishness, and hide myself in the pantry to weep. A scuffle outside tells me that Lottie is in the scullery so I wipe my face on my apron and rearrange my hair.

  ‘He’s back! He’s staying at the Old Vicarage!’

  ‘Who? Who on earth do you mean, Lottie?’

  ‘Why, Rupert, of course. And–imagine! He proposed while he was away! To that schoolgirl one, the one with the plaits. Noel Olivier.’

  I sit down on the pantry floor.

  ‘Nell? Nell, what is it? Are you sick?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m fine. I just–I—’ I feel the touch of cool jars behind my neck. Nausea rising up to my throat and subsiding.

  ‘Nell, Nell, let me fetch Ma—’

  ‘No!’ I say fiercely. ‘I’m fine–I’ll be fine. Leave me alone, Lottie, there’s a good girl. I’ll be fine in five minutes.’

  She backs away. I see from her face, her glances at the kitchen door, that she wants to tell someone and that she won’t be able to keep quiet so, with an effort, I pull myself together, compose my face and stand up. ‘It’s that time of the month is all. Let me get some air in the garden for five minutes. Go fetch me a glass of water, Lotts, there’s a girl.’

  Glad of the errand, she finally leaves me. I step out into the garden and breathe hungrily. My stomach wrenches and I taste bile in my mouth.

  I will go to the Old Vicarage to inspect the bees, I decide. See for myself.

  I have moved out from the delightful Orchard and my Arcadian adventure there with the bee-keeper’s daughter is over, perhaps for ever. I shall no longer sniff the lilac in bloom beneath my little room as I wake and pump ship to the sound of Little Nell sweeping the stairs, that mouthwatering rump swaying from side to side. Or, rather, I have moved next door to the Old Vicarage. The maid has accepted my kiss with a warm mouth. I was afraid to go further, and my heterosexual virgi
nity remains filthily intact.

  The Neeves–Henry and Florence and their son, Cyril, who models himself on me–are more tolerant of my bare feet and thousands of visitors. For this tolerance I will forfeit Mrs Stevenson’s apple pies and all-round superior cooking. And, in fact, I will escape the shame that Mrs Stevenson’s lecture produced, and I could never thereafter shake off on bumping into her in the scullery or on the lawn.

  There is the compensation of the Old Vicarage garden: the cement sundial in the shape of a lectern, the ghosts of vicars past, the proximity to the riverbank and a creepy, ramshackle lushness, which, I believe, will be conducive to poetry. Or to merry-making.

  Nellie and her subtle, discreet ministering will be the greatest loss. It is difficult to admit to myself how great a loss. I am puzzled by my own tendency to dwell on the matter and the melancholy thoughts it has produced. She is only next door, I remind myself. But it is only when I have concocted A Plan for redeeming the situation that my mood lifts, and I cannot wait to convey it to Nell.

  Here is the girl herself, suddenly, striding towards me with great purpose.

  ‘Nell! Nell–where are you going so fast? Slow down, I have something to ask you.’

  ‘I was coming to see you, in fact, sir–I mean, Rupert. I–had heard you were back.’

  ‘Yes, and here I am. My new home. You heard, I suppose, that Mrs Stevenson was not entirely happy with my shenanigans.’

  Nell looks as if she is about to say something, but her eyes suddenly widen and I realise that someone has stepped outside to the garden and must be standing behind me.

  Dear Noel. Noel is staying here.

  Clumsily, I grasp at once for my plan, trying to speak as if this is what we had been discussing. ‘So, Miss Golightly, if you would be so kind as to continue to do my washing, bed linen, that sort of thing…I don’t feel able to further burden Florence–Mrs Neeve, kind as she is…’ And, I whisper this part, ‘I have a horror of the multitudinous creeping creatures that live in the Old Vicarage–no amount of Keating’s insect powder will vanquish them.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘And would an extra two shillings a week be sufficient? Would you make sure Mrs Stevenson is happy with that–with using her hot water and such? You can pick it up when you come to the Old Vicarage to tend your bees…’

  Nell’s face is a picture. It seems to glow with anger, or self-righteousness, or something. Noel is striding towards us, her boyish frame bounding across the grass. There is no time to say anything more, and I’m rather startled when Nell makes a furious turn on her heel and stalks off.

  ‘Three shillings, if you prefer!’ I call after her. ‘I appreciate the marvellous way you have with the Jay’s woollen underwear!’ She hurries towards the hives. I am well aware that my laundry request is not the true source of her annoyance.

  I hear Rupert’s voice first, reciting his lines from the play to a fat and snuffling Mr Pudsey Dawson in the garden. On seeing me he calls out, and I stride over. Something about the washing. I cannot really take in what he is saying. Because there, behind him, is the girl. The one from the silver photo-frame. How can I ask him now?

  And so I murmur some assent to his request, and the sum of money registers with me in some distant part of my brain, and even his little joke registers: that he appreciates the way I never allow his Jay’s woollen underwear to shrink. My fists curl and uncurl under my apron; and I walk towards the hives, and set myself to work. The bees will know at once how upset I am. So I take several long, deep breaths and push my hands down into my pockets, and though tears prickle under my eyelids, I don’t allow them to spill over. After a moment, I have control of myself once more.

  I’m lifting out the honey frames, filling Mr Neeve’s old wheelbarrow with them, and suddenly become aware of someone watching me. At first I think Rupert has returned. I refuse to turn my head.

  Then I realise it is her, the girl. She stands at some distance, no doubt frightened by the humming of the bees swelling around us, like the sound when a bottle of fizzy lemonade is opened. Perhaps she is impressed–like Rupert and Mr Raverat–that I wear no veil (although I am wearing Father’s gloves, my arms and wrists being covered in red welts from various oven burns). I brush the creeping bees clinging to my skirt with my stick of tied feathers, trying to see as much as I can of this girl without turning my head. From the corner of my eye I see that she–Noel–is wearing an olive green headscarf over plaits, in a funny sort of knotted style, and I feel, rather than see, that she is staring at me in the same way that I would like to examine her. I am forced to continue as if unaware of her.

  So, he has proposed to you, has he?

  She has hair the colour of a mule’s. Face somewhat square. Overall: something serious, intent. Very quiet. Her frame like that of a boy. Bosoms–none to speak of. Oh, yes, for a man who likes boys, she fits the bill all right, I think bitterly, then chide myself. Within the range of persons he is allowed to fall in love with, this Noel Olivier, much too firm and steely for his mother, would certainly be a reasonable choice.

  She continues to stare, and again the thought of a mule comes to me. It’s like being stared at by a stubborn grey donkey. She moves then, and I gloomily trundle the frames back to the kitchen at the Orchard, where Betty and Lottie help with the spinning, with Lottie ‘testing’ the honey every five minutes. This is a mixed-flower crop, with a different flavour from the dense sweetness of the high-summer crop. The kitchen soon rolls with the sound of the spinner as the girls take it in turns with the handle, and I hold the jars under the tap to catch the amber bulb of liquid, and try with all my might to put Noel Olivier out of my mind.

  And that’s when it happens again. Father. The kitchen is crammed with the syrupy smell of deep purple heather, and I am thinking of that girl, Noel Olivier, staring so fiercely at me; and of Rupert, naked in Byron’s Pool; and I’m not thinking of Father but only watching the honey, green and flecked as pond-water, pouring from the tap, when things suddenly stop, and I’m not there at all, but outside the window, looking in at the scene, at the rattling spinner on the table with the frames revolving in it and the noise and the sweat on the girls’ arms and faces, at the white-muslin circles laid out next to the empty jars; and I feel certain that Father is beside me, white as smoke in his ghostly form, thin and fading, but this time, unlike the last, he is tugging at my arm, he is trying to speak.

  The next minute things go on again as normal and I know then there is bad news in Prickwillow. When the last honey jar is sealed, I take off my apron and beg leave of Mrs Stevenson to go home at once.

  It’s late afternoon by the time Tommy fetches me to Prickwillow and by then my stomach has turned to stone with the worry, with the knowledge that something is not right. It must be Lily, of course. Here I have been, stupidly dwelling on Rupert and the daft comings and goings of his heart, and my poor dear Lily’s time is drawing near. There’s nothing ghostly or magical, really, about my feelings; plain common sense would tell you that a girl of fifteen with her firstborn is never going to have a bed of roses.

  Tommy turns the horse for Ely after he has dropped me at the drove, allowing me to walk the last fifteen minutes alone. He can tell from my mood not to try it on with me, so he tells me that after he has delivered the meat he can call back for me at five, but I shake my head–I want at least to stay the night.

  I find Lily in the front room where someone, Sam maybe, has rigged up a space, with a curtain attached to the wall by two screws, and Lily lying on her side. Mrs Gotobed is with her, her fat rear greeting me from behind the curtain, and the others are outside, in the meadows down to the river, where she has sent them to catch rabbits and stay out of the way.

  When I pull back the curtain the smell that only a woman knows reaches me. Mrs Gotobed is muttering her prayers–‘I pray thee Lord her soul to keep’–as she tries to sweep Lily’s damp hair from her forehead. For one horrible, breath-stopping moment, I think my sister is dead. Then Mrs Gotobed turns to
me with her strange, flattened face, and says, without looking up, ‘She’s small, Nellie. The baby’s aside, and feet first too. Fetch me that brandy and tell the littlies not to come back till they’ve at least two rabbits apiece.’

  I pass Sam outside on my way to fetch the brandy, kept hidden at the water’s edge under a large stone so that he won’t drink it. He sees me and lifts one eyebrow but carries on with his smoking and stripping the willow for an eel-grigg he is making, asking me mildly as I pass where his tea is, so I put the kettle on and set to making him some and taking it out to him, since there’s not much else I can do to help.

  Lily’s damp hair is spread out like a giant golden spider on the pillow. Her head is as red as a bright poppy, so much redder than her pale swollen body in the sticky nightdress. She is not looking at me, but staring down at the pillow. I am filled with a longing to call her, to bring her back to me, but I know from the look in her eyes that she is fixed on the pain and on the urging inside her, tearing at her like a hook twisting inside the gut of a fish. She has no way to see that I need her, that I feel such fearful failure.

  How did it get to this, when my little sister is going the same way as Mother? How could I have made such a choice…to go to the Orchard, to want so much to hobnob with the Varsity types, to better myself, to indulge in ridiculous flirtations with Rupert? And all for what? So that my family could fend for themselves, merely survive, take in the first ragamuffin man who needles his way inside them? I’m sorry, Lily, I’m sorry, sorry, Lily, I’m sorry, Father, I see now how I have failed you, failed all of you.

  And then I fall to praying too, praying in a way that I haven’t since Mother died. Please, God, please save Lily. I will do anything, I promise. I will give up my foolishness, give up Rupert, yes, I will, I really will, I will give up whatever you ask of me. Only please save my darling, innocent Lily whom I love more than myself, who has only ever been good and true, Lord, and your servant.