Steffan green, p.1
Steffan Green, page 1
Contents
Steffan Green
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Richmal Crompton
STEFFAN GREEN
Chapter One
THE road wound down the hill, swerved sharply, and dived into a wood. Obviously it wasn’t a high road any longer. She must have gone wrong at the fork. She stopped and wondered whether to turn and go back. A few moments ago she had been intent on getting to Dorrie’s as quickly as possible, and now quite suddenly it didn’t seem to matter whether she got to Dorrie’s or not. In any case Dorrie wasn’t expecting her. She might even be away from home. When she came to think of it, she usually was away at this time of the year. She’d set out on a crazy impulse, thinking that Dorrie would be able to help her, knowing at the bottom of her heart that no one in the whole world would be able to help her. Dorrie, solid, matter-of-fact, conscientious, conventional . . . no, she wouldn’t understand.
She had dreamed of Dorrie last night and, awaking from an uneasy unrefreshing sleep, had decided to go to her and ask her advice. Good old Dorrie . . . so kind, so dependable, so good-hearted. . . . And off she’d started, compelled by that mysterious force that had made her for the last few weeks like a marionette dancing at the end of invisible strings. “Go to Dorrie,” the strings had said, and she’d gone obediently, driving blindly along the roads, hardly knowing what she was doing. It was a wonder she hadn’t had an accident. She remembered someone’s shouting at her as she went through a small country town. Perhaps she had had an accident. Perhaps she’d killed someone on the road. She wouldn’t have known if she had done. . . .
It was a warm day, but little gusts of shivering swept through her body, making her teeth chatter. Her nerves had been going to pieces for some time, of course. . . . Well, what was she to do now? She waited for some command from the mechanical force that had ordered her doings for the past few weeks, but none came. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Half-past three. . . . She must do something. She wondered if she had had any lunch. She couldn’t remember. No, she was almost sure she hadn’t. She dropped her hands from the steering wheel and looked about her. Trunks of silver birches rose like shining slender pillars from a golden floor of bracken. Here and there in the tangled undergrowth a bramble leaf showed vivid red. A stream rippled in a winding course through the wood, disappeared under the road, and reappeared on the other side. It had rained in the night, and the stream was full. It burbled noisily and exuberantly, impatient of its narrow bed. The sound of it broke the heavy silence with an effect of incongruous impertinent gaiety. A sense of unreality invaded her, as if she and the wood were part of a dream. . . . She took herself in hand, tightening her lips and trying to control the spasms of trembling that shook her from head to foot. Pull yourself together, she admonished herself sternly. You’re letting your nerves get the better of you. You know where that leads. You’ve seen it in other people. You’ve always said that there’s a point at which they can tackle it themselves, and, once they let it get beyond that point, they’re done for. Well, you can tackle it yourself at this point, and if you don’t you know where it will lead you. . . . It’s with not sleeping properly, she excused herself, but almost simultaneously brushed the excuse aside. Nonsense! Get some stronger stuff. . . . It’s with yesterday, she excused herself further, and had no answer to that but a sharp, Don’t, Don’t. . . .
She started up the engine and looked round again. No use going to Dorrie’s in this state, even if Dorrie were at home. She’d been mad even to think of it. But she felt oddly reluctant to go back to the empty flat, with so many of Harvey’s things about, things that he hadn’t taken with him and that she hadn’t had the heart to turn out. Still, there was nothing else to do. She couldn’t wander about the countryside all night. She would just go to the end of the wood. She remembered the fascination that woods had had for her when she was a child. She always wanted to “get to the other side.” And the “other side”—the country one reached through a wood—had always seemed in some way quite different from the country one had left behind, endued with some magical quality she could never explain.
The road curved sharply, now this way, now that. It had probably been a path through the wood at first, winding among the trees, then a track along which the pack-ponies went. Then they’d widened it bit by bit. Even now it was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other. It described a wide sweep around a beech tree whose branches hung right across the road, forming a golden tunnel.
The wood came to an abrupt end, and the lane wound between low hedges with fields on either side. She stopped the car again, loath to go on. There had been a curious element of protection in the shade of the wood. It was as if, emerging into the open country, she was once more at the mercy of life and its cruelty. She could still hear the rippling of the little stream behind her. Muted by the distance, it seemed to hold a note of tender melancholy beneath its gaiety.
Better turn now and go back. But the road just here was too narrow for turning. She’d go on till it widened or till she came to a field gate. A church tower over a cluster of trees proclaimed a village a mile or so ahead. She went on slowly. The nervous energy that had sustained her all day seemed to be ebbing, and a leaden weariness pressed down on her. Then, at a sudden bend in the road, she came upon the village – a square green, with a few shops and houses set round it, and in the middle a chestnut tree, its massive trunk encircled by a wooden seat. A narrow road ran round the three sides of the green, then rejoined the main road. She could turn by driving round the green. The first side consisted of a post office that was also a general shop, a small butcher’s, and a blacksmith’s. The second . . . A wave of faintness swept over her and she stopped the car. What a fool she was not to have had some lunch on the way! She noticed mechanically and with faint relief that she had drawn up outside a cottage on which hung a sign “To Let.” Her stopping there could arouse no curiosity even in this out-of-the-way place. She would stay till the faintness passed, then go home as quickly as she could. She bent her head down, and the mist of faintness gradually cleared. Raising her head, her eyes caught the words Pear Tree Cottages No. 1 on the small green gate. Next was another cottage with Pear Tree Cottages No. 2 on the gate. Probably they had once been a small row of cottages – now divided into two. Long, low, of mellowed red brick. Fifteenth century, she guessed. A narrow garden in front was enclosed by a green painted fence. The other cottage was occupied. Curtains of spotted muslin hung at the window. Beyond it, also overlooking the green, was a small compact Georgian house that seemed to hold itself aloof in conscious superiority. It had Nottingham lace curtains, a fern at each window, and the name Eastnor carved in Gothic letters on the gate.
Suddenly she saw a girl standing at an upstairs window of the other cottage, watching her. She couldn’t stay here much longer, of course, but she still felt reluctant to go. The quiet serenity of the wood seemed to brood over the little place. She wondered vaguely what it was called. She would look at the post office on her way back. She ought to stop somewhere and get something to eat, too, though at the thought of food a feeling of nausea came over her. . . .
She had switched on the ignition and was just putting her finger to the starting-button, when the girl who had been watching her from the upstairs window opened the front door and came down to the gate. She was young and sophisticated-looking, her dark hair done in the fashionable bunch of curls on the top of her head, her lips coloured an unconvincing almost defiant shade of scarlet. She wore a grey sweater and a pair of navy-blue slacks, which she hitched up about her thin figure as she came down to the gate.
“I’m afraid the key’s at the agent’s in Beverton,” she said, “but he left one with us in case people came to look over it.”
She spoke curtly and without smiling.
“The key?” said Lettice vaguely. Then, “Oh, I see. . . . The house. No, I wasn’t——”
“You might as well look round,” said the girl, still in that curt, business-like way. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Not like ours. Ours was in the foulest mess you ever saw when we took it.”
“Thanks so much,” said Lettice, “but I was only—”
Then she stopped.
At first she couldn’t think why she wanted to stay, for a few minutes at any rate, with this somewhat abrupt young woman. Then she realised. This woman – didn’t know. It was so long since she had talked to a woman without seeing gloating pity in her eyes, hearing it in the tone of her voice. The more sympathetic they were, the more they gloated. Even Dorrie, trusted old friend as she was, would all unconsciously have gloated. It seemed to restore a little of her self-respect to be with someone who didn’t know.
“I’ll get the key,” the young woman was saying. “It won’t take a minute.”
She disappeared into the cottage and reappeared a moment afterwards carrying an old-fashioned key and smoking a cigarette.
“The garden’s a bit run to seed,” she said, “but the house is quite shipshape. It’s only been empty a few weeks. A dear o
“I don’t know,” said Lettice.
She opened the door of her car and stepped out onto the road.
“My name’s Lydia Morrice,” said the girl. “My husband and I have only been here two months. We nearly moved to this cottage after Mrs. Kipps left, but, when it came to the point, it was too much fag. And we’d sweated blood getting our own to rights. It seemed sort of mean to leave it just when we’d made it almost habitable.”
She opened the garden gate, and Lettice entered the garden.
“The real gardens are at the back, of course,” went on the girl. “The garden is in a bit of a mess, as I told you, but that makes it all the more interesting, don’t you think? I mean, a garden can’t get filthy like a house, if it’s neglected. Gosh! you should have seen ours. Thick with dirt!”
She turned the key in the lock, and Lettice followed her into a little hall. At the end a narrow staircase with slender balusters ran abruptly out of sight, and a door opened from it on either side of the front door.
“Dining-room . . . Parlour or lounge or whatever you like to call it. Blessedly simple, these old cottages. Kitchen just there by the staircase. The old dame adored her kitchen. It’s quite up to date. Electric light. These small windows make the room a bit dark, of course, but one gets used to that. I wanted to have a bay thrown out, but Philip – that’s my husband – foamed at the mouth when I suggested the idea. He said it would take away its character. You can do what you like at the back apparently, as long as you keep the front as God made it. As a matter of fact the man who originally converted them (I always imagine him in a Salvation Army hat) built out a room at the back into the garden with a bay that gets quite a lot of sun. I use it for the nursery.”
“You’ve got a baby?” said Lettice, without much interest.
“Yes, worse luck!” said the girl. “It’s a ghastly bore.”
The two front rooms were small, with low ceilings, lattice windows, and basket fire-grates. The walls were distempered cream, and there were deep window seats in the thickness of the walls.
“They were built to last till Doomsday, of course,” said the girl. “I find that rather helpful. I mean, when you think of all the people who’ve lived in it and all the dramas it must have witnessed, one feels it’s silly to worry if the milk turns sour or the fishmonger doesn’t come round. New houses are apt to fuss with one when things go wrong, but old ones make one feel a fool for worrying. . . . I hope that’s not whimsical. I hate whimsey.”
Lettice smiled. It was the first time she had smiled for a long time.
“No,” she said, “I think it’s quite sensible.”
The kitchen was stone-floored and very tiny. Gas stove, dresser, and sink took up nearly all the room.
The walls were painted blue, and a church calendar, depicting Abraham on the point of sacrificing Isaac, under the sardonic gaze of a ram who bore a striking likeness to Mr. Gladstone, still hung between dresser and doorway.
“The old dame who had it before you” (Lettice made a quick disclaimer, but the girl went on as though she hadn’t noticed) “adored her kitchen. She pottered about here all day. She seemed to be always making jam and pastry. She made it just for the sake of making it. I believe that she buried it in the garden at night to get rid of it so that she could start making a fresh lot the next morning. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who kept the right things in the right tins. You know, sugar and salt and tea. . . . Here’s the “built-on” room.
The “built-on” room was not much larger than the other rooms, but the bay window made it lighter. It had a parquet floor and a low brick fireplace.
“The old dame hardly ever used this room. She didn’t like the parquet. She said it was new-fangled. Besides, she said there was nothing to see. She liked to sit in the front and watch the green. . . . That’s the garden – what there is of it.”
Lettice stood in the bay window and looked down the tangled neglected garden. A rickety wooden fence divided it from the next-door garden and was itself divided in the middle by the trunk of a tall tree that stood between the gardens and overshadowed them both. At the bottom a small wooden gate stood open onto a narrow lane. A sudden gust of wind sent a shower of russet leaves floating down through the air.
“That’s the pear tree,” said the girl. “They say it’s wonderful in spring. It’s the biggest for miles round. I like the way they’ve given us half each, don’t you? Now come and see the upstairs.”
“No, really,” said Lettice. “It’s not fair to put you to all this trouble when I’m not——”
But the girl was already half-way up the stairs.
“You can’t see the sky through the windows in the bedrooms unless you’re lying in bed,” she said. “I wouldn’t get used to it at first. I rather like it now.”
They came downstairs to the little gate a few minutes later, and the girl immediately opened the gate of the other cottage.
“You must have tea before you go,” she said. “I was just going to make it.”
Lettice hesitated. The prospect of the long drive home oppressed her as if it had been some tremendous undertaking needing more energy than she had in her to summon. She was glad to postpone it and to stay a little longer with this girl, to whom she was an ordinary casual passer-by – not an object of contemptuous pity.
“Thanks . . .” she said vaguely.
The room into which her hostess led her was furnished with unstained wood. Doors and skirting board, too, were unstained.
“We sweated blood getting the paint off the doors,” the girl was saying. “And we had to get through inches of dirt before we reached the paint. Miss Pendleton, the old bird who had it before us, lived all her life in it, but the concern her money was in had failed and she lived here for years on about a loaf a week. Never went out. Took to drink at the end, though I don’t know how she found the money to buy it, and never touched the place by the look of it. It was simply filthy. Then she crocked up, and they took her off in an ambulance to a cousin’s a few miles away. They didn’t think she’d live, but she’s a tough old guy, and they say she’s getting over it now. Sit down. I’ll bring in the tea in half a sec. The brat’s still asleep. . . .”
Lettice leant back in her chair, fighting the stupor of exhaustion that was stealing over her. All she wanted to do was to sleep . . . if only there weren’t the waking up. Despite the weariness of her long nights, she dreaded sleeping, because of the sick realisation that waking brought with it. Sometimes she would look round instinctively for Harvey, and then – knowledge would engulf her in wave upon black wave. It was unbearable to have to face it afresh each morning. Sometimes by night she had almost steeled herself to it, but when morning came sleep had washed the memory of it away and it was all to do again. . . .
The girl entered with a tray, which she set down on the little round table in front of the window seat.
“Housekeeping’s not too bad here,” she said. “Tradesmen come out from Beverton, and you can get eggs and butter from Crewe Farm.”
Lettice said nothing. The memory of Harvey’s face had suddenly become cruelly vivid – the laughing creases at the corners of his grey eyes, the faint smile that lurked always in the curves of his well-formed mouth, the cleft in his chin. She fought for self-control, biting her lips to keep them steady, but, despite all her efforts, tears began to course down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands.
The girl stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” said Lettice in a choking voice. “It’s – nerves, I suppose. . . . I had no lunch.”
“What time did you have breakfast?” said the girl in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I don’t think I had any,” said Lettice.
The girl handed her a cup of tea.
“Have a rock cake. They ought to be sustaining enough if heaviness counts for anything. I made them myself. . . .”
“I’ve just divorced my husband,” said Lettice unsteadily. She had herself in hand now and was wiping the tears away with quick furtive dabs of her handkerchief. “I got the decree nisi yesterday. I had to stand in the witness-box and tell them all the foul things he’d ever done to me. Things I’d kept from my best friends. I didn’t want to, but my solicitor made me. He didn’t want the judge to think it was one isolated case. They’re always afraid of – collusion, they call it.”
