The Flowering Thorn Read online

  Within these limits, however, his conversation was at least as interesting as that of Toby Ashton. He knew six European capitals, the countries of the Near East, and could remember as far back as the début of Yvette Guilbert. He had adored, with apparently equal fervour, a Duchess of Devonshire and Mlle. Demay—she who sang at the Ambassadeurs, in 1892, a song called ‘Moi, je casse les noisettes en m’asseyant dessus.’ He had known George Moore as a painter and did not think much of him; he never did think much of the Irish, they were always harping on their ancestors. He himself had ancestors, naturally, but he didn’t keep harping on them. Lesley, indeed, sometimes wished that he would; one or two of them, from the rare glimpses vouchsafed, seemed to have had some very odd traits indeed. There was a Sir Philip of the Civil Wars, who, throughout that most troubled period of England’s history, had been chiefly distinguished by an extreme susceptibility to draughts. (He was also, it is true, an experienced and indefatigable soldier: but whenever the campaign permitted he at once returned to the Hall and to his special draught-proof chair, which to judge by contemporary description must have closely resembled the later sedan.) Another Sir Philip, a generation or so earlier, had such strong simplicity of character that he always took off his clothes when he felt hot. The mannerism was at least harmless (unlike that of Sir Giles, who threw daggers to express distaste), and beyond refusing all invitations for the dog-days, not even his wife did anything about it.

  Descended from such a line, it was scarcely possible that Sir Philip should have been dull. And he was not dull. He was deeply interesting. So was Mr. Pomfret. Nor had Lesley ever been bored in the company of Mrs. Sprigg. In fact, it might almost be said that she was never bored at all. There was a constant intercourse, a continual deepening of acquaintance; instead of knowing a hundred people by sight she would soon know half a dozen by heart. An eventual return to Town was still, so to speak, the vanishing point of her perspective; but the lines were four years long, and in the meantime, for her consolation, there was this new and startling discovery: that the country is populated by really quite interesting persons.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Running downstairs one morning in September, Lesley was halted at the door of the sitting-room by a brilliant and novel blaze of colour. For a moment she stood bewildered, as though before a floor and wall that had blossomed overnight; but the truth was not in fact so far to seek. It was only early sunlight pouring through the transparent blue and rose of unlined chintzes: she had forgotten, before going to bed, to pull back the new curtains.

  The incident was a trivial one; not so its consequences. All through breakfast Lesley’s thoughts kept returning to that extraordinary vision of a charming room. For the first time in months she consciously looked about her; and the Brixton décor, nearly eighteen months shabbier than when she first saw it, completely failed to amuse. It was hideously ugly, it would very soon be sordid: but until Sir Philip had recovered from the bathroom, there was obviously nothing to be done.

  Lesley cleared the table and set back the chairs. They were made of some reddish, sticky-looking wood, by comparison with which the one chintz cover, its delphiniums notwithstanding, was a positive relief. Lesley plumped up the cushion, turned towards the door again, and as she did so noticed a three-cornered flap of wall-paper hanging loose under the ceiling. Almost without thinking she put up her hand and tore down a two-foot strip of buff chrysanthemums, crimson ramblers and variegated stocks: for the palimpsest was three deep.

  Behind the stocks appeared a couple of cabbage roses, wrinkled hard over an uneven surface. Lesley seized a knife from the tray, and scoring at random felt the blade slip from plaster and bite on wood. She thought—

  ‘Oak!’

  It was a beam running crosswise the whole width of the wall; and having traced out its length Lesley stood still as Michelangelo before his imprisoned angel. She had received a vision. Her eye had penetrated through rep, maple and four layers of paper to a dwelling-place perfect in conception, harmonious in detail, and as much her personal creation as a child or a poem.

  “Oak!” said Lesley, this time aloud.

  The ecstasy passed, or rather was translated into action. Forgetful of all else she scraped furiously at the pink and mottled surface, powdering herself with dust until she had to stop and wipe her eyes. And pausing to do so, she heard voices without: voices, not angelic, but still of joy and amazement. She looked up, her lips moved to prohibit, and the next instant the children were upon her.

  “Frewen!” cried Pat. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  It was a great and memorable occasion. The prohibition died unborn: for to try and stop them would have been not only barbarous but also impossible. Within five minutes not a child was clean; while as to the room itself, it was already so coated in dust that there was no longer any point in taking care. Like artificial snow innumerable shreds of paper floated through the air: on carpet, chairs and table blossomed a sudden flora of stocks and roses. The children stripped, ripped and scattered, Lesley soaked, coaxed and loosened; until at last the two main walls stood boldly patterned with a triple stripe of oak on plaster.

  Lesley stood back and looked at them with a deep satisfaction. It was her oak, her plaster, divined by her spirit and made visible by her labour; and she also decided, with her usual common sense, that the job would undoubtedly have to be finished at the hands of a professional.

  2

  A perfect house stands in a perfect garden; and while the professionals were busy, Lesley, for the first time in her life, came into personal contact with soil, sod and earthworms. She began with Pat’s flower-bed, where the candytuft alone held ground against weeds; and here, a day or two later, Mrs. Pomfret found her in action from the base of Pat’s prayer-rug.

  “Give me a trowel and I’ll help you a bit,” said Mrs. Pomfret, plumping suddenly down on the grass.

  In some surprise, for the Vicar’s wife did not usually have so much time to spare, Lesley passed her a small fork. For a minute or two they worked in silence, the pile of weeds growing slowly between them. Then—

  “I’m going to buy a mangle,” said Mrs. Pomfret defiantly.

  Lesley sat up.

  “It’s not extravagance,” continued Mrs. Pomfret, “the one we’ve got now is dropping to pieces. Harry keeps mending it and the boys keep mending it, but the whole trouble is that it simply will not mangle. It’s too old.”

  “Then you’re quite right to buy a new one,” said Lesley.

  “Oh, not a new one, my dear, they’re terribly expensive, but I’ve had notice of the sale at Elm House, at Thame, you know, and Mrs. Sprigg’s daughter-in-law who used to work there told Mrs. Sprigg that if the mangle in the sale is the one she used to work with, it’s just as good as new. So I’m going over on Monday,” finished Mrs. Pomfret, “with the intention of buying it.”

  “And I’ll come with you,” said Lesley, quite carried away.

  The Vicar’s wife beamed with genuine pleasure.

  “Will you really, Lesley? Then that will make quite an outing of it. And if you want anything yourself, I believe the furniture’s quite worth looking at. Nothing old enough to fetch the dealers, you know, but good plain country stuff.” She sat down abruptly and looked back at the cottage. “My dear, if you tackle it as you tackled Pat, it’s going to be perfectly lovely.”

  “Oh, but this will be much more interesting than Pat,” said Lesley seriously. “I know exactly what I want and I’ve just got time to do it.”

  Mrs. Pomfret shifted her gaze.

  “But won’t you be heart-broken to leave it all?”

  “Heart-broken? Good God, no! I like to do a thing and finish with it and then do something else.” The words rose mechanically to her lips. They were one of her pet gambits, and had been the opening phrase (usually with the addition of the word ‘finito!’) for many a modern conversation. In the presence of Mrs. Pomfret, however, she forgot the finito and added instead,

  “What I do want are
chairs. Ladderbacks with rush-bottom seats. Do you think I could get any at the sale?”

  “In the nursery and schoolroom you probably would,” said Mrs. Pomfret.

  “Then if I can I shall. And a gate-leg table and a corner cupboard. I shall go,” said Lesley, “prepared to spend ten pounds.”

  And they looked at each other with genuine excitement.

  3

  Before any social excursion—even one of no more than three miles, and having as its objective the town of Thame—Mrs. Pomfret’s natural impulse was to go to the kitchen and cut sandwiches. There Lesley, arriving early to deposit Pat, found her absently buttering a yesterday’s loaf; and without standing on ceremony put both bread and butter back in their places.

  “You’re having lunch with me,” she explained, “at the Yellow Swan. With rather a lot to drink, to improve our voices for bidding.”

  Mrs. Pomfret looked up with frank pleasure.

  “I’d love it,” she said. “I love eating away from home. Only nothing to drink, my dear, because it always makes me hiccup at once. That time we dined with the Bishop Henry has never forgotten.”

  She untied her apron and folded it over a chair-back: even when hiccuping at a Bishop’s table, thought Lesley, she could never have been taken for anything but a thoroughly nice woman.

  All the way in the ’bus they talked with enjoyment. They talked about the affairs of the village, and the characters of the children; discussing more particularly the rheumatism of Horace Walpole and the brilliance of Alec Pomfret. Old Horace was laid up and couldn’t put foot to ground: young Alec had constructed, from a musical box and a nutmeg grater, a machine that played music while grating the nutmegs.

  “Patrick,” said Lesley, “has an amazing way with animals. Pincher adores him, of course, but so does the cat. And you know what cats are.”

  Without the least insincerity, Mrs. Pomfret nodded. She was waiting, though quite patiently, to tell about the other thing Alec had made, the thing for saving matches: but there would be plenty of time after Lesley had finished. Lesley, however, took longer than either of them expected, and with equal surprise (the matches barely touched upon) they looked out of the window and saw it was Thame.

  “That’s Elm House, behind the pub,” said Mrs. Pomfret. She spoke with calm, but her eye was bright: like a war-horse smelling battle, she huried impatiently forward. Lesley followed more demurely, but still with a certain excitement, it was her first sale, and she was prepared to spend ten pounds.

  Their movements for the next hour are of no possible interest to anyone but themselves. They ascended stairs, looked into cupboards, opened drawers, thumped stuffing, and rang glass: they behaved, that is to say, precisely like any two women at any given sale. To the women themselves all these actions are passionately absorbing; but not to anyone else.

  Within that hour, however, while thus lost to sight, Mrs. Pomfret succumbed to the mangle and Lesley discovered her ladderback chairs. There were four of them, not very old, but of agreeable design and in good condition; and she had noticed with alarm that more eyes than her own had been favourably attracted. The actual sale did not begin till two, so that she had almost an hour, during lunch, to decide on her price. The meal was a silent one, though they both enjoyed their food; for Mrs. Pomfret too was cogitating on the subject of mangles. At last, over coffee in the lounge, she came to a semi-decision.

  “If you don’t mind, Lesley,” she said, “I think I’ll just run over to the Stores and have a look at a new one. It’s the last I shall ever buy, I hope, and I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  A trifle startled by the allusion—for few people are really familiar with the fact of their own mortality—Lesley nodded acquiescence and moved to the window from which she could command the entrance to the Stores. A new car now stood outside, a great yellow tourer with a fawn hood; and walking up the path, chattering at the tops of their voices, were Elissa, Mrs. Carnegie, and two men whom Lesley did not know.

  4

  Her first impulse was to tap on the pane and attract their attention; but before she could do so a second and a stronger had taken its place. Very quietly, as they passed between the geraniums, Lesley drew herself to one side and hid behind a curtain.

  Elissa was being very spontaneous.

  “Drinks, drinks, drinks!” she cried. “Preferably a Martini, darling, and see if they’ll let you shake it. I feel like an unwatered pot-plant.”

  “Cela se voit,” murmured Mrs. Carnegie. She herself resembled nothing so arid; a prize Maréchal Niel perhaps, reared solely on fertiliser. Like the flowers at her feet she was dressed in tight crimson; and after the manner of Frenchwomen continued to look cool.

  Lesley slipped over to the mirror and looked at her face. It was not really shiny, but lightly browned all over to an even sun-burnt gloss; and with a tiny twinge of dismay she remembered that she had not yet renewed her lipstick. For the reflected mouth—after even a glimpse of Elissa’s immaculate bow—had nothing to be said for it. Red enough to pass at a pinch, but sadly in need of pulling together.…

  ‘Oh, well,’ thought Lesley, ‘it can’t be helped’; and picking up her bag she moved across the room. At the door, however, she hesitated. A confused noise without—chattering, laughter, Elissa’s scream—told her that they were all gathered in the hall. To fling open the door, step forth and declare herself—what could be simpler or more effective? But still she hesitated: it would mean seeing Elissa, of course, but it would also mean going to the bar and sitting and having drinks and being unable to get away while all the time someone else was snapping up her chairs. And thinking of those four superlative ladderbacks, Lesley’s mind suddenly made itself up. She was fond of Elissa—very fond indeed; only just at the moment she couldn’t be bothered.

  Amid a good deal of laughter the footsteps passed on. From the other side of the road, Mrs. Pomfret waved a beckoning hand. Lesley pulled on her hat, picked up her gloves, and exercising a certain amount of caution emerged into the empty hall.

  Just as she appeared, however, the bar-room door swung open and one of the men came out to get his coat. Tall, dark and lightly whiskered, she would have known him anywhere for one of Elissa’s weaknesses: while he, by a certain fixity of gaze, seemed to reciprocate her interest. But Lesley knew too well how to interpret that look to draw any flattery from it. It was a look, in fact, of pleased recognition, such as may be seen on the faces of tourists when confronted with their first Arab; and it amused her to think how accurately she could supply the exact descriptive phrases with which he was even then regaling Elissa.

  ‘I’m a Country Type!’ thought Lesley, raising her eyebrows in silent amusement: and since the joke was too good to spoil, she went out by the back door and and so avoided the bar-room windows.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sitting-room that night felt close; and it was one of the few evenings in the year when a fire could have been dispensed with. Fatigued with her unusual outing, triumphant in the possession of her chairs, Lesley propped open the door and walked slowly down to the gate.

  In all the orchard not a leaf stirred. It was an extreme of stillness like an extreme of cold; one heard, not saw, the breath. And then suddenly out of the darkness, an apple-tree groaned.

  Lesley turned and ran. With a single mighty clap, like the slamming of a sluice, the heavens had opened.

  2

  At eleven o’clock the storm was still raging. The Vale was a bowling-green where giants flung cannon-balls; they rebounded from the hills to meet crashing in the centre, or sidled round the rim with a sullen departing roll. The rain slashed, the wind blew; and behind them was more wind, more rain, enough to last till the day of judgment. It was a night to shake the Pyramids and astonish Noah; it was a bad night, in fact, for anyone who had to be out.

  But the White Cottage crouched low and its walls were sturdy. Lesley ran up to look at Pat, found him still miraculously sleeping and returned to the sitting-room with a new book on Picas
so. She could not read, however, she could only sit and listen. There were elephants in the orchard, trampling and trumpeting and stamping with their feet, reaching up with their trunks to snap off the branches; in the rare, moment-long lulls one could hear the rattle of boughs like the rattle of fighting antlers.

  ‘It’s the animals come back!’ thought Lesley fantastically; and for a wild and astonishing instant she visioned a whole prehistoric fauna reloosed into Bucks.

  ‘I must go to bed,’ she thought, ‘I’m asleep already.’

  But an extraordinary reluctance held her where she was. With all that turmoil outside it seemed wrong to take off one’s clothes and lie defencelessly down: better, like prehistoric man, to stay crouching on guard and build up the fire.… She listened again. The wind had hurled itself down the chimney and was now fighting to get out: the rain against the windows rattled like hail. From the direction of Pig Lane came a sudden mighty crash: then silence, and a second crash following the first.

  ‘There’ll be the telephone wires down to-night,’ Lesley thought; and with a final effort she pulled herself together and went upstairs.

  Pat was still asleep. Thanking her stars for his phlegm, Lesley passed into her own room and drew the curtains. Through the rain-blurred glass there was nothing to be seen save a couple of lights in the Walpole windows.