Nicholas Mosley - A Garden of Trees

“You talk too much,” Annabelle said, coming into the room with a tray.

“I know,” Peter said, “that is what I am talking about.”

“Well don’t,” Annabelle said, going out again.

“Have you ever been unhappy, Marius?” Peter said.

“Yes.” Marius said.

“When?”

“When I am hurt.”

“That isn’t an answer. Gods never answer. I don’t believe that Gods are ever unhappy. I’m sure that I couldn’t tell whether Marius was unhappy or not, could you?” he said to me.

“No,” I said.

“Gods can be hurt,” Annabelle said, coming in again with some sandwiches. She passed Peter without looking at him.

“Yes,” Peter said. He watched her. Then he went to the window. “I should think so,” he said. “I should think a God’s about the most hurt thing there is. He should be. He asks for it. Bloody fool.” He stood with his back to us. “How many people think you’re a God, Marius?”

“I don’t know,” Marius said.

“And how many people think you’re a bloody fool?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Peter opened the window and leant out into the night. “God’s a bloody fool,” he shouted. Then he closed the window and drew the curtains and took some sandwiches from Annabelle’s tray.

The door-bell rang. No one went to answer it. “Now I have been rude to God,” Peter said. Annabelle stood sadly in front of her sandwiches as if she had suffered some momentary loss. Then Peter shouted, “Come in, come in, you unstuffed owl,” and he filled his mouth with a potato. There was no reply. Annabelle went to the door and I could hear her talking in the passage, and then she came in again followed by three people. One was Freddie Naylor. Behind him came a delicate prancing man wearing a bow tie, and with them a smart girl carrying a handbag like a drum.

“Hullo Peter,” Freddie said. “You know Nancy, don’t you. This is Hilton Weekes.”

“How do you do,” Peter said, munching his potato.

“We’ve all come along,” Freddie said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. I heard your father and mother were away, so I knew you’d be well in. I see you are.” He opened his mouth and made a noise like someone blowing their nose.

“Have some lettuce,” Peter said.

“Well in the liquor,” laughed Freddie. He was looking round for drinks.

The smart girl was chattering to Annabelle and was writhing her mouth as if she were putting on lipstick. Her bag was suspended from straps around her neck, and every time she moved it bounced against her middle. Annabelle was watching her carefully. Hilton Weekes was flitting round the room looking at the pictures.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” Peter said, introducing me. I told him.

“Oh yes,” Freddie said. “Weren’t you in the Regiment?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought I remembered you.”

“I’m afraid I left it,” I said.

“Oh yes,” he said. He looked away. Peter was introducing the others to Marius. Marius stood up and shook hands. The prancing man was poised beside him with his head on one side, and the girl was approaching like a one-man band. Peter was doing some joke about introducing Marius as a cardinal.

“You have been in England long?” the prancing man said. He spoke meticulously, as if to a foreigner.

“Yes,” Marius said.

“You have come over to. .?”

“To. .?”

“I thought. . ”

“No,” Marius said.

“Oh.” The girl was staring at Marius open-mouthed. Above her head two feathers swayed like wireless-masts, and her earrings clashed faintly like cymbals. Peter began to sing, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.”

Freddie advanced impatiently upon Annabelle. “Why don’t you come out with us?” he said. “We were going to have some dinner. Why don’t you?”

“I can’t.” Annabelle said.

He caught hold of her arm in an awkward, lurching way, and she stood turned away from him while he held her. “Why not?” he said. “Come along. Don’t let’s have any nonsense.” He pulled her arm and Annabelle swayed, letting her arm go, but her feet did not move. He looked stiff and ugly beside her.

“She doesn’t want to.” Peter called out. “She hates your guts, Freddie, she hates your guts.”

Freddie laughed. He gave another pull at Annabelle’s arm and she overbalanced, crossing her feet to steady herself. I could not see her face. The prancing man was standing in front of Marius and Marius was looking over his shiny oiled head towards Peter. “I don’t know about that,” Freddie said in his thick, throttled voice, “but she’s going to have dinner with us, aren’t you?” He squeezed her arm and I could see how he wanted to hurt her.

“You’re a sadist, Freddie,” Peter called. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a sadist?”

“Oh are you?” the prancing man said brightly.

The smart girl swung round and caught him on the hip with her drum. The she went writhing up to Freddie. “Why should she come?” she said. “Why should the poor thing come if she doesn’t want to?” She stood with her soft powdered face stretched loudly up towards Freddie’s. Freddie did not look at her. Annabelle swayed on one leg with her head down, and Freddie’s starched white cuff showed up against her skin like a bandage.

“Why don’t you go to a girl’s school?” Peter called. “Why don’t you pinch Nancy, she’s longing for it.” Nancy became convulsed with giggles, clutching her drum to her middle.

“Come along,” Freddie said, furiously.

“If you pinch Nancy,” Peter said, “she’ll make a noise like a hunting-horn.”

Freddie took a step towards Annabelle so that she straightened out on her feet. “Well what are you going to do to-night?” he said. “What else are you doing?”

“I’m having dinner,” Annabelle said. She stood miserably.

“Oh,” Freddie said. He let go of her. She stood where she was. Freddie walked over to Peter. “Let’s have your drinks then,” he said. “Where are they?”

“No drinks,” Peter said. “Only lettuces.”

“On the wagon?” Freddie sneered.

“No, they’ve arrived,” Peter said. He began to laugh uncontrollably.

Nancy was plucking at the prancing man’s sleeve. “We’d better go,” she said. “Don’t let’s stay if Annabelle doesn’t want to.”

“We’ll stay,” Freddie said. “We’ll have some lettuces.” He stood obstinately while Annabelle cut him some ham, and I felt rather sorry for him. Peter was still laughing, and Hilton Weekes was holding a book up, saying, “I say, has anybody read this?” and no one was taking any notice of him.

There was a silence. Freddie was chewing his ham. Then—“Annabelle has become very superior, hasn’t she?” he said speaking to no one in particular.

“Oh yes,” Peter said, “she’s become religious.”

“Oh religious,” Freddie said. He looked at Marius and then at me. I suddenly realized that I was copying Marius, although I could not do it as he did. He was leaning on the back of a chair and I was propped against the piano, but I felt a fool when Freddie looked at me. Marius was smiling faintly at the carpet, but he did not look a fool. “Do you mean to say she goes to church?” Freddie said, watching Marius.

“No,” Peter said: “the Church comes to her.” He began laughing again, and Annabelle put a hand in front of her eyes like someone very tired. Then Peter saw her, suddenly, and he stopped laughing, so that the noise between them died.

“Oh,” Freddie said. Hilton Weekes coughed nervously; he was looking for somewhere to deposit his book. The girl was by the door, a powder puff in her hand, holding it arrested in front of her nose like a handkerchief. She looked as if she were about to sneeze. Then she said “Oh do let’s go, please,” in a kind of despair.