Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘Symphony of goblets,’ said Joe scathingly.

‘Well, why not? I suppose somebody once pulled a bit of catgut tight and found it made a squawky noise, and somebody once blew through a reed and liked it. I wonder when they first thought of making things of brass and metal – I dare say some book tells you –’

‘Columbus and the egg. You and Sebastian’s glass goblets. Why not a slate and a slate pencil.’

‘If you’ve got one –’

‘Isn’t he too funny?’ giggled Enid. And that stopped the conversation – for the time, at any rate.

Not that Vernon really minded her presence. He was far too wrapped up in his ideas to be sensitive about them. Enid and Ethel were welcome to laugh as much as they chose.

But he was slightly disturbed by the lack of harmony between Joe and Sebastian. The three of them had always been such a united trio.

‘I don’t think this “living your own life” stunt agrees with Joe,’ said Vernon to his friend. ‘She’s like an angry cat most of the time. I can’t think why Mother agreed. She was dead against it about six months ago. I can’t imagine what made her change her mind, can you?’

A smile creased Sebastian’s long yellow face.

‘I could make a guess,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I shan’t say. In the first place, I may be wrong, and in the second place I should hate to interfere with the (possibly) normal course of events.’

‘That’s your tortuous Russian mind.’

‘I dare say.’

Vernon didn’t insist. He was much too lazy to probe for reasons that weren’t given him.

Day succeeded day. They danced, breakfasted, drove at incredibly fast speeds through the countryside, sat and smoked and talked in Vernon’s rooms, danced again. It was a point of honour not to sleep. At five in the morning they went on the river.

Vernon’s right arm ached. Enid fell to his share and she was a heavy partner. Well, it didn’t matter. Uncle Sydney had seemed pleased, and he was a decent old boy. Jolly good of him to make that offer. What a pity it was that he – Vernon – was not more of a Bent and less of a Deyre.

A vague memory stirred in his mind – somebody saying, ‘The Deyres, Vernon, are neither happy nor successful. They can’t make good –’ Who was it who had said that? A woman’s voice, it had been, in a garden – and there had been curling cigarette smoke.

Sebastian’s voice said: ‘He’s going to sleep. Wake up, you blighter! Chuck a chocolate at him, Enid.’

A chocolate whizzed past his head. Enid’s voice said with a giggle:

‘I can’t throw straight for nuts.’

She giggled again as though she thought it very funny. Tiresome girl – always giggling. Besides, her teeth stuck out.

He heaved himself over on his side. Not usually very appreciative of the beauties of Nature, this morning he was struck by the beauty of the world. The pale gleaming river, here and there on the banks a flowering tree.

The boat drifted slowly downstream – a queer silent enchanted world. Because, he supposed, there were no human beings about. It was, when you came to think of it, an excess of human beings who spoilt the world. Always chattering and talking and giggling – and asking you what you were thinking of when all you wanted was to be let alone.

He always remembered feeling that as a kid. If they’d only let him alone. He smiled to himself as he remembered the ridiculous games he had been in the habit of inventing. Mr Green! He remembered Mr Green perfectly. And those three playmates – what were their names, now?

A funny child’s world – a world of dragons and princesses and strangely concrete realities mixed up with them. There had been a story someone had told him – a ragged prince with a little green hat and a princess in a tower whose hair when she combed it was so golden that it could be seen in four kingdoms.

He raised his head a little, looked along the river bank. There was a punt tied up under some trees. Four people in it – but Vernon only saw one.

A girl in a pink evening-frock with hair like spun gold standing under a tree laden with pink blossom.

He looked and he looked.

‘Vernon –’ Joe kicked him correctively. ‘You’re not asleep, because your eyes are open. You’ve been spoken to four times.’

‘Sorry. I was looking at that lot over there. That’s rather a pretty girl, don’t you think so?’

He tried to make his tone light – casual. Inside him a riotous voice was saying:

‘Pretty? She’s lovely. She’s the most lovely girl in the world. I’m going to get to know her. I’ve got to know her. I’m going to marry her –’

Joe heaved herself up on her elbows, looked, uttered an exclamation.

‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘I do believe – yes, I’m sure it is. It’s Nell Vereker –’

Impossible! It couldn’t be. Nell Vereker? Pale scraggy Nell, with her pink nose and her inappropriate starched dresses. Surely it couldn’t be. Was Time capable of that kind of practical joke? If so, one couldn’t be sure of anything. That long-ago Nell – and this Nell – they were two different people.

The whole world felt dream-like. Joe was saying:

‘If that’s Nell, I really must speak to her. Let’s go across.’

And then the greetings, exclamations, surprise.

‘Why, of course, Joe Waite. And Vernon! It’s years ago, isn’t it?’

Very soft her voice was. Her eyes smiled into his – a trifle shyly. Lovely – lovely – lovelier even than he had thought. Tongue-tied fool, why couldn’t he say anything? Something brilliant, witty, arresting. How blue her eyes were with their long soft golden-brown lashes. She was like the blossom above her head – untouched – Springlike.

A great wave of despondency swept over him. She would never marry him. Was it likely? A great clumsy tongue-tied creature such as he was. She was talking to him – Heavens, he must try and listen to what she said – answer intelligently.

‘We left very soon after you did. Father gave up his job.’

An echo came into his head of past gossip.

‘ Vereker got the sack. Hopelessly incompetent – it was bound to come .’

Her voice went on – such a lovely voice. You wanted to listen to it instead of to the words.

‘We live in London now. Father died five years ago.’

He said, feeling idiotic, ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry, awfully sorry!’

‘I’ll give you our address. You must come and see us.’

He blundered out hopes of meeting her that evening – what dance was she going to? She told him. No good there. The night after – thank goodness, they’d be at the same. He said hurriedly:

‘Look here. You’ve got to save me a dance or two – you must – we’ve not seen each other for years.’

‘Oh! but can I?’ Her voice was doubtful.

‘I’ll fix it somehow. Leave it to me.’

It was over all too soon. Goodbyes were said. They were going upstream again.

Joe said in an incredibly matter-of-fact tone:

‘Well, isn’t that strange? Who would ever have thought that Nell Vereker would have turned out so good-looking? I wonder if she’s as much of an ass as ever.’

Sacrilege! He felt oceans removed from Joe. Joe couldn’t see anything at all.

Would Nell ever marry him? Would she? Probably she’d never look at him. All sorts of fellows must be in love with her.

He felt terribly despondent. Black misery swept over him.

He was dancing with her. Never had he imagined that he could be so happy. She was like a feather, a rose leaf in his arms. She was wearing a pink dress again – a different one. It floated out all round her.