One

I
When at last I was taken out of the plaster, and the doctors had pulled meabout to their hearts’ content, and nurses had wheedled me into cau-tiously using my limbs, and I had been nauseated by their practically us-ing baby talk to me, Marcus Kent told me I was to go and live in the coun-try.

“Good air, quiet life, nothing to do—that’s the prescription for you. Thatsister of yours will look after you. Eat, sleep and imitate the vegetablekingdom as far as possible.”

I didn’t ask him if I’d ever be able to fly again. There are questions thatyou don’t ask because you’re afraid of the answers to them. In the sameway during the last five months I’d never asked if I was going to be con-demned to lie on my back all my life. I was afraid of a bright hypocriticalreassurance from Sister. “Come now, what a question to ask! We don’t letour patients go talking in that way!”

So I hadn’t asked—and it had been all right. I wasn’t to be a helplesscripple. I could move my legs, stand on them, finally walk a few steps—and if I did feel rather like an adventurous baby learning to toddle, withwobbly knees and cotton wool soles to my feet—well, that was only weak-ness and disuse and would pass.

Marcus Kent, who is the right kind of doctor, answered what I hadn’tsaid.

“You’re going to recover completely,” he said. “We weren’t sure untillast Tuesday when you had that final overhaul, but I can tell you so au-thoritatively now. But—it’s going to be a long business. A long and, if Imay so, a wearisome business. When it’s a question of healing nerves andmuscles, the brain must help the body. Any impatience, any fretting, willthrow you back. And whatever you do, don’t ‘will yourself to get wellquickly.’ Anything of that kind and you’ll find yourself back in a nursinghome. You’ve got to take life slowly and easily, the tempo is markedLegato. Not only has your body got to recover, but your nerves have beenweakened by the necessity of keeping you under drugs for so long.

“That’s why I say, go down to the country, take a house, get interested inlocal politics, in local scandal, in village gossip. Take an inquisitive and vi-olent interest in your neighbours. If I may make a suggestion, go to a partof the world where you haven’t got any friends scattered about.”

I nodded. “I had already,” I said, “thought of that.”

I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of one’s owngang dropping in full of sympathy and their own affairs.

“But Jerry, you’re looking marvellous—isn’t he? Absolutely. Darling, Imust tell you—What do you think Buster has done now?”

No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quietcorner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they arewhole once more.

So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through houseagents’

glowing eulogies of properties all over the British Isles, selected LittleFurze, Lymstock, as one of the “possibles” to be viewed, mainly becausewe had never been to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.

And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was justthe house we wanted.

It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to themoors. It was a prim low white house, with a sloping Victorian verandapainted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with the church spire of Lymstock down below to the left.

It had belonged to a family of maiden ladies, the Misses Barton, ofwhom only one was left, the youngest, Miss Emily.

Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched herhouse in an incredible way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained toJoanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never havethought of doing so, “but you see, my dear, things are so differentnowadays—taxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, asI always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommendedsome of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these days—for-eign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (I’m sureyou will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind)like the idea of letting one’s house to strangers—but something must bedone, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you be-ing here—it needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrinkfrom the idea of having Men here!”

At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily ralliedwell.

“Oh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men.

Still, your brother will be practically an invalid—”

The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I shouldnot be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Bartonfeared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.

“Like a chimney,” said Joanna. “But then,” she pointed out, “so do I.”

“Of course, of course. So stupid of me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’tmoved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dearmother lived to be ninety-seven—just fancy!—and was most particular.

Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ashtrays inthe house.”

Joanna said that we would bring lots of ashtrays, and she added with asmile, “We won’t put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I dopromise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.”

So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months,with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joannathat she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was goinginto rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, “my faithful Florence,” who hadmarried “after being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and herhusband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Streetand two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfort-able, and Florence so pleased to have me.”

So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement wassigned and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and MissEmily Barton’s maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were welllooked after with the assistance of a “girl” who came in every morningand who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.

Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, andthough disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emily’s custom todine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to ourways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strengthbuilding up.

When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Bar-ton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs. Sym-mington, the lawyer’s wife, Miss Griffith, the doctor’s sister, Mrs. Dane Cal-throp, the vicar’s wife, and Mr. Pye of Prior’s End.

Joanna was very much impressed.

“I didn’t know,” she said in an awestruck voice, “that people really called—with cards.”

“That is because, my child,” I said, “you know nothing about the coun-try.”

“Nonsense. I’ve stayed away for heaps of weekends with people.”

“That is not at all the same thing,” I said.

I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the bigwhite shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to theriver. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseenby the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an or-ange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in thestables.

But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London withan aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spentthere with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kens-ington Gardens with boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we weretaken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.

Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling ofcompunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid I had be-come:

“This is going to be pretty frightful for you, I’m afraid. You’ll misseverything so.”

For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cock-tails, and love affairs and rushing about in high-powered cars.

Joanna laughed and said she didn’t mind at all.

“As a matter of fact, I’m glad to get away from it all. I really was fed upwith the whole crowd, and although you won’t be sympathetic, I wasreally very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.”

I was sceptical over this. Joanna’s love affairs always run the samecourse. She has a mad infatuation for some completely spineless youngman who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaintsand works like anything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrate-ful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is broken—until the nextgloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!

So I did not take Joanna’s broken heart very seriously. But I did see thatliving in the country was like a new game to my attractive sister.

“At any rate,” she said, “I look all right, don’t I?”

I studied her critically and was not able to agree.

Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she waswearing a skirt of outrageous and preposterous checks. It was skintight,and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little shortsleeved jersey with aTyrolean effect. She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable butbrand new brogues.

“No,” I said, “you’re all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweedskirt, preferably of dirty green or faded brown. You’d wear a nicecashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and you’dhave a felt hat and thick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then,you’d sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and not stand outas you do at present.” I added: “Your face is all wrong, too.”

“What’s wrong with that? I’ve got on my Country Tan Makeup No. 2.”

“Exactly,” I said. “If you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just alittle powder to take the shine off your nose, and possibly a soup?on of lip-stick—not very well applied—and you would almost certainly be wearingall your eyebrows instead of only a quarter of them.”

Joanna gurgled and seemed much amused.

“Do you think they’ll think I’m awful?” she said.

“No,” I said. “Just queer.”

Joanna had resumed her study of the cards left by our callers. Only thevicar’s wife had been so fortunate, or possibly unfortunate, as to catchJoanna at home.

Joanna murmured:

“It’s rather like Happy Families, isn’t it? Mrs. Legal the lawyer’s wife,Miss Dose the doctor’s daughter, etc.” She added with enthusiasm: “I dothink this is a nice place, Jerry! So sweet and funny and old-world. Youjust can’t think of anything nasty happening here, can you?”

And although I knew what she said was really nonsense, I agreed withher. In a place like Lymstock nothing nasty could happen. It is odd to thinkthat it was just a week later that we got the first letter.