Twelve

MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN

I
Edmund Swettenham sat down rather precariously on a garden roller.

“Good morning, Phillipa,” he said.

“Hallo.”

“Are you very busy?”

“Moderately.”

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t you see?”

“No. I’m not a gardener. You seem to be playing with earth in some fash-ion.”

“I’m pricking out winter lettuce.”

“Pricking out? What a curious term! Like pinking. Do you know whatpinking is? I only learnt the other day. I always thought it was a term forprofessional duelling.”

“Do you want anything particular?” asked Phillipa coldly.

“Yes. I want to see you.”

Phillipa gave him a quick glance.

“I wish you wouldn’t come here like this. Mrs. Lucas won’t like it.”

“Doesn’t she allow you to have followers?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Followers. That’s another nice word. It describes my attitude perfectly.

Respectful—at a distance—but firmly pursuing.”

“Please go away, Edmund. You’ve no business to come here.”

“You’re wrong,” said Edmund triumphantly. “I have business here. Mrs.

Lucas rang up my mamma this morning and said she had a good many ve-getable marrows.”

“Masses of them.”

“And would we like to exchange a pot of honey for a vegetable marrowor so.”

“That’s not a fair exchange at all! Vegetable marrows are quite unsale-able at the moment—everybody has such a lot.”

“Naturally. That’s why Mrs. Lucas rang up. Last time, if I rememberrightly, the exchange suggested was some skim milk—skim milk, mark you—in exchange for some lettuces. It was then very early in the season forlettuces. They were about a shilling each.”

Phillipa did not speak.

Edmund tugged at his pocket and extracted a pot of honey.

“So here,” he said, “is my alibi. Used in a loose and quite indefensiblemeaning of the term. If Mrs. Lucas pops her bust round the door of thepotting shed, I’m here in quest of vegetable marrows. There is absolutelyno question of dalliance.”

“I see.”

“Do you ever read Tennyson?” inquired Edmund conversationally. “Notvery often.”

“You should. Tennyson is shortly to make a comeback in a big way.

When you turn on your wireless in the evening it will be the Idylls of theKing you will hear and not interminable Trollope. I always thought theTrollope pose was the most unbearable affectation. Perhaps a little ofTrollope, but not to drown in him. But speaking of Tennyson, have youread Maud?”

“Once, long ago.”

“It’s got some points about it.” He quoted softly:

“‘Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.’ That’s you, Phillipa.”

“Hardly a compliment!”

“No, it wasn’t meant to be. I gather Maud got under the poor fellow’sskin just like you’ve got under mine.”

“Don’t be absurd, Edmund.”

“Oh, hell, Phillipa, why are you like you are? What goes on behind yoursplendidly regular features? What do you think? What do you feel? Areyou happy, or miserable, or frightened, or what? There must be some-thing.”

Phillipa said quietly:

“What I feel is my own business.”

“It’s mine, too. I want to make you talk. I want to know what goes on inthat quiet head of yours. I’ve a right to know. I have really. I didn’t want tofall in love with you. I wanted to sit quietly and write my book. Such anice book, all about how miserable the world is. It’s frightfully easy to beclever about how miserable everybody is. And it’s all a habit, really. Yes,I’ve suddenly become convinced of that. After reading a life of BurneJones.”

Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzledfrown.

“What has Burne Jones got to do with it?”

“Everything. When you’ve read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realizejust what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly,and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That wasfashion, too. They weren’t any happier or heartier than we are. And we’renot any more miserable than they were. It’s all fashion, I tell you. After thelast war, we went in for sex. Now it’s all frustration. None of it matters.

Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I gotcold feet and shied off. Because you won’t help me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and he’sdead and so you’ve shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adoredhim, and he’s dead. Well, other girls’ husbands are dead—lots of them—and some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, andcry a bit when they’re drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with youso that they’ll feel better. It’s one way of getting over it, I suppose. You’vegot to get over it, Phillipa. You’re young—and you’re extremely lovely—and I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me abouthim.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We met and got married.”

“You must have been very young.”

“Too young.”

“Then you weren’t happy with him? Go on, Phillipa.”

“There’s nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy asmost people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. He—he was killed in Italy.”

“And now there’s Harry?”

“And now there’s Harry.”

“I like Harry. He’s a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What aboutit, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go onwriting my book and in the holidays we’ll leave off working and enjoyourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. Shecan fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripeybooks, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. That’s the worst. Willyou try it?”

Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with ananxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and hewas regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.

“No,” said Phillipa.

“Definitely—no?”

“Definitely no.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Is that all?”

“No, you don’t know anything about anything.”

Edmund considered.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But who does? Phillipa, my adored one—”

He broke off.

A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.

“Pekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)When twilight was falling (only it’s eleven a.m.)Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil,

They were crying and calling

“Your name doesn’t lend itself to the rhythm, does it? Sounds like anOde to a Fountain Pen. Have you got another name?”

“Joan. Please go away. That’s Mrs. Lucas.”

“Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan. Better, but still not good. When greasy Joan thepot doth keel—that’s not a nice picture of married life, either.”

“Mrs. Lucas is—”

“Oh, hell!” said Edmund. “Get me a blasted vegetable marrow.”