Quartet 9781509859498, p.7
Quartet (9781509859498), page 7
Jenifer looked around her. Some of the Burdetts were swinging on a home-made swing, consisting of a long loop of frayed rope hung from the branch of a tree. The rope broke at frequent intervals, precipitating them violently to the ground. They would get up, tie the ends of rope together, and continue the interrupted swing till it broke again. On the whole she thought that the game looked more interesting. It appeared to be the sort of game in which anyone can join at any point. Jenifer joined in and, soon mastering its rudimentary principles, began to push and scuffle with the rest, stopping occasionally to set the howling Michael on his feet. Once or twice she lifted him clear of the scrum, but he immediately returned to the heart of it. The white pique sailor-suit became stained with green where she rolled upon the grass, and several gathers were torn out where a pursuing Burdett caught hold of it. As the excitement of the game grew on her she began to shout as loudly as the others, wrestling, struggling, pushing . . . She even forgot to pick up Michael when she had knocked him over. There was certainly something infectious about the vitality of the young Burdetts. The game was interrupted by cries of “Tea,” at which the whole crowd of players ran in a struggling mass to the cottage door. Michael followed at their heels, howling more loudly than ever at being thus left behind by his tormentors.
The baby had been taken into the cottage, and Mrs Burdett and her cousin stood at the door, dealing out enormous chunks of bread and jam. The young Burdetts dispensed with plates and knives.
Mark had secured a slice of bread and jam for Lorna. He was well aware, of course, that this was not the way such things should be done. He had helped to hand round cakes and cups of tea to parents at his school speech-day—dainty cakes on lace-covered plates, elegant china cups . . . It pained him to have to hand to this marvellous creature from a higher world a chunk of bread and jam on a grubby palm (he had tried without success to find a plate, and if he had stopped to wash his hands all the bread and jam would have disappeared), but there was nothing else to be done. He informed his manner as he did it with an almost exaggerated courtliness to make up for the absence of other amenities. Lorna received it with equal politeness and began to eat it with dainty disapproval, as if to prove that she was unaccustomed to such fare. But it was a long time since she had had lunch, and the open air had made her hungry, so, hearing a cry of “Hurry up if you want seconds. The bread’s nearly finished,” she abandoned further pretence of gentility and set to work on it with gusto. Mark, much relieved, followed her example, then ran to join the throng of claimants for “seconds,” forcing his way unceremoniously to the front. He met Jenifer on his way back, and she accompanied him to where Lorna sat waiting for him. Lorna looked with disapproval at Jenifer’s dishevelled hair, dirty face, and stained suit.
“Really, Jenifer!” she said. “What a dreadful mess you’re in!”
She had an undefined feeling that this haughty, elder sister attitude somehow counteracted the effect of sitting under a hedge, eating thick chunks of bread and jam.
Jenifer looked down at her once white suit.
“Oh well,” she said, “it’s a picnic. You can’t keep clean on a picnic.”
“You mean you can’t,” said Lorna crushingly.
Then she turned to Mark and began to ask him about his school, speaking in an affected grown-up voice, and frequently laughing the new laugh. Mark’s admiration increased each moment.
“When are you going away?” he said.
“At the end of the month. We’ve got a house at Westonlea. It’s a very good beach for bathing, I believe, and there are some splendid walks along the top of the cliff.”
Then she glanced up and caught Jenifer’s eye. Jenifer was watching her in a detached impersonal way that Lorna found unspeakably exasperating.
“Go away and play with the others, Jenifer,” she said severely. “Don’t stand about listening to other people’s conversation like that.”
“You weren’t saying anything private,” said Jenifer.
“We don’t want a baby like you listening to us whatever we say. Do you know, Mark, she’s such a baby that once she woke up and screamed because she thought she saw a ghost, and it was only her own dressing-gown hanging over a chair.”
She laughed, and Mark joined in. Jenifer’s thoughts went back to the dreadful night when she woke up and thought that she saw two horrible eyes gleaming at her through the darkness, and it was only two of the metal buttons of her dressing-gown. Lorna had been very sweet and sympathetic and understanding, letting her come into her bed and comforting her. And now she was laughing at her . . .
Jenifer walked slowly away. The feeling she was chiefly conscious of was that of having made an important discovery. People could change quite suddenly from being nice about a thing to being nasty. The same people. And the same thing. And so you ought to be very careful about what you told people, even when they were being nice, because they might change quite suddenly to being nasty and laugh at you . . .
Chapter Six
Mrs Burdett sat on the wooden bench outside the cottage door, holding Michael on her knee and thrusting pieces of bread and jam into his mouth. His face was smeared with tears and dirt, and his nose was swollen with crying. During the scrimmage known as “tea,” every piece of bread and jam he had managed to secure had been promptly taken from him and eaten by someone else. Miss Burdett sat beside them, still trying to screw up her courage to break the news that she was going home by the ten-thirty tomorrow morning.
“I quite envy you, you know, dear,” Mrs Burdett was saying. “I’d come to stay here myself if it wasn’t for looking after George. I had Cousin Maggie here last year. And the year before I had Charlotte, George’s sister-in-law’s friend, you know. It happened that none of them could come again, but in any case I think it’s nicer to give someone else a chance, because it is such a perfect spot for a holiday, and, of course, the children stop you feeling lonely.”
Miss Burdett agreed that they did, and added, “I simply can’t get them to bed in time.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mrs Burdett. “They generally come in when they’re tired.”
“And the farmer was complaining of them this morning. I don’t quite know what it was. Something about gates left open and a pig they’d let out of the farmyard. They said they’d been playing cowboys on it.”
“Oh well, leave it to him,” said Mrs Burdett imperturbably. “It’s his business to keep them out of places he doesn’t want them to go into. That’s what I always say.”
“And they’ve broken two windows with cricket-balls.”
“Yes, of course, they do . . . Cardboard’s a good idea, but it doesn’t really keep the rain out. Generally I wait till there are enough broken to make it worth while to have someone up to mend them.”
There was a short silence, during which Miss Burdett once more opened her mouth to say, “I’m sorry, Lilia. I’ve simply got to go by the ten-thirty tomorrow,” but before she had time to say it Mrs Burdett broke the silence.
“It’s so nice to feel that you’re here, Hessie, and to know that everything’s going on all right.”
Miss Burdett closed her mouth again. Again she felt that she could not strip that look of content from Lilia’s passive relaxed face. It would be like striking a child. There was something infinitely disarming about Lilia when she wasn’t being either magnificent or rushed off her feet. Oh well . . . she supposed she’d just have to go through with it. It would come to an end some time. Things did. You just went on and on and on, and you found that a minute had gone, then five, then an hour, and at last it was the next day. And so on. If it didn’t drive her into a lunatic asylum first. After all, she’d feel awful if she went now and left Lilia with no one to look after the cottage. That was the worst of being conscientious. She often envied people who weren’t. They seemed to get so much more out of life. But if you were, you were, and it wasn’t any use trying to fight against it. You might as well try to alter the shape of your nose. She sat up suddenly, her face tense with horror.
“Lilia,” she said, “look at Charles.”
Mrs Burdett turned her head and looked at the small figure that could be seen dangling precariously from the highest branch of the elm tree. Suddenly it began to drop from branch to branch. Miss Burdett drew in her breath sharply, but Mrs Burdett’s expression of sleepy content did not alter.
“He’ll be all right,” she said, and added, “It’s not Charles. It’s Luke.”
Miss Burdett watched, still stiff with horror, as the reckless descent continued. But Mrs Burdett’s prophecy was fulfilled. He was all right. He landed, apparently, on his head, but immediately picked himself up and ran off shouting to join in the nearest game.
Lorna, looking cool and dainty and immaculate, still sat in the shadow of the hedge with Mark. The zest of the situation was fading somewhat. She was being very sweet to Mark, but he was so obviously and finally infatuated that it seemed rather a waste of sweetness. Some of the elder Burdett boys were holding a wrestling match near her. They were dishevelled and tousled and dirty—the shirt-sleeve of one had been torn right out, another had a black eye, and another a streak of mud all down his face— but despite that Lorna felt interested in them. She wanted to know them. She wanted them to know her . . . An unusually strenuous throw sent one of the wrestlers rolling to her feet. They apologised.
“It’s quite all right,” she said graciously.
They looked at her, timid and wild and on the defensive like young colts. She tried to think of something grownup to say but could only think of the immortal opening gambit of childhood, “How old are you?”
They answered in turn, evidently impressed by her looks and manner, then the boy with the black eye returned diffidently:
“How old are you?”
“Ten . . . Isn’t it jolly here? Do you come here every summer?”
They began to talk, shyly at first, then with increasing vivacity, telling her about the woods on the hill-side and the games they played there, about the stream and the fishes they had caught.
“Honest, I caught ten in about two minutes once. Jolly big ones. Tiddlers.”
“I think there’s really big fish higher up where it gets deeper. Trout an’ things. I shan’t be surprised if there’s salmon. I’ve seen big holes there where I bet they hide up.”
“An’ I think there’s wolves in the wood that only come out at night. I bet you anything I saw a wolf’s foot-mark there this morning.”
Lorna showed a flattering interest and credulity.
“Did you really. . .?”
She had a pleasant mental picture of herself surrounded by these young savages. Beauty and the beasts. Mark drew away, vaguely hurt.
A crowd of children rushed past, shouting, “Come on. We’re going to play.”
Suddenly Lorna felt tired of sitting by the hedge and being grown-up. She leapt to her feet and joined in the game, shouting and pushing . . .
Michael had wandered off to the farm and had fallen into the midden, from which he had been rescued by Eglantine, the eldest girl. He was making his way across the field now, an unsavoury little object, covered with manure. The others ran away from him, holding their noses in exaggerated disgust. He pursued them on short fat legs, howling loudly. He wanted to be in the thick of them, being knocked over and pushed about and trodden on. He couldn’t bear being left alone . . .
Miss Burdett led him to his mother, her thin face again transfixed with horror.
“What shall we do with him?” she said.
Mrs Burdett glanced down undismayed at her dung-encrusted son.
“It’ll brush off when it dries,” she said and, gathering him, manure and smell and all, into her large lap, crooned: “There, there, my pet. It’s all right. Don’t cry.”
The neat precise figure of Mr Burdett, who had cycled over to escort his family home, now appeared among the crowd. He met Jenifer, took off his hat politely, and opened his mouth to speak. His face worked convulsively for some moments, but no words came. Suddenly he abandoned the attempt and sang in a clear tenor voice: “How are you, my dear child? And how are your parents?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Jenifer, conquering a strong desire to sing back at him.
Mrs Burdett greeted her husband affectionately.
“Oh, there you are, dear. It’s about time we were collecting together, isn’t it? We’ve had such a lovely time, haven’t we, Hessie?”
Miss Burdett blinked speechlessly behind her glasses.
“I think it’s done Hessie good already, don’t you?” went on Mrs Burdett. “She’s got quite a colour.”
Miss Burdett, still hot and breathless from pursuing a small Burdett who had run off with the only remaining pot of jam, again blinked speechlessly behind her glasses.
Noah was harnessing the ancient cart horse to the wagonette, while young Burdetts swarmed over him, climbing from his back on to the horse, from the horse on to the wagonette.
Mrs Burdett fetched the baby, who was still asleep in the cottage, and there was a scene of indescribable chaos as they all prepared to depart. Finally, the loaded wagonette set off with its shouting cargo, leaving Mark, Lorna, Jenifer, Claude, Davida, and Marigold to stay the night at the cottage.
Miss Burdett gazed despairingly in the direction in which it was disappearing. She simply couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t been firmer. It was terrible to think that she wasn’t going home by the ten-thirty tomorrow morning, after all. She went upstairs to her small attic bedroom, sat down on her bed, and had a good cry. Then she looked at her watch and realised that it was supper time. The good cry had made her feel better, and she was now ready to do her duty. She went downstairs to the little kitchen, got out another loaf, and began to cut huge chunks of bread and spread them with jam. She seemed to have been doing that for weeks, months, years. Ever since she was born. She couldn’t realise that she’d only been here a few days. You made great saucepanfuls of stew and potatoes and vegetables and suet puddings for dinner in the middle of the day, but for all the other meals you sawed chunks of bread and spread them with jam. And they disappeared as soon as you’d spread them. The first day she’d really thought that her arm was going to drop off. Lilia had said when she arrived that there would be nothing to do beyond just looking after the children. It had sounded so simple . . .
They were pouring in at the open door now, panting, hot, dishevelled. There weren’t many of them, but even two of the little Burdetts could seem a crowd. Even one could . . . The two little girls who had come to stay the night had been so fresh and clean and nicely behaved at first, but now they looked almost as bad as the others. The younger one quite as bad. Mark, too, was beginning to lose his beautiful manners, and to push and scuffle like the rest. Two extra children had turned up, who had been left behind by the wagonette. They’d have to have her bed, and she’d have to sleep in the sitting-room. How on earth was she going to stand a whole month of it? Oh well, she’d made up her mind to it now and she’d just go through with it. Even if it killed her, as it probably would.
She put on water for washing, and went out to fetch some of them in to bed. Getting them to bed was the worst part of the whole day. But tonight they weren’t as bad as usual. They were tired and came in about the fifth time she called them.
The bedroom in which Jenifer and Lorna were to sleep contained two small beds, one of which Lorna was to share with Marigold, the other of which Jenifer was to share with Davida. Jenifer got into bed quickly. All her excitement had faded and she was feeling homesick and miserable. Home and Mother seemed so far away as to be in another world. She had a horrible feeling that she might never see them again . . . The others were still scampering up and down stairs, shouting and laughing and throwing pillows at each other. Suddenly they all invaded her bedroom and began to tickle her. It was like a nightmare... . Hot fingers under her arms, on her neck, all over her body. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t get her breath.
“Leave her alone,” said Lorna suddenly. “She doesn’t like it.”
The Burdetts stopped, amazed.
“Doesn’t like being tickled?” they said.
They couldn’t believe it.
Jenifer was trying to get her breath. It came in little sobbing gasps.
They looked at her with dispassionate interest.
“What’s the matter with her? Is she choking?”
“No,” said Lorna. “She doesn’t like being tickled, that’s all. It always makes her like that. She’ll be sick if you go on.”
“Isn’t she funny?” they said, and lost interest in her.
Gradually silence fell over the house. Davida got into bed with Jenifer, and Marigold with Lorna. Cousin Hessie came upstairs and tucked up the children, then went down to the sitting-room, drinking in the silence as a thirsty man drinks water. Sounds of deep breathing came from the bed where Lorna and Marigold were. Sounds of deep breathing came from Davida. Jenifer stirred and wriggled uneasily. Davida’s soft warm body was pressing against her. Jenifer couldn’t bear being touched. It was almost as bad as being tickled. People didn’t touch you at home except just to kiss you, and they didn’t kiss you often. She and Lorna had always had separate beds. The feeling of Davida’s warm soft body was horrible. She shrank away from it . . . Davida, sleeping peacefully, followed her, and again the plump warm softness of her was pressed against Jenifer. Again Jenifer shrank from it, finding herself now at the very edge of the bed. Even there it pursued and overtook her. She got out of bed and stood for a moment, gazing at the three sleeping children. Then she went to the window. It was almost dark—a twilit dark that seemed to hold the trees and fields in a tender embrace as they slept. Not the sort of dark that frightened you. The sky was a deep blue, sprinkled with stars. She leant out of the window and let the cool night breeze fan her face. She still felt hot and sticky. She still seemed to feel Davida’s warm plump body pressing against hers . . .
