If Vernon had been capable of summing up the events of the next few years, he could best have done it in one word – Scenes! Everlasting and ever recurring scenes.
And he began to notice a curious phenomenon. After each scene his mother looked larger and his father looked smaller. Emotional storms of reproach and invective exhilarated Myra mentally and physically. She emerged from them refreshed, soothed – full of good will towards all the world.
With Walter Deyre it was the opposite. He shrank into himself, every sensitive fibre in his nature shrinking from the onslaught. The faint polite sarcasm that was his weapon of defence never failed to goad his wife to the utmost fury. His quiet weary self-control exasperated her as nothing else could have done.
Not that she was lacking for very real grounds of complaint. Walter Deyre spent less and less time at Abbots Puissants. When he did return his eyes had baggy pouches under them and his hand shook. He took little notice of Vernon, and yet the child was always conscious of an underlying sympathy. It was tacitly understood that Walter should not ‘interfere’ with the child. A mother was the person who should have the say. Apart from supervising the boy’s riding, Walter stood aside. Not to do so would have roused fresh matter for discussion and reproach. He was ready to admit that Myra had all the virtues and was a most careful and attentive mother.
And yet he sometimes had the feeling that he could give the boy something that she could not. The trouble was that they were both shy of each other. To neither of them was it easy to express their feelings – a thing Myra would have found incomprehensible. They remained gravely polite to each other.
But when a ‘scene’ was in progress, Vernon was full of silent sympathy. He knew exactly how his father was feeling – knew how that loud angry voice hurt the ears and the head. He knew, of course, that Mummy must be right – Mummy was always right, that was an article of belief not to be questioned – but all the same, he was unconsciously on his father’s side.
Things went from bad to worse – came to a crisis. Mummy remained locked in her room for two days – servants whispered delightedly in corners – and Uncle Sydney arrived on the scene to see what he could do.
Uncle Sydney undoubtedly had a soothing influence over Myra. He walked up and down the room, jingling his money as of old, and looking stouter and more rubicund than ever.
Myra poured out her woes.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Uncle Sydney, jingling hard. ‘I know, my dear girl. I’m not saying you haven’t had a lot to put up with. You have. Nobody knows that better than I do. But there’s give and take, you know. Give and take. That’s married life in a nutshell – give and take.’
There was a fresh outburst from Myra.
‘I’m not sticking up for Deyre,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Not at all. I’m just looking at the whole thing as a man of the world. Women lead sheltered lives and they don’t look at these things as men do – quite right that they shouldn’t. You’re a good woman, Myra, and it’s always hard for a good woman to understand these things. Carrie’s just the same.’
‘What has Carrie got to put up with, I should like to know?’ cried Myra. ‘You don’t go off racketing round with disgusting women. You don’t make love to the servants.’
‘N-no,’ said her brother. ‘No, of course not. It’s the principle of the thing I’m talking about. And mind you, Carrie and I don’t see eye to eye over everything. We have our tiffs – why sometimes we don’t speak to each other for two days on end. But bless you, we make it up again, and things go on better than before. A good row clears the air – that’s what I say. But there must be give and take. And no nagging afterwards. The best man in the world won’t stand nagging.’
‘I never nag,’ said Myra tearfully, and believed it. ‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘Now don’t get the wind up, old girl. I’m not saying you do. I’m just laying down general principles. And remember, Deyre’s not our sort. He’s kittle cattle – the touchy sensitive kind. A mere trifle sets them off.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Myra bitterly. ‘He’s impossible. Why did I ever marry him?’
‘Well, you know, Sis, you can’t have it both ways. It was a good match. I’m bound to admit it was a good match. Here you are, living in a swell place, knowing all the County, as good as anybody short of Royalty. My word, if poor old Dad had lived, how proud he’d have been! And what I’m getting at is this – everything’s got its seamy side. You can’t have the halfpence without one or two of the kicks as well. They’re decadent, these old families, that’s what they are – decadent, and you’ve just got to face the fact. You’ve just got to sum up the situation in a businesslike way – advantages, so and so. Disadvantages ditto. It’s the only way. Take my word for it, it’s the only way.’
‘I didn’t marry him for the sake of “advantages” as you call it,’ said Myra. ‘I hate this place. I always have. It’s because of Abbots Puissants he married me – not for myself.’
‘Nonsense, Sis, you were a jolly pretty girl – and still are,’ he added gallantly.
‘Walter married me for the sake of Abbots Puissants,’ said Myra obstinately. ‘I tell you I know it.’
‘Well, well,’ said her brother. ‘Let’s leave the past alone.’
‘You wouldn’t be so calm and cold-blooded about it if you were me,’ said Myra bitterly. ‘Not if you had to live with him. I do everything I can think of to please him – and he only sneers and treats me like this.’
‘You nag him,’ said Sydney. ‘Oh, yes, you do. You can’t help it.’
‘If only he’d answer back! If he’d say something – instead of just sitting there.’
‘Yes, but that’s the kind of fellow he is. You can’t alter people in this world to suit your fancy. I can’t say I care for the chap myself – too la-di-da for me. Why, if you put him in to run a concern it would be bankrupt in a fortnight! But I’m bound to say he’s always been very polite and decent to me. Quite the gentleman. When I’ve run across him in London he’s taken me to lunch at that swell club of his and if I didn’t feel too comfortable there that wasn’t his fault. He’s got his good points.’
‘You’re so like a man,’ said Myra. ‘Carrie would understand! He’s been unfaithful to me, I tell you. Unfaithful!’
‘Well, well,’ said Uncle Sydney with a great deal of jingling and his eyes on the ceiling. ‘Men will be men.’
‘But Syd, you never –’
‘Of course not,’ said Uncle Sydney hastily. ‘Of course not – of course not. I’m speaking generally, Myra – generally, you understand.’
‘It’s all finished,’ said Myra. ‘No woman could stand more than I’ve stood. And now it’s the end. I never want to see him again.’
‘Ah!’ said Uncle Sydney. He drew a chair to the table and sat down with the air of one prepared to talk business. ‘Then let’s get down to brass tacks. You’ve made up your mind? What is it you do want to do?’
‘I tell you I never want to see Walter again!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Uncle Sydney patiently. ‘We’re taking that for granted. Now what do you want? A divorce?’
‘Oh!’ Myra was taken aback. ‘I hadn’t thought –’
‘Well, we must get the thing put on a business-like footing. I doubt if you’d get a divorce. You’ve got to prove cruelty, you know, as well, and I doubt if you could do that.’
‘If you knew the suffering he’s caused me –’
‘I daresay. I’m not denying it. But you want something more than that to satisfy the law. And there’s no desertion. If you wrote to him to come back, he’d come, I suppose?’
‘Haven’t I just told you I never want to see him again?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. You women do harp on a thing so. We’re looking at the thing from a business point of view now. I don’t think a divorce will wash.’
‘I don’t want a divorce.’
‘Well, what do you want, a separation?’
‘So that he could go and live with that abandoned creature in London? Live with her altogether? And what would happen to me, I should like to know?’
‘Plenty of nice houses near me and Carrie. You’d have the boy with you most of the time, I expect.’
‘And let Walter bring disgusting women into this very house, perhaps? No, indeed, I don’t intend to play into his hands like that!’
‘Well, dash it all Myra, what do you want?’
Myra began to cry again.
‘I’m so miserable, Syd, I’m so miserable. If only Walter were different.’
‘Well, he isn’t – and he never will be. You must just make up your mind to it, Myra. You’ve married a fellow who’s a bit of a Don Jooan – and you’ve got to try and take a broadminded view of it. You’re fond of the chap. Kiss and make friends – that’s what I say. We’re none of us perfect. Give and take – that’s the thing to remember – give and take.’
His sister continued to weep quietly.
‘Marriage is a ticklish business,’ went on Uncle Sydney in a ruminative voice. ‘Women are too good for us, not a doubt of it.’
‘I suppose,’ said Myra in a tearful voice. ‘One ought to forgive and forgive – again and again.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Women are angels and men aren’t, and women have got to make allowances. Always have had to and always will.’
Myra’s sobs grew less. She was seeing herself now in the role of the forgiving angel.
‘It isn’t as if I didn’t do everything I could,’ she sobbed. ‘I run the house and I’m sure nobody could be a more devoted mother.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘And that’s a fine youngster of yours. I wish Carrie and I had a boy. Four girls – it’s a bit thick. Still as I always say to her: “Better luck next time, old girl.” We both feel sure it’s going to be a boy this time.’
Myra was diverted.
‘I didn’t know. When is it?’
‘June.’
‘How is Carrie?’
‘Suffering a bit with her legs – swelled, you know. But she manages to get about a fair amount. Why, hallo, here’s that young shaver. How long have you been here, my boy?’
‘Oh, a long time,’ said Vernon. ‘I was here when you came in.’
‘You’re so quiet,’ complained his uncle. ‘Not like your cousins. I’m sure the racket they make is almost too much to bear sometimes. What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘It’s an engine,’ said Vernon.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘It’s a milk cart!’
Vernon was silent.
‘Hey,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Isn’t it a milk cart?’
‘No,’ said Vernon. ‘It’s an engine.’
‘Not a bit of it. It’s a milk cart. That’s funny, isn’t it? You say it’s an engine and I say it’s a milk cart. I wonder which of us is right?’
Since Vernon knew that he was, it seemed hardly necessary to reply.
‘He’s a solemn child,’ said Uncle Sydney turning to his sister. ‘Never sees a joke. You know, my boy, you’ll have to get used to being teased at school.’
‘Shall I?’ said Vernon, who couldn’t see what that had to do with it.
‘A boy who can take teasing with a laugh, that’s the sort of boy who gets on in the world,’ said Uncle Sydney and jingled his money again, stimulated by a natural association of ideas.
Vernon stared at him thoughtfully.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing,’ said Vernon.
‘Take your engine on the terrace, dear,’ said Myra.
Vernon obeyed.
‘Now I wonder how much that little chap took in of what we were talking about?’ said Sydney to his sister.
‘Oh, he wouldn’t understand. He’s too little.’
‘H’m,’ said Sydney. ‘I don’t know. Some children take in a lot – my Ethel does. But then she’s a very wide awake child.’
‘I don’t think Vernon ever notices anything,’ said Myra. ‘It’s rather a blessing in some ways.’
‘Mummy?’ said Vernon later. ‘What’s going to happen in June?’
‘In June, darling?’
‘Yes – what you and Uncle Sydney were talking about.’
‘Oh! that –’ Myra was momentarily discomposed. ‘Well, you see – it’s a great secret –’
‘Yes?’ said Vernon eagerly.
‘Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie hope that in June they will have a dear little baby boy. A boy cousin for you.’
‘Oh,’ said Vernon, disappointed. ‘Is that all?’
After a minute or two, he said:
‘Why are Aunt Carrie’s legs swelled?’
‘Oh, well – you see – she has been rather over-tired lately.’
Myra dreaded more questions. She tried to remember what she and Sydney had actually said.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Do Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie want to have a baby boy?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then why do they wait till June? Why don’t they have it now?’
‘Because, Vernon, God knows best. And God wants them to have it in June.’
‘That’s a long time to wait,’ said Vernon. ‘If I were God I’d send people things at once, as soon as they wanted them.’
‘You mustn’t be blasphemous, dear,’ said Myra gently.
Vernon was silent. But he was puzzled. What was blasphemous? He rather thought that it was the same word Cook had used speaking of her brother. She had said he was a most – something – man and hardly ever touched a drop! She had spoken as though such an attitude was highly commendable. But evidently Mummy didn’t seem to think the same about it.
Vernon added an extra prayer that evening to his usual petition of ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy and makemeagooboy armen.’
‘Dear God,’ he prayed. ‘Will you send me a puppy in June – or July would do if you are very busy.’
‘Now why in June?’ said Miss Robbins. ‘You are a funny little boy. I should have thought you would have wanted the puppy now.’
‘That would be blamafous,’ said Vernon and eyed her reproachfully.
Suddenly the world became very exciting. There was a war – in South Africa – and Father was going to it!
Everyone was excited and upset. For the first time, Vernon heard of some people called the Boers. They were the people that Father was going to fight.
His father came home for a few days. He looked younger and more alive and a great deal more cheerful. He and Mummy were quite nice to each other and there weren’t any scenes or quarrels.
Once or twice, Vernon thought, his father squirmed uneasily at some of the things his mother said. Once he said irritably:
‘For God’s sake, Myra, don’t keep talking of brave heroes laying down their lives for their country. I can’t stand that sort of cant.’
But his mother had not got angry. She only said:
‘I know you don’t like me saying it. But it’s true.’
On the last evening before he left, Vernon’s father called to his small son to go for a walk with him. They strolled all round the place, silently at first, and then Vernon was emboldened to ask questions.
‘Are you glad you’re going to the war, Father?’
‘Very glad.’
‘Is it fun?’
‘Not what you’d call fun, I expect. But it is in a way. It’s excitement, and then, too, it takes you away from things – right away.’
‘I suppose,’ said Vernon thoughtfully, ‘there aren’t any ladies at the war?’
Walter Deyre looked sharply at his son, a slight smile hovering on his lips. Uncanny, the way the boy sometimes hit the nail on the head quite unconsciously.
‘That makes for peace, certainly,’ he said gravely.
‘Will you kill a good many people, do you think?’ inquired Vernon interestedly.
His father replied that it was impossible to tell accurately beforehand.
‘I hope you will,’ said Vernon, anxious that his father should shine. ‘I hope you’ll kill a hundred.’
‘Thank you, old man.’
‘I suppose,’ began Vernon and then stopped.
‘Yes?’ said Walter Deyre encouragingly.
‘I suppose – sometimes – people do get killed in war.’
Walter Deyre understood the ambiguous phrase.
‘Sometimes,’ he said.
‘You don’t think you will, do you?’
‘I might. It’s all in the day’s work, you know.’
Vernon considered the phrase thoughtfully. The feeling that underlay it came dimly to him.
‘Would you mind if you were, Father?’
‘It might be the best thing,’ said Walter Deyre, more to himself than to the child.
‘I hope you won’t,’ said Vernon.
‘Thank you.’
His father smiled a little. Vernon’s wish had sounded so politely conventional. But he did not make the mistake Myra would have done, of thinking the child unfeeling.
They had reached the ruins of the Abbey. The sun was just setting. Father and son looked round and Walter Deyre drew in his breath with a little intake of pain. Perhaps he might never stand here again.
‘I’ve made a mess of things,’ he thought to himself.
‘Vernon?’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘If I am killed, Abbots Puissants will belong to you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Silence again. So much that he would have liked to say – but he wasn’t used to saying things. These were the things that one didn’t put into words. Odd, how strangely at home he felt with that small person, his son. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to have got to know the boy better. They might have had some good times together. He was shy of the boy – and the boy was shy of him. And yet somehow, they were curiously in harmony. They both of them disliked saying things –
‘I’m fond of the old place,’ said Walter Deyre. ‘I expect you will be too.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Queer to think of the old monks – catching their fish – fat fellows – that’s how I always think of them – comfortable chaps.’
They lingered a few minutes longer.
‘Well,’ said Walter Deyre, ‘we must be getting home. It’s late.’
They turned. Walter Deyre squared his shoulders. There was a leave taking to be got through – an emotional one if he knew Myra – and he rather dreaded it. Well, it would soon be over. Goodbyes were painful things – better if one made no fuss about them, but then of course Myra would never see it that way.
Poor Myra. She’d had a rotten deal on the whole. A fine-looking creature, but he’d married her really for the sake of Abbots Puissants – and she had married him for love. That was the root of the whole trouble.
‘Look after your mother, Vernon,’ he said suddenly. ‘She’s been very good to you, you know.’
He rather hoped, in a way, that he wouldn’t come back. It would be best so. Vernon had his mother.
And yet, at that thought, he had a queer traitorous feeling. As though he were deserting the boy …
‘Walter,’ cried Myra, ‘you haven’t said goodbye to Vernon.’
Walter looked across at his son, standing there wide-eyed.
‘Goodbye, old chap. Have a good time.’
‘Goodbye, Father.’
That was all. Myra was scandalized – had he no love for the boy? He hadn’t even kissed him. How queer they were – the Deyres. So casual. Strange, the way they had nodded to each other, across the width of the room. So alike …
‘But Vernon,’ said Myra to herself, ‘shall not grow up like his father.’
On the walls around her Deyres looked down and smiled sardonically …