Giant's Bread (34 page)

George was in the middle of doing up the house and he consulted her taste at every turn. Nell began to feel quite a proprietary interest. She was almost happy again, enjoying the ease and luxury and the freedom from anxiety.

True, once she received the money from Abbots Puissants and had invested it she would have a nice little income, but she dreaded the onus of deciding where to live and what to do. She was not really happy with her mother, and all her own friends seemed to have drifted out of touch. She hardly knew where to go or what to do with her life.

Abbots Puissants gave her just the peace and rest she needed. She felt sheltered there and safe. She dreaded the return to town.

It was the last evening. George had pressed them to remain longer, but Mrs Vereker had declared that they really couldn't trespass any longer on his hospitality.

Nell and George walked together on the long flagged walk. It was a still, balmy evening.

‘It has been lovely here,' said Nell, with a little sigh. ‘I hate going back.'

‘I hate your going back too.' He paused and then said very quietly: ‘I suppose there's no chance for me, is there, Nell?'

‘I don't know what you mean?'

But she did know – she knew at once.

‘I bought this house because I hoped some day you'd live here. I wanted you to have the home that was rightly yours. Are you going to spend your whole life nursing a memory, Nell? Do you think he – Vernon – would wish it? I never think of the dead like that – as grudging happiness to the living. I think he would want you to be looked after and taken care of now that he isn't here to do it.'

She said in a low voice: ‘I can't … I can't …'

‘You mean you can't forget him? I know that. But I'd be very good to you, Nell. You'd be wrapped round with love and care. I think I could make you happy – happier at any rate than you'll be facing life by yourself. I do honestly and truly believe that Vernon would wish it …'

Would he? She wondered. She thought George was right. People might call it disloyalty, but it wasn't. That life of hers with Vernon was something by itself – nothing could touch it ever …

But oh! to be looked after, cared for, petted and understood. She always
had
been fond of George.

She answered very softly … ‘Yes …'

The person who was angry about it was Myra. She wrote long abusive letters to Nell. ‘You can forget so soon. Vernon has only one home – in my heart. You never loved him.'

Uncle Sydney twirled his thumbs and said: ‘That young woman knows which side her bread is buttered'; and wrote her a stereotyped letter of congratulation.

An unexpected ally was Joe who was paying a flying visit to London and came round to see Nell at her mother's flat.

‘I'm very glad,' she said, kissing her. ‘And I'm sure Vernon would be. You're not the kind that can face life on your own. You never were. Don't you mind what Aunt Myra says.
I'll
talk to her. Life's a rotten business for women – I think you'll be happy with George. Vernon would want you to be happy, I know.'

Joe's support heartened Nell more than anything. Joe had always been the nearest person to Vernon. On the night before her wedding, she knelt by her bed and looked up to where Vernon's sword hung over the head of it.

She pressed her hands over her closed eyes.

‘You do understand, beloved? You do? It's you I love and always shall … Oh, Vernon, if only I could know that you understood.'

She tried to send her very soul out questing in search of him. He must – he
must
– know and understand …

In the town of A_____ in Holland – not far from the German frontier – is an inconspicuous inn. Here on a certain evening in 1917 a dark young man with a haggard face pushed open the door and in very halting Dutch asked for a lodging for the night. He breathed hard and his eyes were restless. Anna Schlieder, the fat proprietress of the inn, looked at him attentively up and down in her usual deliberate way before she replied. Then she told him that he could have a room. Her daughter Freda took him up to it. When she came back, her mother said laconically: ‘English – escaped prisoner.'

Freda nodded but said nothing. Her china-blue eyes were soft and sentimental. She had reasons of her own for taking an interest in the English. Presently she again mounted the stairs and knocked on the door. She went in on top of the knock which, as a matter of fact, the young man had not heard. He was so sunk in a stupor of exhaustion that external sounds and happenings had hardly any meaning for him. For days and weeks he had been on the qui vive, escaping dangers by a hairsbreadth, never daring to be caught napping either physically or mentally. Now he was suffering the reaction. He lay where he had fallen, half sprawling across the bed. Freda stood and watched him. At last she said:

‘I bring you hot water.'

‘Oh!' he started up. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.'

She said slowly and carefully in his own language:

‘You are English – yes?'

‘Yes. Yes, that is –'

He stopped suddenly in doubt. One must be careful. The danger was over – he was out of Germany. He felt slightly lightheaded. A diet of raw potatoes, dug up from the fields, was not stimulating to the brain. But he still felt he must be careful. It was so difficult – he felt queer – felt that he wanted to talk and talk, pour out everything now that at last that fearful long strain was over.

The Dutch girl was nodding her head at him gravely, wisely.

‘I know,' she said. ‘You come from over there –'

Her hand pointed in the direction of the frontier.

He looked at her, still irresolute.

‘You have escaped – yes. We had before one like you.'

A wave of reassurance passed over him. She was all right, this girl. His legs suddenly felt weak under him. He dropped down on the bed again.

‘You are hungry? Yes. I see. I go and bring you something.'

Was he hungry? He supposed he was. How long was it since he had eaten? One day, two days? He couldn't remember. The end had been like a nightmare – just keeping blindly on. He had a map and a compass. He knew the place where he wanted to cross the frontier, the spot that seemed to him to offer the best chance. A thousand to one chances against him being able to pass the frontier – but he had passed it. They had shot at him and missed. Or was that all a dream? He had swum down the river – that was it – No, that was all wrong, too. Well, he wouldn't think about it – he had escaped, that was the great thing.

He leaned forward supporting his aching head in his hands.

Very soon, Freda returned carrying a tray with food on it and a great tankard of beer. He ate and drank whilst she stood watching him. The effect was magical. His head cleared. He
had
been lightheaded, he realized that now. He smiled up at Freda.

‘That's splendid,' he said. ‘Thanks awfully.'

Encouraged by his smile, she sat down on a chair.

‘You know London?'

‘Yes, I know it.' He smiled a little. She had asked that so quaintly.

Freda did not smile. She was in deadly earnest.

‘You know a soldier there? A what is it? Corporal Green?'

He shook his head, a little touched.

‘I'm afraid not,' he said gently. ‘Do you know his regiment?'

‘It was a London regiment – the London Fusiliers.'

She had no further information than that. He said kindly: ‘When I get back to London, I'll try to find out. If you like to give me a letter.'

She looked at him doubtfully, yet with a certain air of trusting appeal. In the end the doubt was vanquished.

‘I will write – yes,' she said.

She rose to leave the room and said abruptly: ‘We have an English paper here – two English papers here. My cousin brought them from the hotel. You would like to see them, yes?'

He thanked her and she returned bringing a tattered
Eve
and a
Sketch
which she handed to him with some pride.

When she left the room again, he laid down the papers by his side and lighted a cigarette – his last cigarette! What would he have done without those cigarettes – stolen at that! Perhaps Freda would bring him some – he had money to pay for them. A kind girl, Freda, in spite of her thick ankles and an unprepossessing exterior.

He took out a small notebook from his pocket. The pages were blank and he wrote in it:
Corporal Green, London Fusiliers
. He would do what he could for the girl. He wondered idly what story lay behind it. What had Corporal Green been doing in Holland in A —? Poor Freda. It was the usual thing, he supposed.

Green – it reminded him of his childhood.
Mr Green
. The omnipotent delightful Mr Green – his playfellow and protector. Funny, the things one thought of when one was a kid!

He'd never told Nell about Mr Green. Perhaps she'd had a Mr Green of her own. Perhaps all children did.

He thought: ‘Nell – Oh, Nell …' and his heart missed a beat. Then he turned his thoughts resolutely away. Very soon now … Poor darling, what she must have suffered knowing him to be a prisoner in Germany. But that was all over now. Very soon now they'd be together. Very soon. Oh, he mustn't think of it. The task in hand – no looking forward.

He picked up the
Sketch
and idly turned over the pages. A lot of new shows seemed to be on. What fun to go to a show again. Pictures of generals all looking very fierce and warlike. Pictures of people getting married. Not a bad-looking crowd. That one – Why –

It wasn't true – it couldn't be true … Another dream – a nightmare …

Mrs Vernon Deyre who is to marry Mr George Chetwynd. Mrs Deyre's first husband was killed in action over a year ago. Mr George Chetwynd is an American who has done very valuable relief work in Serbia
.

Killed in action – yes, he supposed that might be. In spite of all conceivable precautions mistakes like that
did
arise. A man Vernon knew had been reported killed. A thousandth chance, but it happened.

Naturally, Nell would have believed – and naturally, quite naturally, she would marry again.

What nonsense he was talking! Nell – marry again! So soon. Marry George –
George
with his grey hair – A sudden sharp pang shot through him. He had visualized George too clearly. Damn George – blast and curse George.

But it wasn't true. No, it wasn't true!

He stood up, steadying himself as he swayed on his feet. To anyone who had seen him, he would have appeared a little drunk.

He was perfectly calm – yes, he was perfectly calm. The thing was not to believe – not to think. Put it away – right away. It wasn't true – it couldn't be true – if you once admitted that it might be true, you were done.

He went out of his room, down the stairs. He passed the girl, Freda, who stared at him. He said very quietly and calmly (marvellous that he should be so calm!):

‘I'm going out for a walk.'

He went out, oblivious of old Anna Schlieder's eyes that raked his back as he passed her. The girl, Freda, said to her:

‘He passed me on the stairs like – like – what has happened to him?'

Anna tapped her forehead significantly. Nothing ever surprised her.

Out on the road Vernon was walking – walking very fast. He must get away – get away from the thing that was following him. If he looked round – if he thought about it – but he wouldn't think about it.

Everything was all right –
everything
.

Only he mustn't think. This queer dark thing that was following him – following him … If he didn't think he was all right.

Nell – Nell with her golden hair and her sweet smile. His Nell. Nell and George … No, no, NO! It wasn't so, he was in time.

And suddenly, lucidly, there ran through his mind the thought, ‘That paper was six months old at least. They've been married five months.'

He reeled. He thought, ‘I can't bear it. No, this I can't bear. Something must happen …'

He held on blindly to that:
Something must happen
 …

Somebody would help him. Mr Green. What was this awful thing that was dogging him? Of course, The Beast. The Beast.

He could hear it coming. He gave one panic-stricken glance over his shoulder. He was out of the town now, walking on a straight road between dykes. The Beast was coming lumbering along at a great pace, rattling and bumping.

The Beast … Oh! if only he could go back – to The Beast and Mr Green – the old terrors, the old comforts. They didn't hurt you like the new things – like Nell and George Chetwynd. George – Nell belonging to George …

No – No, it wasn't true – it mustn't be true – He couldn't face any more. Not that – not that …

There was only one way to get out of it all – to be at peace – only one way – Vernon Deyre had made a mess of life – better to get out of it …

One last flaming agony shot through his brain – Nell – George – No! he thrust them out with a last effort. Mr Green – kind Mr Green.

He stepped out into the roadway right in the path of the lurching lorry that tried to avoid him too late – and struck him down and backwards …

A horrible searing shock – thank God, this was death
 …

In the yard of the County Hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag and stood upright with a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was completing the toilet of a Minerva.