In the Time of Greenbloom (20 page)

“Oh then you're not a hiker at all?” said Victoria.

“Far from it, I'm what the hikers look for when they're tired of hiking—the gent with the car.”

He put down his empty cup and John rinsed it out before filling it with fresh tea.

“Particular isn't he?” said the man. “Anyone would think I'd got foot and mouth, wouldn't they? What's the matter, don't I look clean?”

John looked down at him. “I can't see your face very distinctly in this light,” he said politely.

The man turned eagerly to Victoria, “Well what do you think? You saw me in the daylight, didn't you? I'm not so bad am I?”

“I didn't notice,” she said shortly. “I think we ought to be going, it must be getting very late. Do you know what the time is?” She got up and he looked at his watch.

“It's just after six,” he said. “Why, what time have you to be back—wherever you're going?”

Victoria ignored the question. “Heavens!” she said to John. “Mummy'll be back at seven and I promised we'd help Annie with the supper.”

“No hurry,” said the man. “Once we get out of this hole I'll have you back in ten minutes.”

“You needn't worry,” said John. “We'll walk. It doesn't matter if we
are
a bit late does it Victoria? and we don't mind the rain, do we? We're wet enough as it is.”

“No,” she said doubtfully. “It's Annie's evening out though, and she may miss her date if we aren't there to help her—then Enid will be upset.”

Stumbling round the uneven floor of the cave John and Victoria collected the things and packed the haversack.

“I'll lead the way,” said John.

From behind him the man lifted the haversack and the mackintosh from his arms and thrust the torch into his hand.

“Now,” he said, “no arguments; I'll be the porter and the lady can come in the middle—”

“I can manage thank you,” said John. “I got them in all right—”

“I told you,” said the man, “if you want to argue you'd better pick someone your own size; and now, lead on Macduff!”

With tight-lipped obedience John took the lead, and in single file they negotiated the uneven tunnel, clambered down the entrance chamber, and came out into the dark green daylight beyond.

It was still raining heavily as they made their way back to the road, and in the middle of the dripping bracken which flanked the entrance to the cave their companion made Victoria put on her mackintosh.

“We've got to look after you,” he said as he turned up the collar for her and fastened it swiftly beneath her chin. “Can't have your mother thinking we didn't know how to
look after her daughter. I expect she'll be back by now and worrying herself cold wondering what's happened to you.”

“No she won't,” said John. “I told her we'd be back before they were, and they said we were not to expect them before seven.”

“Oh your father's expecting you too is he, Victoria?”

“No not my father, my mother's friend Mr Harkess who owns the farm where we're staying.”

“And they're both out? Well well, that takes a bit of beating.”

“What does?” asked Victoria.

“Leaving the two of you alone in the evening in a place like this—Where have your mother and her friend gone to?”

“The Races at Redcar—and anyway we're not alone; there's the maid and the two dogs,” John said with relish. “I'd like to see anyone try and break in, I can tell you! The mastiffs would tear lumps out of him.”

The man picked up the haversack and started off along the wet, rabbit-nibbled, pathway.

“Blood-thirsty, isn't he?” he said to Victoria. “All the same, you wouldn't catch me leaving a couple of teen-agers alone at night in this part of the world, even if I trusted
them
—Why, your folk might have a breakdown or a puncture or something and not get home till all hours. That would be nice for you, wouldn't it?” He stopped so suddenly that Victoria bumped into him. “I'll tell you something,” he went on.

“What?”

“I'll bet your mother wouldn't carry on like this if your father was here.”

They looked at each other briefly and then started to trudge on through the rain and the greyness of the moorland dusk, while for a moment, he stood where they had left him a tall laden figure from whom they longed to escape and from whom for that very reason, they did not hurry, but walked perhaps a little more slowly than the rain and the
hour warranted. It was only a moment before they heard the squelch of his footsteps as he ran to catch them up. “Where is your father then?” he asked as he drew level with them.

“She hasn't
got
one,” said John, “and if you don't mind she'd rather not talk about it.”

Because he so sharply expected the laugh, it was a shock when he heard it. “My mistake, apologies all round,” said the man, “but how was I to know? You said he was a gentleman; you never said he was a
dead
gentleman!”

“He's
not
dead!” said John. “He's very much alive but he's—abroad, isn't he, Victoria?”

“Yes,” she improvised. “He's in New York but he writes to me every week and soon he'll be coming home on the
Majestic
.”

“Well well! that's what I call nice,” said the man. “Every girl needs a father these days.”

They breasted the upper limit of the dingle and came out into the full aggression of the wind hurling its rains against their faces. It was a relief to be on a high level place once more. John felt that the most unpleasant part of the afternoon was behind them, that it lay somewhere in the dark hollow of the dell, and that out here in the open they could be no more than they were; three ordinary people who had picnicked on the Moors. The rain was like a wet sheaf of chysanthemums in the light of his torch, the separate drops swirled into the centre of the light like the loose ragged petals of the flower, and from it came the mingled scent of earth grass and heath.

Ahead of them they saw the low shape of the motor-car as it crouched beside the road, and at the sight of it their companion became suddenly gayer and more confident.

“
There
she is!” he said. “That's one thing about a car, if you put her in gear and leave the brake on she'll be there when you come back; you can trust a car. Between us we'll have you home in two shakes and then yours truly will have to be on his way back to—Huddersfield.”

They did not argue about this, they wanted only to get home; so they quickened their pace eagerly and were soon
sitting together on the back seat. Their companion fumbled at the dashboard; they saw him searching for the ignition-switch with a bunch of keys, and after a short delay he switched on the side-lights and started the engine. “It gets dark quickly this time of the year,” he said, “and though I should know 'er like the back of my hand, she's got so many little gadgets that I make mistakes sometimes—Pity about the short evenings; I like a country drive myself, looking at things you know, and just easing along through the country lanes.”

“You do a lot of driving then?” Victoria asked politely.

“Nothing but,” he said. “I'm a devil for it! That's why I took this job—mostly. You get your car, you get your petrol, you get your expenses, and then you get your area
and
you get paid for covering it. Suits me.”

“What do you sell?”

He laughed loudly above the noise of the engine. This time his laugh was prolonged; they thought he might never stop; but he did, suddenly, slowing down the car as they descended the narrow road into the floor of the Dale.

“To be honest,” he said, “that's something I'm not prepared to answer,” and he turned half round so that they saw the stubby outline of his profile against the running windscreen.

John spoke: “Why do you always say ‘to be honest'?” he asked. “You keep on saying it; you keep on saying, ‘to be truthful', ‘to be honest', and things like that. Why do you say them?”

“If you had to do what I have to do, you'd know there's a lot of liars about, and you've got to know who to trust. Now when you're selling things sometimes, you have to tell a bigger one than the chap you're selling to; it's part of the job; but among friends there's no necessity for that, so just to let them know that it's not business, you tell 'em that you're on the level. Satisfied?”

“No,” said John. “I could understand it if you said something, and then the other person wanted to know if you were telling the truth; but if you
are
telling the truth and yet you
keep on saying ‘to be truthful', it sounds as though the other person who doesn't believe you is
yourself
.”

“Oh forget it!” said the man. “To get back to the question of my commodities, the product of the old firm, I can tell you it's a garment your girl-friend would have no use for yet—I'm sure of that,” and he started to laugh again.

John leaned forward, “We're nearly there now,” he said. “The entrance is by that clump of trees on the left. You needn't take us in, it'll only upset the dogs and frighten Annie.”

“Sure?” he asked. “It's no trouble.”

“It's very kind of you and thank you very much for the lift; but we'll be quite all right now—we're in splendid time aren't we Victoria?”

“Yes we are, but we must hurry if we're to be in time to help Annie with the supper, it must be nearly half-past six.

“Half-past six! It's ten to
seven
,” said the man as they drew up by the gate. “Like me to come in and peel the potatoes for you? I'm quite handy in the kitchen, well-trained, and one good turn deserves another.”

“No thank you,” said Victoria. “It's very thoughtful of you but—” her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her mackintosh, she stopped. “Heavens!” she said bringing out a crumpled envelope. “How awful! I'd forgotten all about Mummy's letter; just look at it, it's in an awful mess and it's terribly important.”

In the diffused light from the side-lamps her mouth tightened and her eyes grew large. “Oh dear! I
promised
it would catch the last post, and now if it's ten to seven I can't possibly do it.”

The man moved across the seat and stretched his hand out through the open window, he lifted her chin and when he spoke his voice was thick with sympathy. “The end of the World,” he said. “Darkness and Death! Give it me.
I'll
pop it in the box for you.”

“Oh
thank
you! You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not me, just tell me where the Post Office is, give me my directions, and Bob's your Uncle.”

She could hardly speak fast enough.

“Well it's past the grocer's shop on the right; you have to turn down towards the Church and then cross over the bridge and the Post Office is down a little side street; it doesn't look like a Post Office, it's—”

“Here hang on! Give us a chance. I'm not a geography teacher and time's getting short.”

“Oh dear, do
you
know where it is, John? I'm sure you could explain better than me, I get so excited, I hate catching trains and posts—” In her agitation she was dancing about in the road.

“I'll find it,” said John. “Let me go with him and then I could run back.”

“No!” she said with decision. “You're such an old muddler, you'll go into a dream and forget it or drop it and Mummy'll never trust me again.
I'd
better go, and you go in and get on with the supper and tell Annie.”

He drew in his breath to reply but found that he was unable to speak the words.

Beside him, with a greater reality and solidity even than the shape of the car, he saw and sensed that the man was waiting for them to finish. He was waiting dreadfully, with a dry patience for whatever they were to decide; he was like people he had seen at race meetings, completely still and finally committed to such an extent that they no longer cared in the very least about the result. Something of his deliberation affected John himself so that although his alarm was supreme, he was momentarily immobilised and watched Victoria open the door and jump into the front seat with all the remoteness of someone performing this action behind a plate-glass window. Then, when it was too late, words and action returned to him and he sprang forward:

“But Victoria!
Victoria
!” She blew him a kiss and must have seen some enormous comedy of dismay in his face, for she laughed before she spoke.

“Don't
gloom
!” she said, “I'll be all right, I'll be back in ten minutes.”

Through the window he clutched at the letter in her wet hands.

“Please,” he said. “Please Victoria! let
me
.”

The car started to move forward.

“Now then,” said the man. “Watch yourself laddie, she's made up our minds for us and I told you we were neither of us a match for her—”

John jumped back as the car gathered speed. He saw the dark lips of Victoria's smile through the window, the movement of her hair in the wind, even the last white flutter of her hand as she was carried past him; then he was alone on the wet road. He looked up at the uniform blackness of the raining sky, at the almost indistinguishable oak trees, and picking up the haversack and the mackintosh he walked slowly down the drive to the farm.…

Making his way through the yard he entered the kitchen and found it in darkness. Tim, the farm cat, was sitting on the rag mat in front of the open range and in the firelight he could see that over the dresser the hands of the pendulum clock stood at five minutes past seven. Annie must have given them up and gone to keep her date, he decided. He switched on the light and looked round to see if she had left any messages for them about the vegetables or the oven; but there was no scrap of paper to be seen, so, leaving the haversack on the kitchen-table, he walked out through the wide hall and into the dining-room. The table was set for four and on the sideboard was a cold ham freshly crumbed and the half carcase of the roast chicken they had eaten for lunch. With memories of the Vicarage fresh in his mind, he looked round for a bowl of salad and a tureen of baked potatoes; but there were no signs of them, so he returned to the kitchen and opened the oven door. The potatoes were sitting there just
as he had visualised them and in the larder he found the salad in its glass bowl.