The Four Graces (8 page)

Yesterday had been wet, but today it had cleared up and the sun was shining brightly. Sal walked down the garden with a bucket in each hand; she was going to feed the hens. The henhouse was at the end of the garden near the stream; it was the same stream that flowed between the cottages at Chevis Green and, later, joined the Wandle and flowed through the square at Wandlebury. Here, in the Vicarage garden, the stream was in its infancy, smiling and chuckling like a happy baby. Watercress grew in the shallows in the curve of the bank, and willows flourished beside it. Quite near, and casting a shade on the water, was a weeping elm and, back from the henhouse, there was a wild piece of ground, gay with rose-red willow herb that Jos Barefoot treasured for his bees. Jos loved his bees. He was like a bee himself; small and brown and wizened. His eyes were brown like chestnuts and his voice was high-pitched. Bees crawled over his arms but never stung him. “They knows old Jos,” he would say. He was too old to do much work, but he pottered around and kept the garden from becoming a wilderness.

Sal called the ducks and fed them; the hens came scurrying after her; she had one hen sitting on a clutch of eggs and another with a brood of young chickens. Usually this work made her happy but today it had no power to cheer or soothe her. She was so worried and miserable. It had been hard for Sal to grow up, she had gone through a difficult time, she had felt discontented and unhappy…then that phase had passed or been overcome and for a long time she had felt serene and at peace with the world, wanting nothing more of life than her father, her sisters, her books, people to help, and enough to do. Now the old turmoil had returned and she felt that life was rushing on and she was standing still. It was a horrible feeling. Liz and Tilly were so different, thought Sal. They had few problems. Tilly was still a child for all her twenty-three years. She was shy and retiring; she did not lay herself open to the hurts of life, she sought no adventures. Tilly lived in her “little wooden hut,” content and happy. Liz took life as it came, enjoying it, living in the present. Sometimes she got hurt, of course, but she did not learn to be careful. She gathered herself up and rushed on. Gay, golden, brilliant Liz! She was a year older than Sal, but Sal had always felt herself to be the elder. Liz would never grow up; nothing would teach her to be cautious. It was natural that men should fall in love with Liz, she was so friendly and unselfconscious, so vital. Sal paused in her work and thought of Eric Coleridge. He had come to Chevis Green as Mr. Grace's curate, a delicate creature with a thin, eager face and soft, brown eyes, which followed Liz like the eyes of a faithful spaniel. He had loved Liz to distraction—there was no doubt of that—he had loved Liz and won her heart and then he had gone away to succor the heathen. He had received a call, and because he did not want to answer the call, he had answered it. Eric was that sort of man, conscience-ridden, ultrasensitive, fanatical. Sal had been very angry with Eric, for it seemed to her that Eric had a duty to Liz, and surely Liz was just as important as the heathen? But she was glad afterward when she thought about the matter in cold blood, for a fanatic does not make a comfortable husband. Liz had been badly hurt, but she had faced it bravely, so bravely that nobody had known—not even Father, thought Sal—and after a little while, there was no need to be brave. Liz was whole again, breasting the world with her usual zest and confidence…And now there was Roderick. (Well, of course. Who could help falling in love with Liz?) And Roderick was a real man, a proper man, the sort of man who would know exactly what he wanted and go all out to get it…and Liz was more than half in love with him already.

So I ought to be glad, thought Sal. She was trying very hard to be glad when Jos Barefoot came around the side of the henhouse with a large rake in his hand.

“Them chickens is growing well,” said Jos in his thin high voice. “They be pecking already. You give 'em a 'andful of grit, Miss Sal. Chickens be like 'umans; they needs grit.”

That's what I need, thought Sal, looking at him. She was very fond of Jos and she respected him. Like Tilly he was content and happy in his little hut.

“Were you at the wedding, Jos?” she asked.

“I don't 'old with weddings,” declared Jos, sitting down upon an upturned barrow and beginning to fill his pipe. “Too much fuss, to my mind. Weddings is nothing to make a fuss about. Weddings is lotteries, that's what.”

“You never took a ticket, Jos.”

“Not me,” said Jos. “I never 'ad a woman—never wanted one. Weddings is lotteries; they may be all right an' they may be all wrong. You'm not thinkin' of gettin' married, Miss Sal?”

“No,” said Sal, smiling.

“That's right. You be better as you are. Passon couldn't do without you neither. You be better as you are.”

“It's a good thing everybody doesn't think so.”

Jos shook his head. “Ar,” he said gravely. “There's Toop. Toop would 'ave been better without that woman. You can't deny it, Miss Sal.”

Sal could not, so she was silent.

“It 'appened when Toop was in Lunnon,” said Jos, striking a match and lighting his pipe. “'E met Maria at a party—fish an' chips it was—an' Maria looked reel smart in a blue dress an' 'er 'air done up to kill. Toop was took with 'er but 'e wouldn't never 'ave 'ad 'er if 'e 'adn't 'appened to see it wrote up on the Albert 'All.”

“Wrote up on the Albert Hall!” exclaimed Sal, repeating the statement word for word in her amazement.

“'Ave Maria,” nodded Jos. “That's what it said—'Ave Maria. It give Toop quite a turn…wrote up on the Albert 'All in letters a foot 'igh…so 'e 'ad 'er.”

Sal knew the Toops well, of course, and she had often wondered what had induced the cheerful, friendly little man to marry Maria. Now she had been told the reason and she saw no reason to disbelieve it. The story was too circumstantial; neither Toop nor Jos could have made it up.

Jos was now talking about his bees. He always came back to his bees if you listened to him long enough and Sal was glad to listen. Already she felt a good deal better about things. Jos was so friendly and good, and (in spite of his eighty-odd years) so innocent. The world could not be such a bad place, after all, when it contained people like Jos. She was still standing there, enthralled, when she heard her father calling her. Jos heard him too, for his hearing was extraordinarily keen.

“There's Passon,” said Jos, motioning with his thumb. “Sounds to me as if something's up, Miss Sal.”

“Yes,” said Sal, her eyes widening with anxiety. “Yes, I'd better fly—”

“I'll finish 'ere,” said Jos, nodding.

Mr. Grace was coming to meet Sal; they met halfway down the garden. He took her arm and led her to a seat.

“What is it?” asked Sal. “Aunt Rona—”

“No, no, it isn't anything serious.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Just a little—er—misunderstanding with Miss Bodkin,” said Mr. Grace.

“Miss Bodkin! Oh, dear!” said Sal. “What
has
Miss Bodkin been doing now?”

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Grace. “She seems a little put out, that's all. I think perhaps you might be able to—er—clear up the matter.”

Sal looked at her father. He had a slightly guilty air, the air of a small boy who has been discovered stealing the jam. “What have you been doing to Miss Bodkin?” Sal inquired sternly.

“Er,” said Mr. Grace. “The fact is Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe brought some flowers to church on Sunday morning and put them into the altar vases.”

“Oh, Father, how awful! Miss Bodkin always does the flowers on the first Sunday in the month.”

“I know,” agreed Mr. Grace. “Miss Bodkin had them. They were all white—rather uninteresting—and then Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe arrived with some lovely pale blue delphiniums.”

“Oh, Father! You don't mean to say she put them in!”

“Er—yes. As a matter of fact—”

“You let her!”

“I helped her,” said Mr. Grace in defiant tones. “I held them for her and handed them to her, and she put them in. It was a great improvement.”

“How
could
you!” cried Sal in horror-stricken tones.

“Really, Sal—”

“It's serious,” declared Sal. “It's very,
very
serious. I don't know
what
we can do about it.”

“Serious?” said Mr. Grace. “The whole thing is absolutely childish. Miss Bodkin ought to know better.”

“Yes, but she doesn't,” said Sal.

“You can go and see her,” said Mr. Grace, who was feeling more cheerful now that he had confessed his sin. “You'll be able to make it all right. You could take her a few flowers, perhaps.” (He stopped. Sal was looking at him.) “Oh, well, perhaps not—flowers,” said Mr. Grace doubtfully. “Perhaps—er—eggs. We want to make things right. It would be a pity if Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe were to fall foul of Miss Bodkin.”

It had happened already, thought Sal—and yes, it was a thousand pities. Miss Bodkin, though extremely trying and touchy, was kindhearted
au
fond
and wielded a good deal of influence in Chevis Green. She was a prominent member of the Women's Institute; she was an authority upon knitting and jam and invalid food. The village laughed at Miss Bodkin behind her back, of course, but it was kindly laughter for she was well liked and always ready to help when there was trouble in the house.

“I'll go now,” said Sal, rising. “I'll go to the village first and see what I can do. It's
most
unfortunate. I
did
want Archie's wife to start off well. She could do such a lot for the village if she liked people—and people liked her.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Grace thoughtfully. “Yes, Sal. You're right and I'm wrong. It isn't a small thing. I am extremely sorry about it.”

***

The village of Chevis Green had been altered and remodeled by an ancestor of old Lady Chevis. The cottages, separated from each other by little gardens, were disposed upon two sides of a large triangular patch of bright green grass; the few shops, the garage, and the inn were built along the third side. There were trees on the green, mostly large beeches, which threw a pleasant shade. At one end of the green was the War Memorial and beside it a comfortable wooden seat that had been gifted to the village by Archie Chevis-Cobbe on his accession to the property. There had been a large German gun beside the seat, but it had been removed for salvage during the Chevis Green salvage drive.

Mrs. Element, emerging from her cottage to pick some mint, happened to glance in the direction of the War Memorial and saw two figures sitting upon the seat in earnest conclave. She called to Mrs. Bouse, who lived next door, and Mrs. Bouse popped out.

“Miss Sal talking to Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe,” said Mrs. Element, pointing.

“Lor'!” exclaimed Mrs. Bouse. “Fancy that, now! They don't 'alf look friendly—fancy Miss Sal takin' up with
'er
. Interferin', Emma Bodkin says.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Element doubtfully. “Yes, Emma Bodkin seems to 'ave got 'er knife into 'er for some reason.”

“Emma Bodkin says she's goin' to turn the village upside down.”

Mrs. Element seemed wonderfully calm in the face of this frightful prospect. Her eyes strayed to the two ladies on the seat and at this moment the two ladies laughed very heartily indeed—even at this distance one could hear them laughing. “Miss Sal won't let 'er,” said Mrs. Element firmly.

There was a short silence and then Mrs. Bouse said, “I'll send Clarer along to Mary Feather.”

“Tell 'er to look in at the Alemans on the way,” suggested Mrs. Element.

Clara did her errand thoroughly, and ten minutes later, the whole population of Chevis Green—or at least the female half of it—was peeping out of its windows at the two ladies and discussing the implications of their meeting.

Sal had run Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe to earth at the garage and had led her gently but firmly to the seat. She had found it quite easy to explain the position to Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe; that lady had “caught on” at once and expressed her contrition in suitable terms.

“Well, there it is,” said Sal. “Awfully silly, of course, but people are like that—especially Miss Bodkin—you've got to walk like Agag in a village like Chevis Green.”

“I'm terribly sorry about it,” repeated Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “I never thought—but of course that's no excuse—I
should
have thought…only, you see, I've never lived in a village before. Tell me about Miss Bodkin.”

“Her father used to be the vet. He sent Emma to school in Wandlebury when she was young, which wasn't yesterday, and Emma came back with big ideas. There isn't anybody in Chevis Green with whom she has much in common—that's the trouble.”

“She's a cut above the village women, you mean?”

“Yes. She wants to be friends with them, but friends on her own terms—slightly patronizing terms. She's always willing to help them when they're in any sort of trouble but she won't accept help in return.”

“Not a true daughter of the horse leech?”

“No,” said Sal, smiling.

“I wonder why they were singled out as being so frightfully rapacious,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe thoughtfully. “It seems a little unfair. Thousands of years pass and the daughters of the horse leech are still a byword.”

“It's most unfair in this instance, at any rate,” declared Sal. “Miss Bodkin is a nuisance, admittedly, but she's frightfully generous and kind. As a matter of fact, I'm sorry for Miss Bodkin; she's lonely, you see, and lonely people are apt to be prickly.”

“I feel an absolute beast,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “Do tell me, what can I do about it?”