Read The Greengage Summer Online
Authors: Rumer Godden
The Greengage Summer (2 page)
CHAPTER 1
O
N AND
off, all that hot French August, we made ourselves ill from eating the greengages. Joss and I felt guilty; we were still at the age when we
thought being greedy was a childish fault, and this gave our guilt a tinge of hopelessness because, up to then, we had believed that as we grew older our faults would disappear, and none of them
did. Hester of course was quite unabashed; Will—though he was called Willmouse then—Willmouse and Vicky were too small to reach any but the lowest branches, but they found fruit fallen
in the grass; we were all strictly forbidden to climb the trees.
The garden at Les Oeillets was divided into three: first the terrace and gravelled garden round the house; then, separated by a low box hedge, the wilderness with its statues and old paths; and,
between the wilderness and the river, the orchard with its high walls. In the end wall a blue door led to the river bank.
The orchard seemed to us immense, and perhaps it was, for there were seven alleys of greengage trees alone; between them, even in that blazing summer, dew lay all day in the long grass. The
trees were old, twisted, covered in lichen and moss, but I shall never forget the fruit. In the hotel dining-room Mauricette built it into marvellous pyramids on dessert plates laid with vine
leaves. ‘Reines Claudes,’ she would say to teach us its name as she put our particular plate down, but we were too full to eat. In the orchard we had not even to pick fruit—it
fell off the trees into our hands.
The greengages had a pale-blue bloom, especially in the shade, but in the sun the flesh showed amber through the clear-green skin; if it were cracked the juice was doubly warm and sweet. Coming
from the streets and small front gardens of Southstone, we had not been let loose in an orchard before; it was no wonder we ate too much.
“Summer sickness,” said Mademoiselle Zizi.
“Indigestion,” said Madame Corbet.
I do not know which it was, but ever afterwards, in our family, we called that the greengage summer.
“You are the one who should write this,” I told Joss, “it happened chiefly to you”; but Joss shut that out, as she always shuts out things, or shuts them in so that no
one can guess.
“You are the one who likes words,” said Joss. “Besides . . .” and she paused. “It happened as much to you.”
I did not answer that. I am grown up now—or almost grown up—“and we still can’t get over it!” said Joss.
“Most people don’t have . . . that . . . in thirty or forty years,” I said in defence.
“Most people don’t have it at all,” said Joss.
If I stop what I am doing for a moment, or in any time when I am quiet, in those cracks in the night that have been with me ever since when I cannot sleep and thoughts seep in, I am back; I can
smell the Les Oeillets smells of hot dust and cool plaster walls, of jessamine and box leaves in the sun, of dew in the long grass; the smell that filled house and garden of Monsieur Armand’s
cooking and the house’s own smell of damp linen, or furniture polish, and always, a little, of drains. I can hear the sounds that seem to belong only to Les Oeillets: the patter of the poplar
trees along the courtyard wall, of a tap running in the kitchen mixed with the sound of high French voices, of the thump of Rex’s tail and another thump of someone washing clothes on the
river bank; of barges puffing upstream and Mauricette’s toneless singing—she always sang through her nose; of Toinette and Nicole’s quick loud French as they talked to one another
out of the upstairs windows; of the faint noise of the town and, near, the plop of a fish or of a greengage falling.
“But you were glad enough to come back,” said Uncle William.
“
We
never came back,” said Joss.
The odd thing was, when that time was over, we, Joss and I, were still sixteen and thirteen, the ages we had been when we arrived on that stifling hot evening at the beginning of August. We
were Mother, Joss, I—Cecil—Hester and the Littles, Willmouse and Vicky. It must have been nine o’clock.
“Why were you so late?” asked Mademoiselle Zizi. “There are plenty of trains in the day.”
“We were waiting in the Gare de l’Est for Mother to get better.”
“And she didn’t get better,” said Willmouse.
“And we had nothing to eat all day,” said Vicky, “but some horrid sausage and bread.”
“And the oranges we had with us,” said Hester, who was always accurate, “twelve oranges. We ate them in the train.”
Mademoiselle Zizi shuddered, and I burned to think that now she must know we were the kind of family that ate oranges in trains.
There had been no taxis at the station, but after a stress that I do not like to remember—the whole day had been like a bad dream—we found a porter who would take our suitcases on a
handcart.
It was beginning to be dusk when our little procession left the station; men were coming back from fishing, women were talking in doorways and in their stiff gardens where gladioli and zinnias
seemed to float, oddly coloured in the twilight, behind iron railings. ‘French people don’t have gardens,’ Uncle William was to say, ‘they grow flowers.’ Children were
playing in the streets; Willmouse and Vicky stared at them; I think they had thought they were the only children in the world kept up to this late hour.
All round us was the confusion of the strange town, strange houses, strange streets. The people stared at us too, but we did not feel it. We did not feel anything; our bodies seemed not to
belong to us but to be walking apart while we floated, as the flowers did, in the dusk. Perhaps we were too tired to feel.
The handcart bumped over cobbles that, even though we had not walked on cobbles before, we knew were unmistakably French. Mother gave a small moan each time the porter turned into another
street. It seemed a long way, and by the time we came to the hotel gates lamplight was showing in the houses and most of the doors were shut. At Les Oeillets every night after dark the dogs were
let loose and the outer gates closed, leaving only a wicket-gate unlocked; the handcart would not go through that and we had to wait—still apart from ourselves—while the porter rang the
bell.
It clanged. There was a deep barking. We did not know Rex and Rita then but could tell it was a big dog’s bark; two voices commanded it to stop, a woman’s, shrill, and a
man’s—or a boy’s talking like a man; that was a good guess, for it was a large boy who appeared. He had on a white apron; we saw it glimmering towards us. His apron flapped, his
shoes flapped too, and a lock of hair fell into his eyes as he bent forward to pull the bolt; he held the gate open to let us pass, and we smelled his smell of sweat and cigarettes and . . .
“Is it onions?” I whispered.
“Not onion, garlic,” Hester whispered back. “Don’t you remember the sausage in the Gare de l’Est?” He was dirty and untidy and he did not smile.
Then we went into the hotel and—“Good God! An orphanage!” said Eliot.
Afterwards he apologised for that. “But you were all wearing grey flannel,” he said, and he asked, “Why were you wearing grey flannel?”
Hester looked at him. “Perhaps you haven’t been in England for a long time,” she said gently. “Those were our school clothes.”
In England we—except Joss—had been proud of them. There are two sorts of families; for one a school uniform is a step down, the feeling of being like everybody else; for the other
that feeling is an achievement, the uniform a better, more complete set of clothes than any worn before. We belonged to the second category, and Willmouse’s grey shorts and jacket, our St
Helena’s coats and skirts and hats, were our best clothes, the only ones suitable for travelling.
‘Other girls have other clothes,’ Joss said often.
‘Not when an Uncle William pays for them,’ said Mother.
Now Joss’s eyes threw darts of hate at Eliot though he could not have been expected to know who she was. Our school hats were soup-plate shaped; Vicky in hers looked like a mushroom on two
legs, but Joss’s was small on her mass of dark hair and showed her forehead. She looked almost ugly in that hat, and the pleated skirt of her suit was too short.
Of course a great many things happened before Eliot said that about the orphanage; he did not even come in until later; but it was Eliot whom we remember of that first evening. He was its
ace.
“When he came there was no more dreadfulness,” said Hester, but I had to add, “Except
the
dreadfulness.”
CHAPTER 2
“W
HAT
! O
NLY
two passports?” said Mademoiselle Zizi when I took ours to the office next morning.
“Joss, my sister, has hers; the rest of us are on my mother’s.” I hated to have to say that. The hotel boy who had let us in was listening—his name, we knew now, was
Paul; he was scornfully polishing the brass grille and could squint down at the passports. His look said plainly that he would not go about with a mother.
I had fought about that passport. “Why should Joss have one and not I?”
“She is sixteen,” said Mother, and added, “You forget how young you are.”
Three years separated each of us children—Father’s expeditions usually lasted three years—but Joss and I had always been the Big Ones, as Willmouse and Vicky were the Littles,
with Hester in a no-man’s-land between. Joss and Cecil, it had been one word though it had meant I had sometimes to be older than I conveniently could; now I was relegated to a
no-man’s-land myself. I could see it was inevitable—thirteen is not child, not woman, not . . . declared, I thought, as Joss was now—but it hurt. The separate passport was a
public confirmation of the status Joss had taken for herself; she had moved into it quite naturally, leaving me behind as she had moved from the bedroom we had always shared into one of her own.
“There are things,” said Mother, purposely vague though she knew I knew perfectly well what those things were, and she had let Joss change with Willmouse, moving him in to me.
Hester would have been a more natural companion, but she could not be separated from Vicky. “I have to sleep with my foot in her bed, you see,” said Hester.
“Your foot
out
, in
her
bed?” I asked.
“Yes, or she won’t go to sleep.”
“But isn’t it cold?”
“Sometimes.” Hester added I was not to tell Mother. A great deal of the peace in our house was kept by Hester, but I was shocked. I spoke to Vicky. “But that is how I know she
is there,” said Vicky as if that justified it.
“But it’s naughty.”
“I don’t mind being naughty,” said Vicky.
A line might have been run through our family dividing it, with Hester, Vicky and me on one side. Joss and Willmouse on the other. Our surname was Grey; I wished it had been Shelmerdine or de
Courcy, ffrench with two small ‘ff’s, or double-barrelled like Stuyvesant-Knox, but it was, simply, Grey. “Better than Bullock,” said Joss. We had not quite escaped that;
Uncle William was a Bullock, William John Bullock, and Vicky, Hester and I were as unmistakably Bullock as he, short, bluff, pink-faced, with eyes as blue as larkspurs.
It was not as bad for Hester and Vicky, because the Bullocks made pretty children; Vicky, fair-haired, with pearly flesh, was enchanting, and Hester, with her ringlets and rosiness, had kept her
appeal; but in me, as in Uncle William, the plumpness had become a solid shortness, the fair hair was mouse, the rosy cheeks a fresh pinkness. No one ever looked as normal as Uncle William, and I
wanted to look startling. Why could I not have been born to look like Joss, to be Joss? Joss and Willmouse were dark and slim, with such an ivory skin that their lashes and hair looked darker.
“Like Snow White,” said Hester with the only trace of envy I ever heard in her. They were, too, delicately unusual; Willmouse had the peaked look of an elf while Joss’s eyes had
the almond shape that had given her her nickname. “Because Chinese people have slant eyes,” said Joss.
“Are supposed to have them,” Father had corrected her on one of his times at home. “Most of them have eyes as straight as anyone.”
“They have them in paintings,” said Joss, who knew all about painting. She and Willmouse were equally vain—and clever; Joss was a serious painter and Willmouse had what we
called his ‘dressage’. It was years before we found out that that had to do with horses not clothes. Willmouse’s scrapbooks and workbox and the dolls that so distressed Uncle
William—‘Dolls! Gordon’s ghost!’—were part of it; the books held a collection of fashion prints, designs, and patterns of stuffs; Willmouse needed his scissors and
pins for draping his designs—‘I don’t
sew
,’ he said; ‘that will be done in my workrooms’—while the dolls, his models, Miss Dawn and Dolores, were
not dolls but artist’s lay figures carved in wood with articulated joints. They had been given to Joss by Uncle William to help her in her painting, but to Mother’s bewilderment she
would not touch them, while Willmouse had annexed them. Mother could deal with us little Bullocks. Though we were often rude or obstinate, ‘That is normal,’ said Mother, but with Joss
and Willmouse it was as if, in our quiet farmyard, she had hatched two cygnets and, ‘Everything I do is wrong,’ said poor Mother.
It seemed to be; for instance, when Joss complained that the art mistress at St. Helena’s was no use Mother enrolled Joss in a London correspondence art course, but that had led to
difficulties. ‘Dear Mr A . . .’ Joss wrote in the second lesson to her far-off master, ‘I send you the design you asked for using a flower, St John’s Wort, and the drawing
of the woman—my mother—I am sorry I cannot find a naked man anywhere.’
With Joss and Willmouse even the Grey in their names took on an elegance; Joanna Grey, William Grey, had a good sound while Cecil or Victoria Grey were nothing, though Hester Grey suited
Hester.
