The Old Jest (3 page)

They were in the drawing room just about finishing their tea when she arrived.

Harry was still there. He had always been a glutton for cucumber sandwiches and pale china tea, and Maeve, she thought with resignation.

‘I'm still here,' he said somewhat unnecessarily.

‘Have some tea,' said Aunt Mary. ‘It'll be cold though.'

‘No thanks.'

‘We haven't cut the cake yet. It's been a sore temptation, though.'

‘Where did you disappear off to?' His voice was slightly plaintive.

‘She's always disappearing. She leads a secret life. I'm terribly good, I never ask. Do I, darling?'

‘No sandwiches left?'

‘You can't expect …'

‘Quite.'

‘Let's all have some cake. You cut it, darling. The birthday girl must cut the cake.'

‘And wish,' said Harry.

Nancy picked up the knife and sank it through the chocolate icing. I wish … wish that he won't say how about us popping down to see Maeve. The first slice.

‘It looks marvellous. A real Bridie special. You are lucky to have her, Mary.'

‘Cake, Grandfather?'

‘Cake,' he repeated uneasily, leaving no one the wiser.

She cut a small piece and put it on a plate. She carried it over to him and put it down on the small round table beside him.

‘It's my birthday. Remember? Eighteen.'

He peered up at her face for a moment, struggling in his mind to place her.

‘Ah!' he said finally. ‘Yes. Helen's girl …' There was a flash of triumph in his eyes.

‘Never eat cake.'

Nonetheless she left the plate beside him, in case he changed his mind.

‘You're wet,' said Aunt Mary.

‘Only a bit. The rain came down so suddenly.'

‘I should go and change if I were you.'

‘Not on my birthday,' said Nancy firmly.

‘Rheumatism …'

‘Nobody of eighteen gets rheumatism.'

‘My dear child you have to take care …'

‘I … er … thought …' Harry spoke through a mouthful of cake ‘… thought that we might pop down and see Maeve. Just for a few sees.'

Nancy walked over to the window and looked out at the sparkling rain. So much for wishes. He was so blooming predictable. She could never work out why she had such … well … tender feeling for him. Loving, tender feelings. Perhaps because of his predictability. There were no dangerous possibilities to be beware of in his personality. He might bore you to death? Not if you loved him.

‘It's a monkey's wedding,' she said.

‘I beg your pardon?'

Aunt Mary was collecting tea cups and saucers on to the tray.

‘She means it's raining while the sun is shining.'

‘Good heavens! I wonder why?'

‘Why what?'

‘Why it's called a monkey's wedding.'

‘Why not?' Nancy asked.

‘It's a pity you missed the cucumber sandwiches. Bridie makes superb cucumber sandwiches, Mary.'

‘You have to cut the bread really thin. That's the secret. No point in having them if the bread isn't thin. And the pepper of course. It has to be just right.'

She removed the untouched plate of cake from beside the old man.

‘If you'll excuse me, I'll just bring the tray out to the kitchen. Bridie likes to get down to the Church early on Saturday.'

As she left the room he went over to Nancy.

‘How about it?'

‘All right. If you want to.'

‘Just pop down.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes … ah … yes … Why not?'

‘It's raining.'

‘Monkey's …'

‘Yes.'

‘You're wet already.'

She sighed.

‘Let's go then.'

As they stepped out through the long window on to the terrace, the old man's voice followed them.

‘Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day, Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away: Change and decay …'

‘We're off, Aunt Mary, goodbyeee. Off to see Maeve. Popping down …' She began to laugh.

‘Change. Change, dear child, out of your wet … Change.'

Nancy hustled Harry down the steps.

‘Hurry Harry. Harry hurry. Hurry hurry.'

‘Nancy …'

‘Oh hush, Harry! Don't fuss like her. After all, if I go back and change my clothes, Maeve may have gone out. Or anything. Snatch the day … didn't someone say that. In Latin or something?'

‘Why does he sing like that all the time? I mean all the time you were out he sang and sang. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it? That hymn is so gloomy too.'

‘Oh, I don't know. “I triumph still if Thou abide with me.” Anyway it'll probably be something else tomorrow. You know the way sometimes a song seems to fill your mind. No matter what you do you can't get rid of it. It just goes on and on in your head. He's very keen on Tom Moore. “Oft in the Stilly Night.” Rather sombre ones like that. Considering how potty he is, he's marvellous at remembering the words.'

Daringly she took his arm. He didn't resist. He was always very polite like that.

‘Can I ask you something.'

‘Go ahead.'

‘You don't have to answer if you don't want to.'

‘Do come to the point.'

‘Did you enjoy being in the war?'

He stopped walking and stood looking at a yellow rose which was about to unfold itself at the end of a stiff green stem.

‘What an odd thing to want to know.'

A slight frown worried his forehead.

‘I'm curious. I ask curious questions.'

He bent a little towards the flower. She felt the rose's life would be over and done with before he answered the question.

‘Enjoy … that's an odd word, Nancy …'

She waited.

‘Well, I suppose I must admit to enjoying moments here and there. Here and … I suppose I didn't mind it. Let's put it like that. What's the name of that rose?'

‘Were you afraid?'

‘I didn't really notice.'

‘Afraid of killing someone?'

‘Silly child. A lot of use that would have been.'

‘Of being killed then?'

She clicked her fingers in a final gesture.

‘Not much point really. Oh, from time to time you got a sort of guzzy in your guts. Not a prolonged feeling of fear, though. I can't think why you want to know. Tired. I think that's what I remember feeling most. You learnt to control fear so well that you almost forgot about it. The rose?' he reminded her.

‘I haven't the foggiest idea. You'll have to ask Aunt Mary. She knows the names of all the flowers and trees … in the world probably. Birds too. Did you feel like a hero?'

‘Of course not.' He laughed. ‘There were some heroes all right, but not me. After all, I come from a long line of soldiers, not heroes. Just straightforward soldiers. Good at their job. It didn't appeal to me as a job, though. I suppose times have changed a bit. I think the parents were disappointed when I got out. Especially mother. She always saw me as a budding general. You know mothers.'

‘No,' said Nancy.

He blushed.

‘Oh Lord, Nancy! I am sorry. What a ghastly thing to say! It just sort of slipped out.'

She nudged him into walking on. The grass was slippery under their feet. It needed cutting. It seemed to have grown in the unexpected rain.

‘Well …'

‘Well?'

‘How about being a stockbroker … does that appeal to you as a job?'

‘You're so immature.'

‘Hey …' Her voice was indignant.

‘What I mean is … when you're older you won't bother people with such stupid questions.'

‘But I want to know. How do you find things out if you don't ask questions?'

He sighed for her.

‘It seems to me nobody ever tells you anything, talks to you. I have a lot of time to make up. My head is full of questions. Have you a burning desire to be a stockbroker?'

‘You have to do something. You'll find that out one day. Rather, men have to do something. Build a career, earn money, accept responsibility. You know perfectly well what I mean. Stockbroking is as good a way of making money as any other. Anyway it's good to be a girl … none of those bothers. You just wait until some bloke comes along and lays it all at your feet.'

She didn't reply. They walked in silence towards the gate in the high hedge that separated the Caseys' garden from the field.

‘Burning desire.' His voice was reflective rather than contemptuous. ‘I suppose you're filled with burning desire?'

‘Well … at this moment only to undersand.' She laughed. ‘Now you'll say I'm immature again. I can see it in your face.'

‘What do you want to understand?'

He was getting a little bored with the conversation. His feet marched quicker towards the gate and Maeve and maturity.

‘Everything … I suppose.' She gestured expansively with her hands.

He took a silver cigarette case from his pocket and helped himself to a cigarette. He tapped the end of it several times on the case before putting it in his mouth.

‘It's all written down somewhere. When you get to college, you can busy yourself looking it all up.' Patronising, indulgent. He took out a box of matches and lit the cigarette.

‘It's what isn't written down that worries me.'

‘You could become a terrible bore. A crank.' Blue smoke escaped through his nose. She thought it looked terrific. They reached the gate. It was set deep in a hedge of escallonia, which rose high above their heads and smelled sweet after the rain. She stopped, her hand on the latch.

‘I'd like to be safe. Things have always been so safe, protected. I feel …' Her fingers unconsciously rattled the latch. ‘… if you know things, it must help … you know when you have to move alone. Know and understand. You have to find out …' She looked at him. Smoke trailed from his lips. His head was slightly stooped to avoid the poking twigs above them. He peered past her, forwards into the light of the garden beyond.

‘Oh well …' she said with resignation. She poked him with a finger.

‘Hey … You. Do you think I'm pretty?'

‘Oh … Nancy … I was thinking … away.' He looked her up and down. ‘Not too bad. You'll improve. You're perhaps just a bit …'

‘Immature?'

‘That's the sort of thing. You know what I mean …'

She kicked the gate open with her right foot and they went into the Caseys' garden. Geometric beds were filled with the tidiest of flowers. Even after the rain no petals had dared to drift on to the grass. The brick paths were weedless. The house had been built around the turn of the century of good red bricks. Bow windows opened on to the grass. A stone dolphin spouted water mysteriously from its tail into a pond. The sound of splashing water was agreeable, and the heavy evening scent of flowers.

‘Ah!' said Harry. He liked order. ‘Ahhhh!'

Nancy didn't say anything.

‘I sometimes get the feeling,' he said with severity, ‘that you don't like Maeve.'

‘Oh, I do. I do.'

Harry looked at his half-smoked cigarette and wondered what to do with it. There was no place in this garden for litter. Carefully he pinched the glowing end between his fingers and pushed the debris into his pocket. Nancy watched every thought, every move. She could be malicious, he thought, a malicious prying child. She'd grow out of it. He made sure with his fingers that the cigarette was out before he took his hand out of his pocket.

‘Does Maeve not smoke?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Aunt Mary does. There's nothing wrong with smoking.'

‘Some people find it a disagreeable habit.'

‘Coooeee!'

Maeve came out of a window to greet them.

‘It's great to see you. I'm all alone. Mummy and Daddy have gone to a dinner or something up in town. I'm all alone. I hoped you'd drop in.' Her smile embraced them both, but her eyes remained on Harry's face. ‘Harry,' she breathed.

‘Well … ah … yes … ah … isn't it lucky we came. Isn't it, Nancy?'

‘Oh, Nancy.'

‘Hello,' said Nancy.

Maeve and Harry smiled at each other. They didn't notice the long silence that surrounded their smiling faces, pushing them closer and closer together. An angry pulse knocked inside Nancy's forehead. The flowers stretched complacently in the raked damp earth. No snails here to munch the leaves, leave silver trails along the paths. Nancy looked with irritation at her right big toe, which was pushing its way untidily through the toe of her shoe.

‘My blooming feet are still growing,' she said aloud. The smiling stopped.

‘Pardon?' asked Maeve.

‘Oh, nothing really … just my huge evergrowing feet … nothing interesting … nothing …'

‘It's her birthday,' explained Harry. ‘She's eighteen.'

‘How gorgeous!' said Maeve, transferring the smile to Nancy. ‘You don't look eighteen. Does she, Harry? I'd have got you a present if I'd known.' She leant forward and dropped a scented kiss on to Nancy's cheek. ‘Gorgeous! No more school. Next thing she'll be getting married. Won't she, Harry? Come in. It's cold after the rain. I'll get you a present next week. Better late than never, that's a promise. What did you give her, Harry?'

She led them through the French windows into the drawing room. It was an extension of the garden. Wherever you looked, flowers seemed to be climbing, twisting, bursting, in ordered profusion. Only the white concert grand piano, drawn across one corner of the room, was free from them.

‘Well, actually, nothing yet. I didn't really know in time. Forgot. I'm hopeless about that sort of thing. Hopeless. What would you like, Nancy?'

‘Yes, Nancy, what would you like?'

‘I don't really …'