The Summer Before the War Read online

  “Not at all,” admitted Hugh. “He has known me since infancy and thinks me quite as much a fool as when I was scraping my knees in the orchards with my cousin. But he has forgotten more medicine than I can imagine learning, and I find it humbling to try to be of use to him.”

  “If one cannot transform one’s age, it is perhaps enough to be useful,” said Beatrice. She sighed, exchanging her teasing tone for sincerity. “I hope I may aspire to some usefulness.”

  “I hope you will be able to be happy as well as merely useful,” said Hugh. “This town has always been a very tranquil refuge for me, but you may find it quiet after your life of travel.”

  “I would settle for being a hermit,” she said. He noticed that her eyes lost some of their light. “After the past year, I crave only to be allowed my work, and my rest, away from the stupidities of society. I shall be like Charlotte Brontë’s Lucy Snowe, content to tend her little school for the children of the merchant classes.”

  “Well, I’m afraid there are a number of charitable committees and ladies’ groups in the town,” said Hugh. “I doubt they will leave you alone for long. My aunt has threatened to keep a cricket bat in the front hall to see them off.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” said Beatrice, smiling. “I shall give my landlady instructions that I am never at home.”

  —

  Beatrice was sorry that she had left Hugh Grange at the high street, and that upon her arrival at Mrs. Turber’s double-fronted cottage she had casually declined to wait for Agatha Kent before entering via the larger of the two front doors. She was used to the inspection and approval of lodgings and had many times, and sometimes in other languages, firmly negotiated terms and arrangements on behalf of her father. But whereas the very particular requirements of a well-regarded man of letters had always been treated with respect, if not instant agreement, by landlords of several countries, the simple requests of a tidy spinster did not meet with similar patience or courtesy. Mrs. Turber’s fleshy, well-fed face had expressed surprise, a not inconsiderable suspicion, and eventually an undertone of fury as Beatrice questioned her as to cleaning methods, mealtimes and menus, the delivery of coal and hot water, and the proper airing of bed linen. It was sobering to acknowledge that she probably should not have commented on the smeared window glass. Mrs. Turber had become so red in the face that Beatrice had asked if she were quite well and volunteered to look upstairs by herself while Mrs. Turber went for a sit down in her own quarters.

  In the tiny bedroom, she rested her head against the cold, rough plaster of the wall and gave herself to the slack-jawed silence of a weary grief. She was conscious of a wish to shout at her father, who had abandoned her so absolutely. He would have found this funny—looking around the squalid cottage with his eyebrow raised as he gently pointed out that death had not been his first choice; that he had, in fact, been called away before finishing several important pieces of work. She imagined he would have a few words to say about her impetuous flight to Sussex and the entirely unnecessary choice to submerge herself in the grim world of salaried work. With her eyes shut, she felt a corner of her lip twitch at her own foolishness. The daughter of Joseph Nash, she reminded herself, did not succumb to self-pity. Her tiredness eased, and she opened one eye halfway and gave the cottage’s bedroom a squinty look.

  It had a bowed aspect, as if it were a cabin on an old galleon. The walls seemed to lean on each other above the sagging floor, and the ceiling had a slight convexity, like the underside of a large white dinner plate. The window, while smeared, had pleasant old speckled glass in leaded muntins and a deep ledge. The furniture was appalling. The bed’s posts were spindly and pocked with wormholes. The dresser had lost half a sheet of veneer and two of its blackened brass handles. The rush bottom of the single chair mirrored the sag of the floor. Beatrice stirred herself upright and lifted a corner of the rag rug with the tip of her shoe. It was greasy with dust and smelled of what might have been men’s hair tonic. It reminded her that other people had undressed in this room, sweated onto the hard mattress, and used the china chamber pot that sat in a wooden box under the bed. Beatrice felt a twinge of regret for the white-tiled magnificence of the water closet at Agatha Kent’s house.

  She stood up and gave a small bounce on the floor. At least it did not give. She walked to the window and looked at the deep ledge on the outside, which might hold a pot or two of fragrant mignonettes. The view was of the cobbled street and the front doors of the houses opposite. A pleasant Georgian door with white pilasters next to a low oak-studded Tudor one, black with age against freshly painted white daub walls. A window box of white lilies and a potted bay tree for the Georgian house, and a lead trough of scarlet geraniums for the Tudor, gave the street a gay, holiday aspect. The sun’s reflections off red-brick walls and clay-tiled roofs warmed the shadowed street and cast a glow into the room. Outside the bedroom, a small nook on the landing held a window overlooking the rear courtyard. She thought it might be perfect for her writing desk, but she would have to do some work to improve the view, which was of the outdoor water closet shared by both halves of the conjoined cottages and Mrs. Turber’s dingy sheets flapping on a line.

  She could hear voices from downstairs, and as she descended the squeaky staircase, with its sticky baluster, she could tell that it was Agatha, speaking in a low, urgent tone to Mrs. Turber, whose voice was a suffocated squeak of indignation. Their conversation carried into the small room through a connecting door from Mrs. Turber’s larger quarters next door.

  “All I’m saying is that I run a respectable house. Mr. Puddlecombe never gave me no trouble about hot water, and as for opening all the winders to let in the dirt, well…”

  “I assure you Miss Nash is as respectable as I am, Mrs. Turber, and I’m sure she will be amenable to discussing what services can be provided.”

  “A bit too respectable for her own good, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Turber. “People will ask what’s a girl that young doing on her own.”

  “I have every faith that her being sheltered under your own chaperonage will still every wagging tongue, Mrs. Turber,” said Agatha. “Your name can surely never be associated with gossip.”

  “Well, that’s as may be,” said Mrs. Turber, and Beatrice could hear a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

  “Who among us would deny a young woman the right to make her own living when she is cast upon the world by the death of her esteemed father?” added Agatha with a catch in her voice. “Lady Emily and I are so appreciative of your sanctuary, Mrs. Turber.” Beatrice thought this was going a little far, but the loud sound of Mrs. Turber blowing her nose suggested that some hint of empathy had been elicited. Agatha Kent, she reflected, was quite the politician.

  “Well, I can’t be asked to bring in hot water more’n once a week,” she said. “Orphan or no, I’ve got much to do and my legs won’t stand for carrying them heavy jugs all day. Mr. Puddlecombe never bathed more than once a fortnight.”

  “We will find a way, Mrs. Turber,” said Agatha. “You and Lady Emily and I, together we will find a way.”

  As Beatrice stood grinning in the parlor, Agatha Kent appeared against the bright sunlight of the open back door and let herself in. Beatrice went forward into the small kitchen to greet her.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Agatha. “If you’re intent on staying here, I do hope you’ll try not to ruffle Mrs. Turber too much.” She lowered her voice and added, “She’s not the biggest gossip in the town, but she’s probably ranked second or third, so best to keep on her good side.”

  “I can boil my own bathwater if necessary,” said Beatrice. “I had no idea I was being difficult.”

  “I have arranged to send Mrs. Smith, our chauffeur’s wife, down to give the place a good scrub,” said Agatha, ignoring her. “She loves a challenge. Do you have furniture? I fear our lamented former Latin master, Mr. Puddlecombe, was not overly concerned with his comfort.”

  “I have a small desk that was my mother’s a
nd the chair that my father insisted on toting with us wherever we went in the world. I must send for them.”

  “Is that all?”

  “We mostly rented furnished rooms,” said Beatrice. “My father was always being invited to lecture at universities or to help collaborate somewhere on a new journal.” She felt herself blushing. Somehow it had never before seemed poor to live in rented rooms. She had always merely seen to the unpacking and shelving of her father’s library and stripped the mantels and side tables of excess gimcrack trinkets and doilies. They had lived mostly in Paris, in a succession of rooms near the Sorbonne, but in recent years had also made an extended visit to Heidelberg, spent two years in the romantic decay of a tall merchant’s house in Venice, and finally, had inhabited the rambling wooden house of an absent professor in the precincts of a California university. She had understood that their peripatetic life was sometimes dictated by the moderate limits of her father’s private income and might be partly the interior restlessness of an exile, but she had always felt rich in both her father’s companionship and the fierce life of the mind that they pursued. With his absence, all seemed reduced to meagerness.

  “Well, we have a small store of old things in the stable,” said Agatha. “I’ve told Mrs. Turber I’ll be sending some pieces along. You must come and choose whatever you want, and if we are missing something, I’m sure Lady Emily would be glad to look through her attics.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly trouble Lady Emily,” said Beatrice. Agatha stiffened at the note of anxiety which Beatrice was not able to conceal. Beatrice made a quick calculation and decided to offer Agatha the truth. “I met Lady Emily’s son on the train.”

  “Obnoxious young fool,” said Agatha. “Not half as much a man as my Daniel, or Hugh, but twice the income and prospects. A great trial to his dear mother.”

  “So you understand that I’d rather not be indebted,” said Beatrice.

  Agatha sighed and took off her hat. “My dear child, I fear we are all indentured servants of society. There is no escape. In your case, Lady Emily’s seal of approval on your employment won over the school governors where I, also an appointed member of that body, could not prevail. I’m afraid your independence, and my efforts in appointed office, both depend on our titled friend and on her little monogrammed invitations.”

  “I am grateful to you both,” said Beatrice.

  “And we are to you, my dear,” said Agatha. “You will prove us right and raise the educational efforts of Rye with your superior learning. And we will bask in your knowledge, and your presence will be a tiny move towards a society of merit and honor.”

  “Goodness me, that’s a lot to expect for thirty shillings a week,” said Beatrice.

  “Well, do try your best,” said Agatha. “Let’s show them how much more they can get from a woman—and at less expense to the annual budget. Ah, I hear a cart outside. Must be your things.” She bustled out, leaving Beatrice a moment of privacy in which to consider that while she and her father had discussed the more abstract principles behind the pricing of labor, it was not at all pleasant to discover that, simply as a woman, one was to be paid less than Mr. Puddlecombe of the sticky floors and cheap hair tonic.

  Under Agatha’s direction, Beatrice’s trunk was shoved and manhandled through the narrow front door and, after some discussion, was placed in the middle of the parlor, on the greasy rag rug, as it was too large to go up the narrow stairs. Her boxes and crates of books were stacked alongside, and Beatrice had to still a quiver of anxiety that she was to live, for the first time, in a place without a single bookshelf. Her bicycle came in last, and as she held the door for the man to wheel it through to the back garden, they all heard a muffled snort from the rooms next door that indicated Mrs. Turber was not an enthusiastic supporter of the sport of cycling. Agatha saw the men to the door and then paused as if reluctant to leave Beatrice alone in the cottage.

  “Thank you,” said Beatrice. “It was very kind of you to come with me, but I shall be perfectly all right now.”

  “I am sending Mrs. Smith this afternoon, and I don’t want to hear about it,” said Agatha. “And you will come to dinner this evening. Just the family. Perfectly informal.”

  “There’s no need…”

  “You won’t say that so readily once you’ve sampled Mrs. Turber’s rather basic fare,” whispered Agatha. “Come early and you can get a look at the boys Hugh has been tutoring. I believe they call on him at four in the afternoon.”

  “I look forward to meeting them,” said Beatrice.

  Agatha gave one last hesitant look around the dingy parlor. “I am not at all sure about leaving you here. When you come to dinner tonight you will tell me whether, upon reflection, you would not prefer to be found a room with a nice family.”

  “Thank you,” said Beatrice. She looked at the two lumpy wing chairs, deal table, and tarnished brass fire screen, which did little to soften the empty room. “I think I’ll be just fine, but I must say this cottage in its current state is almost enough to drive one into marriage after all.”

  As the heat slipped from the day, Beatrice found Agatha Kent dallying among the thickly planted flower borders in the front courtyard of her house, snipping hydrangeas and tossing them abstractedly into a trug. She wore a loose tea gown and a straw hat.

  “Oh, goodness, is that the time already?” she said, waving as Beatrice walked in at the gates. “I must have missed the dressing bell.”

  “I came early to meet the schoolboys I am to tutor,” said Beatrice, enjoying the pleasant cool of Agatha’s garden after her stiff walk up the bluff.

  “Oh yes, I had quite forgotten,” said Agatha, picking up the basket and dropping several hydrangeas onto the gravel. Beatrice bent to help her gather them. “It has been a little chaotic this afternoon as first Lady Emily telephoned and made it quite obvious that she wished to be invited to meet you straightaway and then our man of letters, Mr. Tillingham—well, I can’t imagine how he even heard—but he wanted to come too, and I am just hopeless at putting people off so we are extra for dinner and Cook is being wonderful about it but I needed more flowers and another leaf in the table and Smith was nowhere to be found and…”

  “You can’t mean Mr. Tillingham the great writer?” asked Beatrice. Surely the American author widely described as one of the age’s leading literary figures could not be coming to dinner with Agatha Kent?

  “Well, he would certainly think so,” said Agatha. “I do hope you won’t twitter and gush at him like so many of our ladies? We try to treat him as any other neighbor.”

  “Of course not,” said Beatrice, trying unsuccessfully to quell her excitement. She was to meet the master whose work she had studied and even aped at first in her own stumbling efforts towards writing a novel. Even her father, who so despised the novel form that she had omitted to share her efforts with him, had grudgingly admired Tillingham in his peak years. She was dizzy at the sudden prospect. “May I help you?” she asked Agatha. “I can trim flowers.”

  “Well, if it isn’t rude of me, perhaps you can find your own way to the stable house. I think Hugh is up there—he has a workroom upstairs.”

  “I think I can manage,” said Beatrice, who could see the stable building visible behind a large hedge at the edge of the courtyard.

  “After you are done meeting the boys, do have a good rummage through the box room for furniture. It’s behind where we keep the car. The key should be hanging under the stairs and Hugh knows where it is. And if you could discreetly remind him that we are dressing for company tonight.”

  —

  Two horses hung their heads over loose box doors and regarded Beatrice without much interest. She ducked into the cool, dark interior of the stable building, where a staircase to her right led to an upper floor. She hesitated, aware that it was silly to be intimidated by a piece of machinery but unwilling to step around the large motorcar. Upstairs looked sunnier, but she was reluctant to just walk up without an invitation.

>   “Hello? Anyone home?” she called, her foot on the lowest step.

  “Who’s there?” asked a man’s voice, and Hugh appeared at the top of the stairs, a square of glass in one raised hand.

  “Your aunt sent me,” said Beatrice. “To meet your pupils?”

  “We are in the middle of making microscope slides,” said Hugh. A scent of formaldehyde wafted down the stairs. “I believe you said you were not delicate?”

  “Oh, I’d love to come up and see,” said Beatrice, enthusiasm overcoming her intention to be reserved and polite. “My father and I made slides sometimes. I have quite a collection of insect wings.”

  “Sectioning chicken heads is quite a bit messier,” said Hugh.

  “I assure you I’m not at all squeamish,” said Beatrice, her stomach giving an unpleasant lurch.

  “Come up at your own peril,” said Hugh. “Only if you faint, we won’t be able to catch you without smearing brains on your frock.”

  The room at the top of the stairs was set under heavy rafters and boasted a bay window overlooking the kitchen gardens. It contained a large worktable and several lumpy armchairs of mismatched and tattered upholstery. The late-afternoon sun was streaming in at the window, and two of Hugh’s three pupils were bent with sharp knives over lumps of bloody tissue on the table, while a third was curled up in an armchair, chewing a pencil and leaning on a large book, sneaking glances at the open window. They stood up at her arrival and looked at her with frank curiosity. She smiled to cover her shock, for they were more unprepossessing than she had expected, with all the gangly knobbliness of boys who were no longer children but had not yet solidified into men. Though they were of different heights and faces, there was a uniform ugliness to their large ears, badly cut hair, and drooping socks. And despite evidence that they had combed their hair and washed before their lessons, they carried the unmistakable odor of young men, against which a weekly hip bath could make little impression. For a moment Beatrice quailed to think she would soon face a roomful of such rudely gaping mouths. She wondered how Agatha Kent had come to see any promise in three such grubby specimens.