The Old Jest Read online

  ‘Ah!’ sighed Harry.

  ‘If yez want your food hot, yez had better come in and get it.’ Bridie’s voice called out through the window.

  She lacks a certain old world elegance, thought Nancy, getting up from her cushion.

  Harry stretched his hand out towards Aunt Mary.

  ‘Madame …’

  She took it with a little bow.

  ‘One and two and three and …’

  They danced along the terrace.

  ‘Damn!’ said Nancy under her breath.

  She took hold of the old man’s chair and pushed him after the dancers.

  From the village to the point the beach stretched for about two miles. It was a narrow strip of grey stones and coarse sand which shelved fairly steeply into the sea. The movement of the waves threw a million pebbles inwards and then pulled them away again from the land, eternally grinding, polishing, sucking and spewing. There was never silence, even on the calmest day. The railway line rose severely behind the beach, protecting the fields from the frequently angry sea, decorated only by the singing poles that carried the telegraph wires down the coast. Below the line, at the back of the beach, piles of huge granite blocks were tumbled in what seemed to be a haphazard fashion. In the winter the sea pounded against them, sending fountains of spray high into the air, and in the summer they sparkled like diamonds when the sun shone. If you managed to reach the point, you could see as far as your eyes would let you the curves of sand and rock, and the poles, and the charming low hills, which graduated in the distance to blue mountains. No one ever walked as far as the point, though; it was not a very rewarding walk unless you enjoyed solitude and the company of the great white birds, who sat like ancient kings on the granite blocks staring inimicably into space. About halfway between the village and the point there was a solitary black bathing box, which had been put there by the convent for the convenience and privacy of the few nuns who liked to bathe. On summer days there were sometimes three or four of them there, looking like strange sea birds in their habits, their heads bent over their books, or towards each other in conversation. Nancy had seen them running in their long robes, laughing, or giving little breathless calls, into the sea. She would have liked to stop and watch them at times, but was afraid that her curiosity might offend them.

  The hut was about half a mile beyond the point. It must have been built by some railway workers many years before, and was cleverly hidden in among the granite blocks, which protected it from the sea wind. It was a rectangular wooden hut with a sloping roof. The day she had found it had been a wild spring day. The waves tore at the shore and the wind sang gloriously in the telegraph wires. She had spent the best part of two hours scraping away the sand with her hands before the door would open enough to let her peer in. Then she knew that for all those years the hut had been waiting for her. She pushed the door shut again and climbed up on to the line. She walked along the sleepers until she came to the spot that she had always considered to be almost in range of Grandfather and his glasses, then she slithered down the grassy bank into the field and went up through the trees towards the house. Now she had a secret. She had always found it very difficult to keep secrets. She would have to be careful.

  Over the next few weeks she had appropriated from around the place an old sweeping brush, worn down very low on one side, a hammer and nails, a couple of almost threadbare blankets, and two cushions out of which long white feathers constantly pricked their way. She had scrubbed at the floor with sea water until the planks had become the colour of old bones. She had hammered up shelves on which she kept a selection of books, an excellent tin with some ginger biscuits for eating after bathing, and a glass sweet jar filled with curious shells and stones that she had collected from time to time on the beach. She had moved the sand from round the door, oiled the rusted hinges, and screwed a hook into the cross beam inside on which to hang her towel. She had wondered about painting the walls, but decided against it. Gentility was not her aim.

  No one seemed to notice the fact that she wasn’t hovering uneasily around the house as she had always done before during school holidays. Aunt Mary was always preoccupied with her own routines: her chores routine, her reading routine, her golf routine, bridge, friends, racing routines, minding Grandfather and worrying inside herself. Not much time left in her day for wondering what Nancy was up to.

  Nancy knew what would happen as soon as lunch was over; birthday or no birthday, Aunt Mary would drift away from the dining room and shut herself away in the study. It was her reading time, and, after she had read and digested for an hour, it would be gardening time. She would trim and clip and weed, tie back the climbing roses and the clematis, prune and snip in the greenhouse, collect dead heads into a large chip basket, and remove any snails she might come across from the flowerbeds and leave them in rows on the gravel for someone less squeamish than herself to exterminate. The old man, back once more by the drawing-room window, would let his head loll on to his chest and snores would bubble gently from his throat. Harry would fidget and chat and wonder in his head what excuse he could make to go and visit Maeve.

  Nancy slipped out of the room while they were sitting round the table stirring their coffee lethargically with tiny silver spoons.

  As she crossed the avenue and skirted the little wood below the house, a warm breeze sighed through the trees. For the first time for weeks the leaves stirred, almost imperceptibly, like sleepers about to wake. The movement came from the south-west. Soon the weather would change – perhaps not today, but soon. She could smell the sea as she crossed the field. A gull drifted gently above her, fully stretched on the lifting wind. She took off her shoes and scrambled up the bank on to the rails. Under her bare feet the sleepers were warm and ridged, comfortable.

  ‘Robert is dead.’

  Aunt Mary’s voice had been neither sad nor glad when she had spoken the words. Matter of fact. We will have no more of this nonsense. Robert is dead, no carry on, father dear. Who? Whom then had he seen? Who had moved him to remember?

  No one. Probably some figure in his mind, out of the mist of the past. Peering through time. Anyway he was potty. If one had to choose a name for a father, one wouldn’t choose Robert. Oh no. Something a little more exotic perhaps. Constantine or Artemis, or heroic, like Alexander. Why should he be dead? I don’t see it like that.

  She bathed when she reached the hut. The coarse sand was burning hot and her feet arched with shock as she ran to the edge of the sea. The sea itself, in spite of this, was almost ice cold. There were no concessions made here to the dabbler or paddler; the beach shelved deeply and within a few yards of the shore you were out of your depth and being tugged gently down the coast, heading, unless you were careful, for some unknown destination. She lay on her towel afterwards to dry in the sun, and stared at the clouds that were now beginning to build up round the rim of the horizon. It must have been almost four when she remembered Bridie’s cake. She stood up and began to brush the sand from her shoulders and the backs of her legs. Suddenly she felt as if she were being watched.

  ‘Hello.’

  No one was on the line or the beach. No one moved. A drop of rain burst on her cheek.

  ‘Damn!’ She glared up at the sky, innocent and empty above her. The sand stirred cautiously. She moved up to the hut. At the door she paused for a moment and looked round again.

  ‘Hello.’

  She went in and dressed. Several more drops landed on the roof.

  She shook the towel out of the door.

  ‘Hellooo … ooo.’

  A gull on one of the granite blocks looked sideways at her with one of its mean eyes.

  ‘Why shouldn’t there be someone here?’ she asked it reasonably. ‘After all, it’s supposed to be a free country, and don’t stare at me like that.’

  The bird turned its back on her. Its claws clamping impatiently on the stone. It looked too relaxed for there to be lurkers around. She hung the towel on the back of the door. Rain was now s
cattering itself on the roof and sand. She shut the door carefully so that the rain couldn’t blow in and rot the floor, then she climbed up on to the track and ran most of the way home.

  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?’
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  ‘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.