Giant’s Bread

‘I should have thought you’d have minded a bit about the honour of your name. She’s disgraced it—and if you were a real man you’d cast her off utterly as she deserves.’

‘Traditional scene from the melodrama, in fact.’

‘You always sneer and laugh! Morals mean nothing to you—absolutely nothing.’

‘At the minute, as I’ve been trying to make you understand, it’s not a question of morals. It’s a question of my sister being destitute. I must go out to Monte Carlo and see what can be done. I should have thought anyone in their senses would see that.’

‘Thank you. You’re not very polite, are you? And whose fault is it she’s destitute, I should like to know? She had a good husband—’

‘No—not that.’

‘At any rate, he married her.’

It was his father who flushed this time. He said, in a very low voice:

‘I can’t understand you, Myra. You’re a good woman—a kind, honourable, upright woman—and yet you can demean yourself to make a nasty mean taunt like that.’

‘That’s right! Abuse me! I’m used to it. You don’t mind what you say to me.’

‘That’s not true. I try to be as courteous as I can.’

‘Yes. And that’s partly why I hate you—you never do say right out. Always polite and sneering—your tongue in your cheek. All this keeping up appearances—why should one, I should like to know? Why should I care if everyone in the house knows what I feel?’

‘I’ve no doubt they do—thanks to the carrying power of your voice.’

‘There you are—sneering again. At any rate I’ve enjoyed telling you what I think of your precious sister. Running away with one man, going off with a second—and why can’t the second man keep her, I should like to know? Or is he tired of her already?’

‘I’ve already told you, but you didn’t listen. He’s threatened with galloping consumption—has had to throw up his job. He’s no private means.’

‘Ah! Nina brought her pigs to a bad market that time.’

‘There’s one thing about Nina—she’s never been actuated by motives of gain. She’s a fool—a damned fool or she wouldn’t have got herself into this mess. But it’s always her affections that run away with her common sense. It’s the deuce of a tangle. She won’t touch a penny from Fred. Anstey wants to make her an allowance—she won’t hear of it. And mind you, I agree with her. There are things one can’t do. But I’ve certainly got to go and see to things. I’m sorry if it annoys you, but there it is.’

‘You never do anything I want! You hate me! You do this on purpose to make me miserable. But there’s one thing. You don’t bring this precious sister of yours under this roof while I’m here. I’m not accustomed to meeting that kind of woman. You understand?’

‘You make your meaning almost offensively clear.’

‘If you bring her here, I go back to Birmingham.’

There was a faint flicker in Walter Deyre’s eyes, and suddenly Vernon realized something that his mother did not. He had understood very little of the actual words of the conversation though he had grasped the essentials. Aunt Nina was ill or unhappy somewhere and Mummy was angry about it. She had said that if Aunt Nina came to Abbots Puissants, she would go back to Uncle Sydney at Birmingham. She had meant that as a threat—but Vernon knew that his father would be very pleased if she did go back to Birmingham. He knew it quite certainly and uncomprehendingly. It was like some of Miss Robbins’ punishments like not speaking for half an hour. She thought you minded that as much as not having jam for tea, and fortunately she had never discovered that you didn’t really mind it at all—in fact rather enjoyed it.

Walter Deyre walked up and down the room. Vernon watched him, puzzled. That his father was fighting out a battle in his own mind, he knew. But he couldn’t understand what it was all about.

‘Well?’ said Myra.

She was rather beautiful just at that moment—a great big woman, magnificently proportioned, her head thrown back and the sunlight streaming in on her golden red hair. A fit mate for some Viking seafarer.

‘I made you the mistress of this house, Myra,’ said Walter Deyre. ‘If you object to my sister coming to it, naturally she will not come.’

He moved towards the door. There he paused and looked back at her. ‘If Llewellyn dies—which seems almost certain, Nina must try to get some kind of a job. Then there will be the child to think of. Do your objections apply to her?’

‘Do you think I want a girl in my home who will turn out like her mother?’

His father said quietly: ‘Yes or no would have been quite sufficient answer.’

He went out. Myra stood staring after him. Tears stood in her eyes and began to fall. Vernon did not like tears. He edged towards the door—but not in time.

‘Darling—come to me.’

He had to come. He was enfolded—hugged. Fragments of phrases reiterated in his ears.

‘You’ll make up to me—you, my own boy—you shan’t be like them—horrid, sneering. You won’t fail me—you’ll never fail me—will you? Swear it—my boy, my own boy.’

He knew it all so well. He said what was wanted of him—yes and no in the right places. How he hated the whole business. It always happened so close to your ears.

That evening after tea, Myra was in quite another mood. She was writing a letter at her writing table and looked up gaily as Vernon entered.

‘I’m writing to Daddy. Perhaps, very soon, your Aunt Nina and your cousin Josephine will come to stay. Won’t that be lovely?’

But they didn’t come. Myra said to herself that really Walter was incomprehensible. Just because she’d said a few things she really didn’t mean …

Vernon was not very surprised, somehow. He hadn’t thought they would come.

Aunt Nina had said she wasn’t a nice woman—but she was very pretty …

CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_62c911ad-5f33-55b6-97a2-4dca2297f119)

If Vernon had been capable of summing up the events of the next few years, he could best have done it in one word—Scenes! Everlasting and ever recurring scenes.

And he began to notice a curious phenomenon. After each scene his mother looked larger and his father looked smaller. Emotional storms of reproach and invective exhilarated Myra mentally and physically. She emerged from them refreshed, soothed—full of good will towards all the world.

With Walter Deyre it was the opposite. He shrank into himself, every sensitive fibre in his nature shrinking from the onslaught. The faint polite sarcasm that was his weapon of defence never failed to goad his wife to the utmost fury. His quiet weary self-control exasperated her as nothing else could have done.

Not that she was lacking for very real grounds of complaint. Walter Deyre spent less and less time at Abbots Puissants. When he did return his eyes had baggy pouches under them and his hand shook. He took little notice of Vernon, and yet the child was always conscious of an underlying sympathy. It was tacitly understood that Walter should not ‘interfere’ with the child. A mother was the person who should have the say. Apart from supervising the boy’s riding, Walter stood aside. Not to do so would have roused fresh matter for discussion and reproach. He was ready to admit that Myra had all the virtues and was a most careful and attentive mother.

And yet he sometimes had the feeling that he could give the boy something that she could not. The trouble was that they were both shy of each other. To neither of them was it easy to express their feelings—a thing Myra would have found incomprehensible. They remained gravely polite to each other.

But when a ‘scene’ was in progress, Vernon was full of silent sympathy. He knew exactly how his father was feeling—knew how that loud angry voice hurt the ears and the head. He knew, of course, that Mummy must be right—Mummy was always right, that was an article of belief not to be questioned—but all the same, he was unconsciously on his father’s side.

Things went from bad to worse—came to a crisis. Mummy remained locked in her room for two days—servants whispered delightedly in corners—and Uncle Sydney arrived on the scene to see what he could do.

Uncle Sydney undoubtedly had a soothing influence over Myra. He walked up and down the room, jingling his money as of old, and looking stouter and more rubicund than ever.

Myra poured out her woes.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Uncle Sydney, jingling hard. ‘I know, my dear girl. I’m not saying you haven’t had a lot to put up with. You have. Nobody knows that better than I do. But there’s give and take, you know. Give and take. That’s married life in a nutshell—give and take.’

There was a fresh outburst from Myra.