“Of course it won’t,” said Colin crossly, “it’s glued on.”
“Do you really think there’s going to be a flood?” asked Jacqueline, fear stirring in her.
“Yes,” said Peronelle excitedly, warming to the subject, “the water Things that live in the air are fighting the water Things that live in the earth and the sea. Each soldier in the army has been turned into a drop of water. We shan’t know who gets the best of it because they’ll have drowned us all long before the battle’s over.”
Jacqueline began to sob. A storm of any sort always frightened her. The noise it made seemed to be beating a tattoo with invisible little hammers all over her body, and the shivering and shrinking of her skin seemed to beget a shivering and shrinking within her.
“Oh, shut up, Jacqueline, you fool!” cried Michelle, who was sitting by the fire with her shoulders hunched up in the nastiest way possible.
The word “fool” applied to her always seemed to send a sword through Jacqueline. . . . She sobbed more than ever.
“Darling, you are the greatest idiot ever born,” said Peronelle, and turning from the window she shook Jacqueline and then, penitent, promptly kissed her in the back of the neck.
“Children, if you can’t behave yourselves I shall send you all to stay with grandpapa for a week,” threatened Rachell from the hall. . . . There was instant silence.
The truth was that for two whole days it was so wet and stormy that the children could not go to school and had nothing to do but make themselves unspeakably disagreeable. Jacqueline, in particular, was enough to try the patience even of André. She wept the whole time because she could not go to her beloved Convent and her darling nuns. It was really too much. When she had been at St. Mary’s she had cried the whole time and wanted to be at home, and now when she was at home she cried the whole time because she wanted to be at the Convent.
“She can’t help it, poor darling,” Peronelle explained, “she has a naturally watery nature just as I have a naturally dry one. One can’t help one’s disposition—it just has to be borne by one’s family.”
Michelle was consistently trying too. Her form had been in the middle of King John and she had come home on Wednesday not knowing whether Arthur was going to have his eyes put out or whether he wasn’t going to have his eyes put out, and here it was Thursday and she couldn’t get back to school, and apparently there wasn’t a Shakespeare in the house.
“It’s disgraceful for a—so-called—educated household not to possess Shakespeare,” she said nastily.
“But we have a Shakespeare, darling,” said Rachell, “it’s just that I can’t seem to lay my hands on it—it’s got mislaid.”
“Surely you’ve read King John,” said Michelle, “don’t you know if Hubert put Arthur’s eyes out?”
“Of course I’ve read King John, darling, but I can’t quite remember now—it’s so long ago—”
“I’m ashamed to own you for a mother,” said Michelle and at this Colin went for her and it was all very dreadful.
But in the early hours of Saturday morning the gale dropped quite suddenly, as though a tap had been turned off, and the swish of the rain changed first to a gentle rustling sound, like wind sighing in a barley field, then to a little whispering farewell and then to small isolated drippings that accentuated the sudden deep silence. . . . They all woke up.
They were all, except Jacqueline, used to sleeping soundly through the uproar of a storm, but its sudden cessation was as disturbing as a thunderclap.
Jacqueline, opening her eyes, saw Peronelle sitting up in bed. Dawn was not very far away and the window was an opaque silver-white oblong patching the grey walls. Outside the raindrops dripped very softly among the leaves of the passion flower and away in the garden a robin twittered.
“Jacqueline,” breathed Peronelle, “the gale’s dropped.”
Jacqueline sat up in bed with a sobbing breath of relief and pushed back her hair, heavy with the sweat of a feverish night, from her hot forehead. . . . It was over. . . . That horrible din, with its little hammers beating on her body and its terror writhing through her, was over . . . until next time.
“Are you happy now?” asked Peronelle.
“Yes,” said Jacqueline.
There was such bliss in the tone that Peronelle, happy about her, turned over and went promptly to sleep again, but Jacqueline stayed awake revelling in the peace of the growing dawn. She fixed her eyes on the silver-white patch of the window and watched as its outlines grew clearer and clearer and the little flowers on the chintz window curtain bloomed in the dimness. . . . It was like watching spring come after the long blackness of the winter. . . . There was nothing she loved more than watching the dawn. She had an almost personal love for that white patch of window growing against the grey wall. She never slept very well and often had horrible dreams and she was frightened of the dark, so that the moment of sunrise was to her a moment of exquisite relief. . . . The greatest happiness she ever knew in these days was that of relief. . . . She lay quite still, breathing deeply, the slow relaxation of her tense nerves sending a lovely sense of well-being all over her body, so that she seemed to be swinging very softly in a hammock let down from heaven.
II
At breakfast the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky, and except for the glorious cool freshness in the air and the roar of the still agitated sea no one would have known there had even been a storm.
“Who is coming with me to market?” said Rachell.
There was a shout of joy from the children. Rachell always went to market on a Saturday and the children, for a great treat, sometimes went with her, for Saturday was always a whole holiday.
“We’ll walk in,” said Rachell, “and Brovard shall bring us back in the cart.”
“I’ll come with you to town but not to market,” said Michelle, “I must go to the Free Library and find out about Hubert. . . . They’ll have a Shakespeare,” she added pointedly.
“I’ll come with you wherever you go,” said Ranulph.
Rachell smiled courteously, but her eyelids flickered a little, as they did when she was annoyed, and André, who was drinking coffee, left off drinking coffee, glanced at her, and then went on drinking coffee. . . . Sometimes she thought that Ranulph was with her a little too much. . . . It was because of the children, of course. . . . But the neighbours might talk. . . . And she was beginning to feel that André was growing a little jealous. . . . But how absurd. . . . She gave herself a mental shake. . . . Let the neighbours talk. . . . If one minded the neighbours all peace of mind would be at an end for ever.
“We’ll start in half an hour,” she said to Ranulph with her brilliant smile, but as she passed André in leaving the room she slipped her arm for a moment round his bowed shoulders. . . . He went to the pigsties completely happy.
They started—Rachell, Ranulph, Michelle, Peronelle, Jacqueline, Colin and Maximilian. Colette was left behind with Sophie. The walk was too much for her great weight and tender years.
They went through the water-lane and as they entered its leafy tunnel they all fell silent. They walked along, swinging their baskets rhythmically and treading delicately. Colin, wide-eyed, looked expectantly towards the shadows under the trees, and Maximilian, who was shepherding his family from the rear, lowered his tail. As they emerged again Rachell turned to Ranulph and laughed.
“Absurd, aren’t we?” she said, “you know what Islanders think about water-lanes?”
“Fairies,” said Ranulph, “I understand you are descended from them?”
“Why, don’t you know about it?” cried Peronelle.
“Er—no,” said Ranulph.
“Mother, he doesn’t know the story. Tell him about it at once, for goodness sake.”
“Tell us a story, mother,” said Colin.
“I’m seeing things,” began Rachell, and Ranulph, glancing with a
musement at her face, saw that her eyes had grown strange and very clear, as though she looked right through the walls of this world into another.
“Once upon a time,” she said, “hundreds of years ago, a very pretty girl called Oriane lived at Bon Repos.”
“She was our umpteenth great aunt,” Colin interrupted.
“Perhaps,” said Rachell. “Well, one spring morning she thought she would like some gulls’ eggs so she got up very early, just at dawn, and climbed right down to La Baie des Mouettes.”
“A very dangerous climb. She should have known better,” said Ranulph.
“Yes,” said Rachell, “her mother had frequently forbidden her to do any such thing but she was a very headstrong girl—my children have unfortunately inherited that characteristic. Well, right down at the bottom of the rocks in La Baie des Mouettes is a very beautiful little cave which we call now le creux des faies.”
“It’s all green and yellow inside,” interrupted Peronelle, “and it has pools in it filled with anemones, and the rocks round the pools are washed so smooth by the sea that they look like toadstools.”
“Oriane had often been to this cave before,” continued Rachell, “but never just at dawn. This particular morning that I am telling you about the tide was out and she climbed right down to the little beach in front of the cave. The sun was just shooting long, golden fingers out of the sea, feeling his way up the sky, the sea was smooth as shadowed silk, all the little pebbles sparkled like coloured jewels and the cave was filled with golden light. It was so beautiful that Oriane forgot all about the gulls’ eggs and stood and stared. As her eyes grew accustomed to the sparkling light in the cave she suddenly gave a little jump and cried out in delight, for sitting on one of the rounded toadstool rocks and dabbling his feet in an anemone pool was a little man dressed all in green. He was very tiny, but he was very handsome and beautifully proportioned, and he had delicious pointed ears.”
“Like Colin’s?” asked Jacqueline.
“Yes, like Colin’s,” said Rachell.
Colin felt his ears and strutted in his walk like a turkey cock.
“When the little man heard Oriane cry out he turned round and looked at her, and when he saw her he cried out too and pulled his feet, all dripping with diamond drops, out of the pool, ran to her, reached up and kissed her. Now, no sooner had he kissed her than Oriane shut up like a telescope and became as small as he was himself. Then he kissed her again and she forgot all about her home and her relations, and the Island, and the gulls’ eggs, and nothing existed in the world for her any more but the little green man. All day she sat with him in the cave and danced with him on the little beach and at evening, when the blue sky was dappled with gold clouds and the sea was mother-o’-pearl, she got with him into a little boat shaped like a seashell and sailed away with him to fairyland.”
“Were her unfortunate relations distressed?” inquired Ranulph politely.
“Very,” said Rachell, “they thought she had fallen and been drowned as she climbed down to La Baie des Mouettes. They cried for a year and a day but they had the consolation of feeling that they’d always told her so, and soon they felt better. Time passed on and she was forgotten, until one morning a man who was looking for gulls’ eggs on the rocks above La Baie des Mouettes saw a host of little green men issuing, like bees, from le creux des faies and swarming up the rocks towards him. He stood his ground and asked them who they were and what they thought they were doing on the Island. They told him that charmed with the beauty and grace of Oriane, whom a cousin of theirs had brought to fairyland, they were determined to get themselves wives from the same country. The man said not if he knew it, threw his gulls’ eggs at them and scrambled up the rocks to warn his countrymen. The Islanders, outraged and indignant, swarmed to the defence and there followed one of the worst battles the Island has ever witnessed. But, alas! what can poor mortals do against supernatural beings? What can the clumsy movements of flesh and blood avail against the flittings of ethereal bodies? The fairies drove them inland with lightning sword play and charges swift as the passage of the invisible wind and great and terrible was the carnage. The last stand was made at sunset near St. Pierre but, wearied and dispirited, the Islanders fell at last to their merciless enemies, who put every soul to the sword. The blood flowed down the steep streets of St. Pierre and tinged the waters of the harbour red—they are red at sunset to this day. The fairies then entered into quiet possession of the families and domains of the slain. The widows and orphans were at first annoyed and upset at the turn of events, but when the fairies had kissed them and their stature had been decreased and their memories erased, they were reconciled to their fairy lovers and the Island once more grew prosperous. But this happy state of things could not last for ever. The laws of fairyland will not allow their subjects to live among mortals for more than a certain number of years, and at last the fairies were obliged to say good-bye to the sea anemones and the heather and the water-lanes of the Island, and sail away from La Baie des Mouettes in their fairy boats. They were very sorry to go and they cried so much that the little beach in La Baie des Mouettes and le creux des faies have, except at very low tide, been covered with water ever since. But since then no Island witch has ever needed a broomstick for her journeys, having inherited wings from her fairy ancestors, and the old people account for the small stature of many of our families by telling this story.”
Rachell ceased talking and her eyes came back from far distances. The children sighed with delight and pride. Their fairy ancestry was a source of great satisfaction to them. It gave them, they felt, a pull over the children of the other Islands and over the children of England and France and Germany who, poor souls, were descended from apes, and looked it.
“Ah,” said Ranulph profoundly, “now Peronelle is accounted for.”
“Why her particularly?” asked Rachell, her eyes on Peronelle’s legs twinkling along in front of them.
“She has a larger share of fairy bewitchment than the rest,” said Ranulph, “she should Marry Well.”
Rachell made a gurgle of annoyance in her throat.
“Really,” she said, “there are moments when you remind me of my father-in-law.”
“Oh?” said Ranulph, “is that a compliment?”
“No,” said Rachell, and conversation languished until they came in sight of the market.
III
How describe the glories of the market? It was like a glorified—one might almost say a spiritualized—Rue Clubin on a Saturday night. Here was no narrow constricted street, no dirt and squalor, but a great domed building full of light and air and cleanliness. Here, too, were stalls piled with crabs and blue-black lobsters lying on beds of fresh seaweed, yet the stalls were bigger, the crabs seemed fatter and more imposing, the lobsters more sleekly and shiningly armoured. The market was confined to farm and garden produce and the harvest of the sea; it lacked the scarlet petticoats and yellow sunbonnets of La Rue Clubin, but it did not want for colour—the flower-stalls saw to that. Scarlet and yellow dahlias blazed everywhere, flanked by the great fat purple Michaelmas daisies and their little pale starry sisters, their yellow eyes fringed so delicately with innocent white lashes. Even though it was October there were still some bunches of hardy cabbage roses and the pink and white Island lilies still hung out a few slender trumpets on their grey-green stalks.
On the dairy stalls were slabs of butter, marigold colour, baskets of brown eggs and cans of buttermilk and curds. Beside the stalls sat the peasant women, most of them old and wrinkled, the grandmothers who were too old to work on the farms. Their brown wrinkled faces were framed in snow-white goffered sunbonnets, and white aprons covered their voluminous petticoats. They were all knitting and talking without pause and without cessation, and, apparently, without breath, the click of their needles keeping time to the rhythm of their patois.
There was a glorious smell in the market, combined of
roses and seaweed and buttermilk and freshly ironed aprons, a deliciously invigorating smell that seemed the distillation of cleanliness. The sounds, too, were healing sounds. The great domed roof gathered up the click of the needles, the soft patois, the tinkle of the buttermilk as it poured foaming from the great cans, the rustle of the flowers as they passed bowing to their purchasers, mingled them to a soft fusion of sound and echo and handed back a lilting melody that stole into memory and stayed there when great symphonies were forgotten.
It was a lovely and lovable place, the Island market, yet to Colin it lacked thrill, and in his opinion could not hold a candle to La Rue Clubin. It was tediously respectable, connected in his mind with the restrictions that hedged his schoolboy existence, while La Rue Clubin stood to him for freedom and manhood and the limitless horizons of the sailor’s life. He looked at Uncle Ranulph, listening politely as Rachell told him how curds were made, and noticed his beard and moustache leaning together to hide a yawn. Uncle Ranulph was also, it appeared, slightly bored with the market. . . . Colin formed the sudden daring project of taking Uncle Ranulph to La Rue Clubin. . . . Uncle Ranulph would understand its appeal. . . . He would not give him away.
In the middle of the market was the Bon Repos stall with old Madame Brovard, Brovard’s mother, in charge of it. She smiled and nodded to them, but did not enter into conversation. . . . The families of gentlemen farmers, when they walked through the market, did not appear to own their stalls. . . . It would hardly be comme il faut. . . . Gentlemen were not in trade. Rachell paused just long enough to smile at Madame Brovard and notice how vastly superior was the Bon Repos butter to any other before she passed on to a stall positively groaning with crabs and lobsters and fish of all kinds. Here she purchased conger to make that particular Island delicacy, conger soup, and a fish never found anywhere but in the Island waters—a creature with green bones.