Rebecca West - Sunflower

Sunflower

Rebecca West

To my friend
G.B. Stern

Contents

SHE never could understand machinery. So when the chauffeur tried to explain what was so seriously the matter with the automobile that it would take a whole two hours to repair, she cut him short and said, Never mind, Harrowby. Accidents will happen, and anyway its much nicer than travelling by train. She noticed a look of real perturbation round his nice eyes, and was puzzled till a flash of comprehension came to her, and she hastily explained, Oh, its all right about my being late. Im not expectinganyone. But she did wish Essington would not get so angry when she was late that the servants noticed. It wasnt her dignity she was thinking of; she was too tired to think of that. But it dug away her defences. For if nobody else knew how he behaved, then when she woke in the middle of the night and felt like a trapped rat she could pretend that things werent so bad, she could say to herself, I expect I imagine most of it. For hes awfully fond of me, really. He cant get on without me. Look how he always wants me to go away with him for his holidays. Yes, Im silly, thats what I am. But if other people knew about it she couldnt fool herself, and had to go on feeling like a trapped rat.

She shivered, and said, Well, I suppose I cant go on sitting here if youre going to do all that to her. Ill go for a walk, and stepped out of the automobile. The garage yard was full of the clear light of May, and it was a pleasanter place than most of its kind, for it had evidently been an old livery-stable and its walks were of mellow red brick, patterned with streaks of moss and golden patches like freckles where time and sunshine had toasted away the surface. In the end wall was an archway barred by an iron gate, through which one could see a green country garden that was as much orchard as garden, with fruit trees standing in grass too long and strong for a lawn, and rows of rhubarb. It made her think of the orchards round Chiswick when she was a little girl. They had been so pretty; and she had had time to look at them, for then her days had been too empty as now they were too full. She was glad that this breakdown which gave her an hour to herself had happened in this little market town, where there were orchards.

Harrowby, she asked, didnt we pass a pretty place with water, just before we came into the town?

Yes, Miss, a kind of big pond it was, with lily pools. A gentlemans estate left to the district for a park, I should say it was. There were seats. About three quarters of a mile back, it was.

Oh, dear! Thats too far. Id have to walk a mile and a half in all. I suppose I wont have time. And it was so pretty. It seems as if one never could do anything one wanted, doesnt it? She felt like crying. Nowadays she was all to pieces.

But you said, Miss, that you hadnt got to hurry. And I could run you back to town in an hour and a half from here. This is Packbury, you know. I should go if I were you, Miss. Itll do you good.

It was all right. There was really no reason at all why she should not go. It was simply that she was so unused to liberty, so seldom free from the leash that jerked her back to heel whenever she was doing anything she enjoyed, that she felt at a loss when she was on her own. She pulled herself together and said gaily, All right. Ill come back here. Dont try to fetch me, for Ill take a footpath if I can. She hadnt been on a footpath for years. He tuned up his engine and took the car, calling over his shoulder, Never known you have an hour to yourself before, Miss! She smiled and waved her hand, and turned towards the street. She meant to buy some fruit and chocolate, and eat it sitting by the pond.

But a young man in overalls, the man Harrowby had been talking to about the car, stopped her. Im proud to have your car in my garage, Miss Fassendyll.

She did so want to buy that fruit and get away by herself to the pretty place. But she had to pause and look pleased, since he meant to be kind. Oh, thats very nice of you. Fancy your knowing me!

Well, who wouldnt? My wife he gave a broad, shy smile, shell be real sorry she isnt down to see you, shes laid up just now. Some people say she could pass herself off as you any day. Quite a joke it is among our friends.

Isnt that interesting! I do wish Id seen her. But I expect shes far nicer than me really. Tell her Im ever so sorry I didnt see her, wont you?

I will, Miss. I cant tell you how disappointed shell be, for youre her favourite actress. When we were passing through London last year on our honeymoon we went and saw you. She wouldnt hear of going and seeing anybody else. I want to see Miss Sybil Fassendyll, she said, and that was that. Rosalind you were.

Oh, was I! She sighed. The papers said I was awful.

We thought it was lovely. Never enjoyed an evening at the theatre more, particularly considering it was Shakespeare. I suppose theres a lot of jealousy and that to account for what they write in the papers.

No, I dont think its that. Theyre kind, most people. I didnt know anybody when I started, and look how theyve let me get on. But sometimes its hard to understand what they want you to do Her eyes wandered vacantly round the yard. She became absorbed in contemplation of this mystery which nowadays was constantly vexing her, as to what the art of living could possibly be. One went on to the stage properly dressed and made up as the character and said the words as they would be said in real life. How could there be anything more to it? Yet it seemed, from the way that people went on, as if there was. She wished this man would not go on forever standing between her and oranges, and the pretty place with water, and rest. Apart from making her think of uncomfortable things he was horrid with his flat, smug, deliberate voice, his characterless, genteel phrases, and his peculiarly wide smile, which showed a gold-crowned tooth in his lower jaw. But there he stood in her path, quite undislodgeable, slowly turning a spanner in his hand, and smiling fixedly and over-broadly. She looked away again, and a spike of white lilac, thrusting above the tortoiseshell reds and golds of the wall, caught her wandering eye. Absently she said, Youve got a nice place here. It looks old, too.

As old as you can think, Miss, he said, still turning the spanner, still smiling. This was the stable yard of the White-Faced Stag Inn before it was burned down, and nobody knows how old that was. Queen Elizabeth slept there, anyway. It seemed that he must be about to stop, for the pause was long, but he did not. We had an awful job to get the place right. Had to take up all the old cobblestones, for one thing.

Isnt that a shame! I always think they look so pretty.

His smile grew broader. Thats just what my wife says. But you wouldnt like to drive into a garage all bumpitty-bumpitty, would you? He laughed tenderly, as if something in that feeling about the cobblestones struck him as very comic and lovable; labouring the point ridiculously. Then he began to tell her interminably how much it had cost to set the place in order, how he had spent every penny of his gratuity on it, to which she said wearily, remembering the cloud-marbled surface of that pond, Well, I hope youre doing well now.

In a moment during which she nearly groaned aloud, he did not reply. Then he muttered, Well, we were able to get married on it a year ago, and looked at her with shining eyes and a smile that was not fixed at all but trembled on the tide of a deep feeling. He opened his mouth, and closed it. He had ceased to turn the spanner in his hand, and was holding it away from him stiffly, exhibitingly, like a priest holding a reliquary; it might have been the symbol of something sacred that he possessed and wanted to tell her about and could not because he was overcome by reverence. It came to her suddenly, for she was clever about people though she could get the hang of nothing else, that he had been telling her all these dreary things about the cost of removing cobblestones and the price of petrol-pumps because they were part of a story that he knew to be wonderful; and from a kind of glow of love about him, that was as real and perceptible as might have been the flush of rage or the pallor of despair, she knew that he was right and that the story was really wonderful. This man and this woman were in love, and it was lasting though they had got each other; they were living a marvellous life. This aroused in her feelings not only of happy sympathy but of partisanship, for she had been accustomed though not resigned to a world where everythingpolitics, business, the arts and scienceswere esteemed above life. Why do they make such a fuss about Shakespeare because of Romeo and Juliet? Its more wonderful to