Giant’s Bread · Book IV · III · Chapter 4 3 1

I

A memorial service was held for Vernon in the little old church at Abbotsford under the shadows of Abbots Puissants, as it had been held for his father. The two last of the Deyres were not to lie in the family vault. One in South Africa, one in France.

In Nell’s memory afterwards the proceedings seemed shadowed by the monumental bulk of Mrs. Levinne⁠—a vast matriarchal figure dwarfing everything else. She herself had to bite her lips not to laugh hysterically. The whole thing was so funny somehow⁠—so unlike Vernon.

Her mother was there, elegant and aloof. Uncle Sydney was there, in black broadcloth, restraining himself from jingling his money with great difficulty, and with a suitable “mourner’s” face. Myra Deyre was there in heavy crape, weeping copiously and unrestrainedly. But it was Mrs. Levinne who dominated the proceedings. She came back with them afterwards to the sitting-room at the inn, identifying herself with the family.

“Poor dear boy⁠—poor dear gallant boy! I’ve always thought of him like another thon.”

She was genuinely distressed. Tears splashed down on her black bodice. She patted Myra on the shoulder.

“Now, now, my dear, you mustn’t take on so. You mustn’t indeed. It’s our duty, all of us, to bear up. You gave him to his country. You couldn’t do more. Here’s Nell⁠—as brave as can be.”

“Everything I had in the world,” sobbed Myra. “First husband, then son. Nothing left.”

She stared ahead of her through blood-suffused eyes in a kind of ecstasy of bereavement.

“The very best son⁠—we were everything to each other.” She caught Mrs. Levinne’s hand. “You’ll know what it feels like if Sebastian⁠ ⁠…”

A spasm of fear passed across Mrs. Levinne’s face. She clenched her hands.

“I see they’ve sent up some sandwiches and some port,” said Uncle Sydney, creating a diversion. “Very thoughtful. Very thoughtful. A little drop of port, Myra dear. You’ve been through a great strain, you know.”

Myra waved away port with a horror-stricken hand. Uncle Sydney was made to feel that he had displayed callousness.

“We’ve all got to keep up,” he said. “It’s our duty.”

His hand stole to his pocket and he began to jingle.

“Syd!”

“Sorry, Myra.”

Again Nell felt that wild desire to giggle. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh.⁠ ⁠… Awful⁠—to feel like that.

“I thought everything went off very nicely,” said Uncle Sydney. “Very nicely indeed. A most impressive lot of the villagers attended. You wouldn’t like to stroll round Abbots Puissants? That was a very nice letter putting it at our disposal today.”

“I hate the place,” said Myra vehemently. “I always have.”

“I suppose, Nell, you’ve seen the lawyers? I understand Vernon made a perfectly simple will before going out to France, leaving everything to you. In that case, Abbots Puissants is now yours. It was not entailed and in any case there are no Deyres now in existence.”

Nell said: “Thank you, Uncle Sydney, I’ve seen the lawyer. He was very kind and explained everything to me.”

“That’s more than any lawyer can do as a rule,” said Uncle Sydney. “They make the simplest thing sound difficult. It’s not my business to advise you, but I know there’s no man in your family who can do so. Much the best thing you can do is to sell it. There’s no money to keep it up, you know. You understand that?”

Nell did understand. She saw that Uncle Sydney was making it clear to her that no Bent money was coming her way. Myra would leave her money back to her own family. That, of course, was only natural. Nell would never have dreamed of anything else.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Sydney had at once tackled Myra as to whether there was a child coming. Myra said she didn’t think so. Uncle Sydney said she had better make sure. “I don’t know exactly how the law stands, but as it is, if you were to pop off tomorrow having left your money to Vernon, it might go to her. No good taking any chances.”

Myra said tearfully that it was very unkind of him to suggest that she was going to die.

“Nothing of the sort. You women are all alike. Carrie sulked for a week when I insisted on her making a proper will. We don’t want good money to go out of the family.”

Above all, he did not want good money to go to Nell. He disliked Nell whom he regarded as Enid’s supplanter. And he loathed Mrs. Vereker, who always managed to make him feel hot and clumsy and uncertain about his hands.

“Nell, of course, will take legal advice,” said Mrs. Vereker sweetly.

“Don’t think I want to butt in,” said Uncle Sydney.

Nell felt a passionate pang of regret. If only she were going to have a child. Vernon had been so afraid for her. “It would be so dreadful for you, darling, if I were to be killed and you were left with all the trouble and worry of a child and very little money⁠—Besides⁠—you never know⁠—you might die. I couldn’t bear to risk it.”

And really, it had seemed better and more prudent to wait.

But now she was sorry. Her mother’s consolations had seemed coldly brutal to her.

“You’re not going to have a baby, are you, Nell? Well, I must say I’m thankful. Naturally, you’ll marry again and it’s so much better when there are no encumbrances.”

In answer to a passionate protest, Mrs. Vereker had smiled. “I oughtn’t to have said that just now. But you are only a girl still. Vernon himself would have wanted you to be happy.”

Nell thought: “Never! She doesn’t understand!”

“Well, well, it’s a sad world,” said Mr. Bent, surreptitiously helping himself to a sandwich. “The flower of our manhood being mown down. But all the same I’m proud of England. I’m proud of being an Englishman. I like to feel that I’m doing my bit in England just as much as these boys are doing it out there. We’re doubling our output of explosives next month. Night and day shifts. I’m proud of Bent’s, I can tell you.”

“It must be wonderfully profitable,” said Mrs. Vereker.

“That’s not the way I like to look at it,” said Mr. Bent. “I like to look at it that I’m serving my country.”

“Well, I hope we all try to do our bit,” said Mrs. Levinne. “I have a working party twice a week, and I’m interethting myself in all these poor girls who are having war babieth.”

“There’s too much loose thinking going about,” said Mr. Bent. “We mustn’t get lax. England has never been lax.”

“Well, we’ve got to look after the children at any rate,” said Mrs. Levinne. She added: “How is Joe? I thought I might see her here today.”

Both Uncle Sydney and Myra looked embarrassed. It was clear that Joe was what is known as a “delicate subject.” They skated lightly over the topic. War work in Paris⁠—very busy⁠—unable to get leave.

Mr. Bent looked at his watch.

“Myra, we’ve not too much time before the train. Must get back tonight. Carrie, my wife, you know, is very far from well. That’s why she wasn’t able to be here today.” He sighed. “It’s odd how often things turn out for the best. It was a great disappointment to us not having a son. And yet, in a way, we’ve been spared a good deal. Think of the anxiety we might be in today. The ways of Providence are wonderful.”

Mrs. Vereker said to Nell when they had taken leave of Mrs. Levinne, who motored them back to London: “One thing I do hope, Nell, is that you won’t think it your duty to see a lot of your in-laws. I dislike the way that woman wallowed in her grief more than I can tell you. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, though I dare say she’d have preferred a proper coffin.”

“Oh! Mother⁠—she was really unhappy. She was awfully fond of Vernon. As she said, he was all she had in the world.”

“That’s a phrase women like her are very fond of using. It means nothing at all. And you’re not going to pretend to me that Vernon adored his mother. He merely tolerated her. They had nothing in common. He was a Deyre through and through.”

Nell couldn’t deny that.

She stayed at her mother’s flat in town for three weeks. Mrs. Vereker was very kind within her own limits. She was not a sympathetic woman at any time, but she respected Nell’s grief and did not intrude upon it. Upon practical matters her judgment was, as it always had been, excellent. There were various interviews with lawyers and Mrs. Vereker was present at all of them.

Abbots Puissants was still let. The tenancy would be up the following year, and the lawyer strongly advised its sale rather than reletting it. Mrs. Vereker, to Nell’s surprise, did not seem to concur with this view. She suggested a further let of not too long duration.

“So much may happen in a few years,” she said.

Mr. Flemming looked hard at her and seemed to catch her meaning. His glance rested just for a moment on Nell, fair and childish-looking in her mourning.

“As you say,” he remarked, “much may happen. At any rate, nothing need be decided for a year.”

Business matters settled, Nell returned to the hospital at Wiltsbury. She felt that there, and there only, could life be at all possible. Mrs. Vereker did not oppose her. She was a sensible woman and she had her own plans.

A month after Vernon’s death, Nell was once more back in the ward. Nobody ever referred to her loss and she was grateful. To carry on as usual was the motto of the moment.

Nell carried on.