“Hoeing is an unromantic activity,” said Mrs Mark with a certain satisfaction, “but it’s one’s daily bread in a market garden.”
Patchway approached them along the path, pushing a wheelbarrow. His hat looked as if it had not moved since last night.
“Still no rain I’m afraid,” said Mrs Mark to Patchway.
“Won’t see no life in them leeks before the autumn if it don’t rain buckets pretty soon,” said Patchway.
They stood aside to let him pass.
“He’s going to lift some lettuces,” said Mrs Mark.“Such a nice simple man. What you see on the right is the back of the stable block, said to have been designed by Kent. Part of it was damaged by fire about fifty years ago, but as you see it’s still very pretty. It figured a lot in old prints. We’ve made some of the loose boxes into garages, and some into packing sheds where we weigh and pack the vegetables to go to Pendelcote and Cirencester. I supervise that part of the work as well as all the indoor things and the catering. We believe that women should stick to their traditional tasks. No point in making a change just to make a change, is there? We’d be so glad if you ever felt like joining in any time. I expect you’re handy with your needle?”
Dora, who was not, was feeling the sun extremely. The reflections of heat and light from the concrete path and the line of glass frames were giving her a headache. She put her hand to her head.
“Poor thing!” said Mrs Mark. “I’ve walked you off your feet. We’ll just take a quick look at the fruit garden and then I’m sure you should go inside and rest, and I must get on with my jobs.” She pushed open a heavy wooden gate in the wall and they came into the fruit garden.
The old stone walls, dry and crumbling with the long summer, covered over with brittle stonecrop and fading valerian, enclosed a large space crammed and tangled with fruit bushes. A wire cage covered an area in the far corner, and there was a glint of glass. A haze hung over the luxuriant scene, and it seemed hotter than ever within the garden. Disciplined fruit trees were spread-eagled along every wall, their leaves curling in the heat. Dora and Mrs Mark began to walk along one of the paths, the dried up spiky fingers of raspberry canes catching at their clothes.
“Why there’s Catherine,” said Mrs Mark. “She’s picking the apricots.”
They came towards her. A large string net of small mesh had teen thrown over a section of the wall to protect the fruit from the birds. Behind the net Catherine was to be seen, almost lost in the foliage of the tree, dropping the golden fruit into a wide basket at her feet. She wore a floppy white sun hat under which her dark hair straggled in a long knot, hazy with wisps and tendrils, which hung down between her shoulder-blades. She was intent on her labour and did not see Dora and Mrs Mark until they had come very close. Her dark head, thrown back beneath the powdery glow of the hanging apricots, looked to Dora Spanish, and again beautiful. Her averted face, without the nervous self-protective look which it wore in company, seemed stronger, more dignified, and more sad. Dora felt that strange misgiving once more at the sight.
“Hello, Catherine!” said Mrs Mark loudly. “I’ve brought Dora to see you.”
Catherine jumped and turned about, looking startled. What a jittery creature she is, Dora thought. She smiled and Catherine smiled back at her through the net.
“You must get terribly hot doing that,” said Dora.
Catherine wore an open-necked summer frock with pale washed-out flowers upon it. Her throat was burnt to a dark brown by the sun, but a sallowness in her face had seemed to resist the sunlight and gave her the pale look which Dora had remarked the night before. She pushed the hat back off her head as she spoke to Dora until it rested, held by its strings, upon the great bunch of hair on her shoulders, and she swept the ragged dark fringe back from her brow. She wiped a brown hand wet with perspiration upon her dress, while they exchanged a remark or two about the weather. Dora and Mrs Mark passed on.
“Catherine’s so excited about going in, bless her heart,” said Mrs Mark. “This is such a thrilling time for her.”
“Going in?” said Dora.
“Oh, you didn’t know,” said Mrs Mark, as she led Dora back towards the gate. “Catherine is going to be a nun. She is going to enter the Abbey in October.”
They went out of the gate. Dora turned to take one last look at the figure under the net. At the news which she had just heard she felt a horrified surprise, a curious sort of relief, and a more obscure pain, compounded perhaps of pity and of some terror, as if something within herself were menaced with destruction.
“It’s time now please,” said the man behind the counter.
Dora jumped guiltily to her feet and returned her glass. She was the only remaining inhabitant of the darkly varnished bar parlour of the White Lion. She went out into the sunshine and heard the sad sound of the inn door being closed and bolted behind her. It was half past two.
After taking leave of Mrs Mark in the morning Dora had rested for about twenty minutes, and then had walked to the village by a footpath which Mrs Mark had indicated to her, to inquire at the station about the suitcase. The walk took longer than she expected, but when she arrived, sweating and exhausted, she was told that the case was due to be returned by a train which came through in about half an hour. Wandering out again into the village Dora was transported with delight to discover that the pubs were open. She patronized in turn the White Lion and the Volunteer, and sat dreaming in the dim light of the bars, enjoying that atmosphere of a quiet pub which was connected with her pleasanter memories of being in church. She went back to the station and found the train was late. Eventually it appeared and the suitcase was unloaded and given to Dora. Her first action was to retire with it to the Ladies’ Cloakroom and change into a summer dress and sandals. Feeling much better, she emerged and was about to start out, laden with the suitcase, on the walk back which it had not occurred to Paul, or indeed to herself, to think of as likely to be peculiarly wearisome, when she happened to look at the time. It was a quarter past one. Dora then remembered that lunch at Imber was at twelve-thirty. It was then that she entered for the second time into the White Lion.
Ejected, she trailed off through the village and found the stile and the little footpath which led through two wheat-fields and a wood to the main road. The wheat, tawny with ripeness, had been cut and stood in tented stooks about the fields, while a few ghostly poppies lingered at the edge of the path. Dora reached the road, walked a little way along it following the wall of the Imber domain, and went in through a small door. From here a path led diagonally across two of the streams that fed the lake, to join the drive at the third bridge. This was a very beautiful part of the walk, and was mainly in the shade, and although very hungry now and somewhat confused at being so late, Dora felt momentarily quite delighted with the soft air and with the green arches of the wood as she reached the plank bridge over the first stream. She was cooled by the shade and her emptiness gave her a sense of energy.
The estate was thickly wooded here and the stream found its way along under a leafy cavern of elder and ash saplings beneath the higher roof of the trees. Grasses leaned into the stream and were spread out in long lines of vivid green, but it was clear in the centre, running over a bed of sand and pebbles. Dora stood for a moment, looking down into the trembling speckled water, and found herself thinking about Catherine. She pictured her, attired as a bride, going through the great Abbey door in October, never to emerge again. Then it was in imagination as if she, Dora, were crossing the causeway, her eyes fixed steadily upon the opening door. She woke shivering from the vision, and descending quickly by the side of the bridge walked sandals and all into the bed of the stream. Thank God she was not Catherine.