Chapter 9

Jerry’s leave was not a happy or a peaceful one—no more for his father and Ivy Beatup than for himself. Every day he was over at Worge—Ivy had never met anyone so undetachable. She hated herself, too, for some temporary capitulations. Jerry had a way of making her faint-hearted, so that she would be betrayed into a kiss, or even a visit to the Pictures, with an entwined walk home under the stars. She wished that some other boy—some young Pix or Viner or Kadwell—was home on leave, then she might have escaped to him [92] from Jerry. Not that she really doubted herself—she had made up her mind that she did not want him and that she would not have him; this still held good, and her momentary lapses deceived neither her nor him. He no longer wooed her ardently—contrariwise, he was stiff and sulky, sullen and rough when he kissed her. He knew that there was no chance for him, that his only prey could be the present moment, which he snatched and despised.

Mr. Sumption, after one or two abortive attempts at persuading Ivy to take his boy, tried to detach Jerry from the vain quest which was spoiling these precious days.

“There’s many another girl that would have you, Jerry—and a better match, too, for a clergyman’s son.”

“I know there is—and I’ve had ’em—and thrown ’em away again. She’s the only one I’ve ever wanted for keeps.”

When he heard this, Mr. Sumption felt as if his heart would break.

At last came the end of Jerry’s leave. It was starless dusk, with clouds swagging on the thundery wind. Pools and spills of white light came from the west, making the fields look ghostly in the dripping swale. At Worge a scent of withering corn-stalks came from the fields where the crops had been cut at last, and as Jerry stood in the doorway the first dead leaves of the year fell on his shoulders.

“Come out with me, Ivy. It’s for the last time, and I hate your kitchen with the ceiling on my head, and your mother spannelling round.”

Ivy was in a good humour. The joy of freedom was already upon her—she felt confident, and knew that there would be no lapses this evening. So she put a shawl over her head and went out with him. They [93] passed through the yard and the orchard into the grass-fields by Forges Wood.

The field was tangled and soggy, full of coarse, sour grass. In the dip of it, by the wood’s edge, toadstools spread dim tents, or squashed invisibly underfoot, as the twilight drank up all colours save white and grey.

“I’ve trod on a filthy toadstool, and my foot’s all over scum,” said Ivy, rubbing her shoe in the grass. “Let’s git through the h?adge, Jerry, into the dry stubble.”

“This is a better place to say good-bye.”

“We’ll say good-bye in the house. Now, none of your nonsense, Jerry Sumption”—as he put his arm round her waist.

“But it’s my last evening.”

“Well, I’ve come for a walk. Wot more d’you want? I’m naun for cuddling, if that’s wot you’re after. I’ll give you a kiss, full and fair, when we say good-bye in the house, but there’s to be no lovering under h?adges.”

“You’ve been unkind all along. You’ve spoilt my leave.”

“That’s your own fault, surelye. I’ve bin straight wud you.”

He laughed bitterly. Then his laugh broke into a gipsy whine.

“Ivy, are you sure—quite sure you’ll never love me?”

“Quite sure—as I’ve told you a dunnamany times.”

“But I don’t mean now ... some day ... Ivy?”

In the dusk his face showed white as the toadstools at her feet, but she stood firm, for his sake as well as her own.

“It’s no use talking about ‘some day’—I tell you it’s never.”

[94]

“Never!—and you’ve let me hold you and kiss you....”

“Only now and then—saum as I’d let any nice lad.”

His eyes blazed.

“You little bitch!”

“Mind your words, my boy—and leave hoald of my arm, and come into the next field, or I’ll git hoame.”

But he did not move, and his grip on her arm tightened.

“I want you. I reckon you don’t know what that means when I say I want you, or you wouldn’t be so damn cruel. Ivy, I can’t leave you like this. I can’t go back to camp knowing I’m just nothing to you. You must give me some sort of hope. It’s not fair to have led me on——”

“I never led you on——”

Her limbs were shaking. An unaccountable terror had seized her—a terror of him, with his hot, gripping hand and blazing eyes, of the field so dim and sour, its grass scummy with the spilth of trampled toadstools, of the wood close by with its spindled ashes and clumping oaks....

“Let me go!” she cried suddenly, in a weak frightened voice.

For answer he pulled her into his arms, and held her with her breast bruised against his.

“I shan’t let you go—I’ll never let you go. Come into the wood, Ivy. Don’t be afraid ... I love you.... Come into the wood—there’s nothing to be afraid of. I wouldn’t hurt you for worlds.”

He tried to pick her up and carry her, but she struggled desperately and broke free.

[95]

“This has justabout finished it all, Jerry Sumption. You’re a beast—I’ll never let you come nigh me agaun. You’ve a-done for yourself. I’ve bin good to you and straight wud you, and I’d have gone on being friends; but now I’ve a-done wud you for good.”

Her voice broke with rage, and she turned to run home. But he grabbed her again, and this time she could not escape. He was a small man, and she was a big whacking girl; but madness was in him, and his arms were like iron clamps.

“You shan’t get shut of me like that. I tell you I mean to have you ... and wot’s more I’ll make you have me. I’ll break your pride—I’ll make you want to have me, ask me to take you.”

Ivy screamed.

“Scream away. No one ull hear. I’ve got you, and I’m damned if I let you go till I please.... To-morrow you’ll be on your knees, begging me to take you and save you.”

He clapped his hand over her mouth, and forced back her head, kissing her strained and aching neck till she screamed with pain as well as with fright. Her cries were stilled under his palm, her head swam, her strength was leaving her ... she was down on one knee ... then suddenly, she could never remember how, she was free, and running, running as she had never run before, her breath sobbing in her throat—across the field of the toadstools and sour grass, away from the shadow of Forges Wood, in the orchard, to see the gable of Worge rising against the pewter—grey of the clouds that hid the moon.

At the orchard edge she had the sense to stop and tidy herself. There was no longer any fear of pursuit—if indeed she had ever been pursued. She had dropped her shawl in the field, her blouse was torn open at the neck, her hair was down on her shoulders, and her face all blotched with excitement and tears. Also, a new experience, she was trembling from head to foot, and her shaking hands could scarcely fasten her blouse and twist up her hair.

[96]

“You beast!” she sobbed, as she fumbled; “you beast! You dirty gipsy!”

Then an unaccountable longing seized her for her mother—she longed to throw her arms round her mother’s neck and cry upon her shoulder. With a little plaintive moan she started off again for the house, but by the time she reached the doorstep the craving had passed.