# Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 5

GEORGE is carving the meat. He always feels better at meal times. The trouble with me, he thinks, is that I take things too seriously. I dare say I haven't any sense of humour. Let's see if we can't make a sort of fresh start from this moment.
The three little girls are brown and gay. Phyllis looks tired, but busily exhibits that staccato sprightliness that comes over her when there are guests. This Mr. Martin seems a silent fellow. The children stare at him, and seem to have some joke among themselves; Sylvia and Rose nudge each other and giggle. I always think it's a mistake to let the two younger ones sit side by side. But Mr. Martin seems unaware of them: his eyes are fixed on Phyllis with a cheerful watchfulness. He's a solemn bird, thinks George, but he has the good taste to admire Phyl. I hope he won't overdo it, for her sake. She can't stand much admiring: it goes to her head right away.
"Well," Phyllis says, "this is really delightful. A distinguished guest is just what we needed to ​make the Picnic a success. Children, don't kick the legs of the table.—Mr. Granville is so fond of artists, he employs such a lot of them in his business. Of course, I dare say your kind of work is quite different, but there must be a lot of painters who wouldn't know what to do if it weren't for the little advertising jobs that come along. We're so happy to be in the country again. Of course we live very simply, but Mr. Granville can always work so well when he gets away from the office. I feel so sorry for the men who have to be in town all summer."
George feels a violent impulse to contradict her, but masters it. Phyl, he says, ask Lizzie to bring a spoon for the gravy. She always forgets it.—Mr. Martin, I'll tell you the kind of people we are, we never have a carving knife sharp enough to cut with.
"Well, George, it's not our own carving knife. You see, Mr. Martin, we took this house furnished. It's not like having our own things."
Our own isn't any better, George's voice shouts angrily inside his head, but he manages to keep it from coming out.
Are we going to the Haunted House for the Picnic? the children ask.
Not unless you take your elbows off the table, ​Phyllis says sharply. Mr. Martin, who looks puzzled, takes his elbows off too.
There's a poor old tumbledown farm, on a sandy cliff, among dark pine trees, Phyllis explains. Someone has told the children that it's haunted. The word means nothing to them, but they can tell—by the way people say it—that it suggests something interesting.
Yes, if it doesn't rain, George says. He is too experienced a parent ever to make positive promises.
This would have been a good day for cold meat and salad, he thinks, sawing away at the joggling-slippery roast. Phyllis sees him thinking it. "I'm sorry to have hot meat on such a warm day, but we'll need it to-morrow for the sandwiches. There's some iced tea coming."
"Hot meat to make your inside hot, iced tea to make it cold," the children exclaim. "Do we have to eat the fat?"
They always ask this question. Then Mr. Martin asks it too, which causes amusement. How delightful Mr. Martin is, Phyllis thinks. He has a sort of eagerness to be happy, to enjoy things, to move blithely from one minute to the next. Even George feels it, he looks less cross. But George, as he takes down a tall glass of iced ​tea in one draught, is making calmly desperate resolves. I haven't the faintest idea what anything means, he is telling himself, but I'm just going to go on placidly. I'll go cracked if I keep on worrying. Maybe after lunch I can take a snooze in the garden. One of the little girls wriggles happily on her chair, her pink frock has slipped sideways on her smooth brown shoulder, showing the frilled strap of her shirt. With a gentle twitch George pulls her dress straight and pats the child's golden nape. She looks at him with innocent affection. That little bare shoulder makes him think of women and their loveliness, and all the torments of unease to which these same poor youngsters must grow up. He concentrates his mind on the blue and white platter, the brown gravy dimpled with clear circles of fat and turning ruddy as the juice of the roast trickles down, the amber tea with slices of lemon. Thank Heaven Time still lies before them all like an ocean. Even he and Phyllis are young, they don't need to do anything definite about life, not yet. Keep your mind on the small beautiful details, the crackling yield of bread-crust under the knife, the wide hills over the sea, sunset on open spaces that evaporates all passion, all discontent. He picks up his napkin from the rug, helps himself to vegetables, ​and begins to eat. How delicious life is, even for an abject fool like me, he thinks. I wonder if any one ever feels old?
"The Picnic is our great annual adventure," Phyllis was saying. "I hope you won't think us too silly, but we do look forward to it enormously. It's such fun to forget about things once in a while and just have a good time."
"Yes," said George, "we worry about it for weeks beforehand. And we always invite more people than the house can properly hold."
Phyllis flashed a little angry brightness across the table.
"You mustn't think us too informal if things are a bit crowded, that's part of the fun."
"What is informal?" asked Mr. Martin, quite gravely.
George smiled. Why, the man was kidding her.
"Informal's what women always say they're going to be and never are."
"George loves to lay down the law about women, Mr. Martin. As a matter of fact he knows nothing about them. I expect you know more than he does, even if you're a bachelor."
"Is there a lot to know?" said Mr. Martin.
The man's delightful, thought George.
I never felt as queer as this before, thought ​Phyllis. I feel as though something astonishing were going to happen. Or worse still, as though nothing would ever happen. How many sandwiches will we need? Three children, two of us, Mr. Martin, Ben and Ruth, Miss Clyde—that makes nine. When this gruesome Picnic is over, perhaps I shall have a chance to ease up. I feel as though I should like to fall in love with someone. I wonder if Mr. Martin would do?
"Mr. and Mrs. Brook are coming this evening," she said gaily. "You'll like them, they're charming."
"As a matter of fact," said George (she always knew, when he began with that phrase, that he was going to contradict her), "they're the dullest people on earth; so completely dull that you can't help envying them. They're the perfect mates, too stupid even to disagree with each other. If every other couple in the world went smash, marriage would still be justified by Ben and Ruth."
"How do couples go smash?" asked Janet.
"You finish your beans and don't talk," said Phyllis.
She was pleasantly fluttered by the way Mr. Martin looked at her. His eyes kept returning from his plate: lingering on her face with a gently inquiring studiousness that was not at all offensive. ​I believe he really does want to do a portrait of me, she thought. He's fixing the features in his mind. She turned her head toward Sylvia and Rose so that he would see the half-profile with an appealing madonna softness upon it. The coloured glass panes behind her, what a vivid background that would make.—But she felt he was about to ask a question, and allowed her eyes to come round to meet him, to make it easier for him. Obviously he was shy.
"Do I have to finish my beans?" he said.
What a difficult question to answer. There must be some joke that she did not see.
"Beans make bones," asserted Rose fatuously.
"Why, of course not," she said hastily. "I was afraid that cocoanut cake would take away your appetite." No, that was the wrong thing to say: she saw George's face sharpen at the mention of the cake: he was getting ready to blurt out something and she felt sure it would be awkward. With the speed of a hunted animal her mind dodged in search of some remark that would give her time to think.
"I like the English way of serving beans, slicing them lengthwise, you know; it makes them so tender, without any strings." There; surely that would dispose of the absurd topic. "George, ​what are you going to do this afternoon? Go for a swim?"
"But these are string beans," said George. "They're supposed to have strings. Perhaps Mr. Martin misses them."
"If he doesn't finish his beans, Virginia can have them," Sylvia suggested. "She eats vegetables sometimes."
Virginia was the cat, just now obviously misnamed. Phyllis knew very well what was coming next, but she could not speak fast enough to avert it.
"Beans will be good for her," said Janet with enthusiasm. "She's going to have a family very soon, she needs nourishing food."
"Mother says she mustn't have a shock, it might be bad for the kittens."
"That'll do, never mind about Virginia."
Lizzie was making grimaces from the kitchen door, holding up a cup custard and contorting a red face of inquiry. Phyllis nodded. But perhaps Lizzie means there aren't enough custards to go round? "Oh, Lizzie, put on the fruit too."
George, with his damnable persistence, had not forgotten.
"How about the cake?" he asked.
"George, you know we've got to save the cake ​for the Picnic. I can't ask Lizzie to make another one."
"It's been cut already," he said.
I'm not going to be humiliated like this in front of a stranger. George is just doing it because he sees Mr. Martin admires me. Will this meal never end? I'm past battling over trifles. Have the cake if you want it. I don't care. If Lizzie puts it on, all right. Leave it to her. I'm not going to order it on. Cooks always take the man's side anyhow. I'm afraid Mr. Martin will think we're lunatics.
"What do you think of a husband that always knows exactly what's in the pantry?" she asked him.
A moment later she couldn't remember what he had said to this. Perhaps it's because I'm so absorbed in my own thoughts. The only thing I really remember his saying was his comical question whether he need finish his beans. It's odd, how much he conveys without saying anything, just by a look.
Lizzie had put on the cake. Phyllis saw at once that there were only six custards. She could tell, by the way Lizzie planked them down, there were no more in the kitchen. If they all took one there wouldn't be any for Lizzie herself, and that would ​mean bad temper. She refused the custard. She wanted a peach, but felt that the effort of peeling it was too much. Soft fuzzy skin and wet fingers. Then George, with that occasional insight that always surprised her, passed her one peeled and sliced.
"Yes," he said, "we ought to have a bathe, unless there's a storm. Relieve the pressure on the bathroom."
"Then we'll all be nice and clean for the Picnic," exclaimed the children.
"Miss Clyde is coming," George continued. "She's an artist too, perhaps Mr. Martin knows her."
"Bring the jug of iced tea in the garden, let's finish it out there," said Phyllis. "It's stifling here.—Children, you go and get your naps."
The little table was under the pine trees, the other side of the croquet oval. The grove smelt warm and slippery. Now there are the long hours of the afternoon to be lived through, somehow. George sprawled himself on the brown needles, the smoke of his pipe drifted past her in a blue whiff. Mr. Martin put a chair for her.
"I love these pine trees," she said. "They're always whispering."
"It isn't polite to whisper."
​She smiled at him. He does say the quaintest things.
"Nature never is polite. On an afternoon like this the whole world seems to yawn in your face."
"These trees smell like cough drops." This was George.
An artist's mind is always on the beautiful, Phyllis thought. She pulled her skirt down a little, and tried to decide what was the most beautiful thing visible, so she could call his attention to it. She wished she hadn't said that about yawning, she felt one coming on. The hot lunch had made her frightfully drowsy. Across the bay thunderheads were massing and rolling up, deep golden purple. "I wish I could paint," she said. "See those wonderful——" But she began the sentence too late; the yawn overtook her in the middle of it.
"Wonderful what?" asked George, looking up. She was struggling with the desire to gape; she trembled with the violence of her effort. George stared.
"Are you ill?"
"Wonderful clouds," she finished savagely. George watched her, adding one more tally to his private conviction that women are mostly mad.
"If you poured heavy cream into a glass of grape ​juice," he said, "it would look just like that. Coiling round and clotting."
Sickening idea, Phyllis thought.
"I know exactly what's going to happen, just about the time I have to drive over——"
He was going to say it, she felt it coming. He was going to say depot instead of station. George always said depot when they were in the country, and she couldn't bear it. It was coming, it was coming; everything was predestined; all her life she had known this scene was on the way, sitting under the hot croup-kettle smell of the pine trees, blue thunder piling up on the skyline, poor adorable George mumbling away, and Mr. Martin watching them with his air of faint surprise. It was like the beginning of some terrible poem. Everything in life was a symbol of everything else. The slices of lemon lying at the bottom of the iced-tea jug, on a soft cloud of undissolved sugar, even they were a symbol of something. . . .
"George!" she interrupted desperately. "I had the most terrible premonition. I felt that you were going to say depot."
"Why, yes, I was going to say, just about the time I'm ready to drive over——"
For his own sake, for her sake, for Mr. Martin's sake, George must be prevented. If he used that ​word, she would know that all this was foreordained, beyond help and hope. With a quick movement she pushed her glass of tea off the table; it cascaded onto George's ankle. He paused in surprise.
"I'm so sorry. How careless of me, your nice white socks, look out, that little piece of ice is going down inside your shoe."
She felt that the guest's eyes were upon her. He must have seen her do it. "Is that why they call it a tumbler?" he said.
"Never mind," said George cheerfully. "It feels fine. I wish it was down my neck."
For a moment transparent Time swung in a warm, dull, uncertain equilibrium. Phyllis could see Lizzie jolt heavily down the kitchen steps and bend over the garbage can. The grinding clang of the lid came like a threatening clap of cymbals. How glorious it would be if she and Lizzie, each with a garbage can and lid, could suddenly break into a ritual dance on the lawn, posturing under the maddening sunlight, clashing away their fury in a supreme dervish protest. How surprised George and Mr. Martin would be. She and Lizzie making frantic and mocking gestures, sweating the comedy out of their veins, breaking through the dull mask of polite behaviour into the great rhythms and ​furies of life. No longer to be tired out by little things, but to be exhausted and used by some great ecstasy. She was watching every movement life made, and thinking, as it was finished, There, that's over, it never can happen again. But it all would happen again, and how weary she was of keeping to herself her heavy burden of secret desires and pangs. Why couldn't she tell George? But if you tried to tell George things, he went far, far away—because, probably, he too had so much that he yearned to tell. You can't really be intimate with people who know you so well. Yet she had never been so fond of him. Here, in this garden, they seemed for an instant secure from the terror of the world. Behind these walls, these burning roses, disorderly forces could not reach them.
Mr. Martin was a comforting sort of guest, he did not talk but just looked happy and was spooning up the sugar from the bottom of his glass. Drink life to the bottom of the vessel, you always find some sugar there, all the more palatable for the lemony taste.
A clear compulsory ringing trilled keenly across the lawn. They listened, unwilling to move.
Then there was the squeak of the screen being lifted in the pantry window. Lizzie put out her ​head and called. Phyllis found it impossible to stir.
"George, you go. Then you can put on some dry socks."
"Nonsense," he said, getting up. "I'll be lots wetter than that if the storm breaks while I'm driving to the depot."