A Drake at the Door by Derek Tangye Read Free Book Online Page A

maddening thing was he was right. We had happened to pass the one meadow at Pentewan of which I was not proud. It was patchy. It needed weeding. But what was it to do with him?
    I am one of those who have never felt comfortable in the possession of power over a fellow human being. It is my weakness of character that I can never give an order or attempt to impose my will without a wavering doubt. I do not want to hurt. I do not want to exploit the weakness of another because I am aware of the weakness in myself. I could never become a tin god because I have never believed that the pursuit of power is an end in itself.
    Such an attitude, however, breeds on occasion a violent reaction. The easy way out of letting things slide, the lack of courage or conviction to state your views clearly suddenly comes up against a brick wall; for suddenly some incident, on top of all those others you have failed to face up to, stings you into fury. You explode, and the victim is surprised. He has underestimated you.
    The official, of course, was surprised when I exploded. I put up for an hour with his taunts and then could not restrain myself any longer. My politeness suddenly turned into rage. The anger which I had felt as soon as I first saw him had simmered into an outburst in which my words tumbled out so fast that they stumbled over each other. I finished by saying:
    ‘And anyway, what damn right have you got to speak to me like this? I’m asking for a grant, not a lecture!’
    He was amazed. It was as if a gale had blown him fiat. He grinned at me sheepishly. He fingered the peak of his cap and shuffled his foot round an imaginary stone. I was amused to see how suddenly he had become deflated.
    ‘Now, now, now,’ he said soothingly, ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. I’ve a difficult job to do. I can’t recommend grants for everybody. I must make sure . . . I promise I will do my best in your case.’
    We shook hands after that.
    And we secured our grant.
    The lorry was now advancing on the trickiest part of the lane. The miniature causeway covered the section which was filled with quickthorn and elm tree saplings when we first came to Minack; and in the winter it used to become a swamp, collecting the water which drained down the valley. Hence the contractor whom we employed to build the lane raised up this section, leaving ditches on either side to act as drains. There was not an inch to spare. The driver had to keep the wheels plumb straight or else the lorry with its enormous load, a load of such high hopes for Jeannie and myself, would topple over.
    Slowly, slowly . . . it was now halfway across and I could see the driver in the cabin grimly holding the steering wheel. Never had a greenhouse been delivered in such dangerous circumstances. Why on earth was I courting disaster? This was only the beginning. Had not somebody warned me that a greenhouse would never stand up to the gales that lashed Minack?
    ‘Come on, come on.’
    I was standing a few yards in front of the bonnet. I could see the fat tyres of the back wheels riding the lane’s edges as if on two tightropes. Another three feet . . .
    The lorry was safe.
    It took a fortnight to erect the greenhouse; and when it was completed Jeannie and I used to stand inside for an hour on end, gazing in wonderment. It was our personal Crystal Palace. The expanse of it, the heat of the sunshine despite the cold winds outside, the prospect of now being able to grow crops without the endless threat of the elements, produced such excitement that we bought a bottle of champagne and christened it.
    ‘To the greenhouse and its crops!’ And we stood in the middle with glasses raised.
    It was a pity, therefore, that the sweet peas behaved as they did. With such a beginning they might have responded by flowering. Even a few flowers.
    But we did not know that sweet pea plants become sterile if the roots are in wet soil; because that winter, while we proudly watched the lush green climbing