Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  The schoolmaster started the National Anthem, everybody joined in, and the concert was over.

  The carriage was waiting to take Aunt Fanny home and she had already offered to convey the Misses ffillimore, who must otherwise have bicycled, for although there were plenty of hunters in the stable at The Hall they kept no carriage horses.

  Aunt and the children were to walk.

  “Good-night, Mr. Visto — it was most successful, I thought. Good-night, Tansy. Come along, Mona, don’t dawdle.”

  Dr. and Mrs. Umfraville were close by.

  “Do let some of the children come over and play with Elisabeth. She’s with us for a month.”

  Callie’s heart bounded at the words, and at Aunt’s ready assent. She did hope she’d be one of the ones to go — but she was sure to be, for they always made her take her turn, coming in between Juliet and Mona or — if the boys were at home — between Juliet and Reggie.

  They walked home through the starlit night. Little curls and columns of white mist rose up from the ground and wreathed themselves fantastically across the hedgerows where the beech leaves were still green. “Like the evening mists in South Wales,” said Aunt. “What on earth is that?”

  It was a figure looming close to them, suddenly, out of the mist and seeming strangely gigantic.

  “What in the world are you all doing, walking about the world at this time of night?” said Uncle Fred, as calmly as though he had parted from them all a few minutes earlier.

  The girls screamed, and Reggie called out: “Why, it’s Uncle Fred!”

  Aunt stopped dead and gave a kind of smothered exclamation, and Uncle Fred — one couldn’t mistake his deep, drawling voice — said:

  “Hallo, Kate!”

  It was the first time that Callie had heard her called “Kate” instead of Aunt.

  Chapter V

  1

  Day after day, Uncle Fred said that he must go and see about The Grove. He’d come home for that.

  The Grove was a large house in South Wales which had belonged to Grandmother and which had stood empty for years. Callie had seen a photograph of it in Grandmother’s big red-velvet album, with the ivory clasps and the wreath of roses stamped on the cover.

  At Rock Place she had also seen a pale water-colour sketch of a garden lawn, with croquet hoops and a summer-house and at the top of a grass slope, one side of a big stone-built house, with a great many long windows and magnolias growing against the wall. That was The Grove.

  It hung in Aunt Fanny’s bedroom.

  “You were born in that house,” remarked Aunt Fanny one day, when Callie was looking at it. “It was my home before I married Uncle Tom.”

  Callie looked more closely at the sketch.

  “There are people sitting on the lawn!” she exclaimed, noticing them for the first time.

  The group was so small as to be almost indistinguishable but there was a lady in a shawl seated in a wicker-chair and another one, in a long white dress and holding a large floppy hat by a ribbon, standing beside her, and two very long figures, with straw hats tilted over their faces, lounging on the grass at their feet, and some dogs.

  “Who are they all?” Callie asked.

  Aunt Fanny amiably moved from the dressing-table in front of which she was seated, to inspect the water-colour.

  “That’s Grandmother, sitting in the chair,” she announced, “and your mother standing next her — I think it was before she married — and my two brothers on the grass.”

  It took Callie a minute to realize who Aunt Fanny’s two brothers had been.

  “Uncle Fred and his brother who was called Lucy?” she said confusedly.

  Aunt Fanny said yes. Then, after a long pause, she added — rather as if the idea had only just occurred to her, as it had to Callie:

  “Of course, Lucy is your father, isn’t he? I suppose you don’t remember him.”

  “Oh no. I used to think I hadn’t got a father at all.”

  “No wonder,” said Aunt Fanny, not at all as though she were shocked or surprised, but in a very matter-of-fact sort of way.

  After another long pause — but one got accustomed to long pauses with Aunt Fanny — she spoke again.

  “Of course you know your mother was killed in a carriage accident and your father felt it most dreadfully, and he’s been travelling about ever since. He did go to Barbados for a little while, but he didn’t like it there.”

  “Grandmother always said he’d come back, but he never did.”

  “Well, she had Fred,” remarked Aunt Fanny simply. “Fred was always her favourite.”

  “Why didn’t they all live at The Grove? It looks very nice.”

  “It was too large, and your grandmother thought she ought to see about the property in the West Indies, and they hoped The Grove would sell — which it never did — and now it belongs to your aunt.”

  “To Aunt?” said Callie, astonished. “Will she go and live there?”

  “Oh no. She lives with us. We couldn’t spare her. But I’m afraid there’ll be rather a lot of business for her to see to,” said Aunt Fanny vaguely. “Uncle Fred will have to help her.”

  “Why is it Aunt’s?”

  Callie had early learnt, with relief and pleasure, that at Rock Place nobody minded answering questions. Her grandmother had never encouraged Callie to talk at all, and had snubbed her if she asked questions.

  “It’s Aunt’s,” said Aunt Fanny, “because it belonged to her father, Mr. Charlecombe, who was my stepfather. My own father — and your grandfather — was Mr. Lemprière, of Barbados. So the sugar plantations, which were worth a lot of money many years ago, belonged to the Lemprières, and The Grove was your grandmother’s for her life and now it’s Aunt’s, because she’s the only Charlecombe.”

  “Then is she very rich?”

  “No, not at all. People don’t buy large houses nowadays, and I expect it’s all gone to rack and ruin, poor old place,” said Aunt Fanny placidly. “You see, it belonged to your grandmother as long as she was alive, and she wasn’t interested in it, once she’d left there, and besides, she kept on thinking that one of the boys — one of my brothers — might want to live there. But they never did.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Callie gravely. She felt sorry that the nice house and garden should have “gone to rack and ruin” and that nobody should live there any more.

  “What will Aunt do with it then?”

  “Have a sale, I expect. There was one some years ago, when old Cousin Joe Newton was able to see about it, and I believe there are still some things left that were so large nobody would buy them. It was his wife, Cousin Edith Newton, who did that sketch. There’s a photograph of her in the drawing-room.”

  There was, and a very uninteresting photograph it was too, of a forbidding-looking lady with a nutcracker face, and very straight hair brushed back from a high forehead. Callie knew, because the girls had said so, that she was called “old Cousin Edith Newton” and that opposite her, in a little gold frame studded with turquoises, was the faded photograph of an elderly gentleman with white whiskers and he was “old Mr. Meredith” to the Ballantynes, but Aunt said that he was Callie’s own grandfather, her mother’s father, dead long ago.

  It was impossible to think that any of them looked in the least interesting. Even the picture of Callie’s mother, that Grandmother had shown her, looked much more like that of a girl in a book than that of anybody’s mother. Her dress was like a sort of fancy-dress, and she had ribbons twisted in and out of her masses of hair, and held a basket of flowers in one beautiful slim hand, balanced on a marble pedestal against the draped folds of a huge velvet curtain.

  Callie’s idea of a real mother was based upon the mother of Diane and Geoffrey Ermington, who was middle-aged and rather stout, and talked a great deal about the servants, the illnesses of herself and her friends, and the difference between people who were “quite quite” and those who were not “quite quite.” But she petted Diane and Geoffrey quite a lot, and
brought them surprises whenever she’d been away, and read to them when they were ill with influenza.

  One couldn’t imagine the girl in the picture doing any of those things. In fact Callie, when she thought of her at all, thought of her as “Rosalie,” which was the name under the photograph in Grandmother’s old album.

  Grandmother had spoken of her once or twice, telling Callie how sad it was that she’d been killed in a carriage accident: Uncle Fred had never said a word.

  Callie was much happier than she had ever been before.

  Occasionally she wished that she had a special friend of her own — Awdry and Juliet had one another, and were twin-like in their inseparability — and she made the focus of this day-dream the girl with the odd name whom she had seen at the concert — Elisabeth Geraldine.

  2

  Uncle Fred came down to breakfast very late every morning, and sat about in the porch or over the drawing-room fire, according to the weather, always smoking and always declaring that he was off to see about Aunt’s property for her, but never going.

  In the evenings he played the piano, and sang in a light tenor voice that was pleasant to listen to, although none of his music was what Tansy called classical, but far from it.

  He only exerted himself when he was asked to play cricket, and even then he appeared to achieve success without making any very great effort.

  His batting, said Tom Ballantyne seriously, was in County Cricket class.

  Uncle Fred, who had stayed at Rock Place before, was in request in the neighbourhood and seemed to enjoy riding or driving to the homes of other people.

  He had been in the house more than a week when Callie’s secret wish was realized, and she met Elisabeth Geraldine.

  3

  “The Palambos haven’t been called upon for a long while. Neither have the ffillimores. They’re both owing,” said Aunt Fanny, looking mournfully reproachful, although the omitted duty, strictly speaking, was her own.

  She had come in to luncheon and was eating cold pigeon-pie, sitting at the foot of the large mahogany table.

  “So are several others. I could go for you, Fanny, and leave cards this afternoon,” Aunt said.

  “Could Aunt have Brownie and the cart, Tom?”

  “Yes, yes, she could.”

  “Very well, I’ll go and drop cards. With any luck they’ll all be out, a day like this,” Aunt said hopefully. “The Palambos weren’t speaking at all, last time I was there,” she added.

  “C’est assez,” said Uncle Tom, looking rebuke-fully to the right and to the left.

  The children exchanged glances. The curious relation that prevailed between Major and Mrs. Palambo was a source of unending interest to them.

  “I bet they have rows over the son who ran away,” Reggie murmured to Juliet.

  “He didn’t run. The Major kicked him out.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Old Hook told me. He said: ‘You couldn’t hardly expect the Major to do no other, considering.’”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering the way he was brought up, to ask questions at meals about what didn’t concern him instead of finishing up his vegetables,” swiftly interposed Tansy — for Reggie was in arrears with the first course and Tansy had a peculiar talent for improving the occasion.

  “Why not do the whole lot?” languidly suggested Uncle Fred.” I’ll come with you if you like.”

  Callie felt her heart jump with excitement. It was her turn to go out in the pony-cart with Aunt.

  “Would you, Fred?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  Aunt looked across to the foot of the table.

  “Fanny, would you like me to call on Mrs. Umfraville?”

  “Certainly,” said Aunt Fanny with the utmost indifference.

  “Whose turn —— ?”

  “Mine,” said Callie joyfully.

  “Then be clean and tidy, with a nice pair of gloves on, at a quarter-past two,” Aunt said, spilling water freely on the table-cloth as she poured it into Mona’s silver christening-mug.

  Callie knew that the first call would be at the long creeper-covered house at the end of the village where the Palambos lived. The Hall was three miles beyond the village and would come next, and then, driving round through Culverleigh Woods, one would reach the long drive with fields on either side of it, at the end of which, looking unexpectedly small after such an impressive approach, stood Dr. Umfraville’s house. He was seldom in it, for whenever he was not either hunting or fly-fishing, he was riding over the countryside on his great grey horse, visiting his patients.

  Mrs. Umfraville, who had a passion for gardening, was as much at home as the doctor was out.

  Callie had scarcely expected Uncle Fred to turn up for the expedition. He so often suggested, in a desultory way, doing things, and so seldom did them. But there he was, with a panama hat tipped over his eyes, and a huge pair of driving-gloves.

  Aunt quickly exchanged her own gauntlets for a more elegant pair.

  “I’d much rather you drove, Fred. Mind the wheel, Callie.”

  Callie “minded” the wheel and sat forward in the cart, in the corner opposite the driver. Aunt, dropping her card-case with one hand and retrieving it with the other, tripped over her own skirts and fell, rather than seated herself, into the corner nearest the door, behind Callie. All of them sat sideways, facing the road ahead.

  Callie’s heart was beating faster than usual, she thought, and she had no desire to talk. She felt excited and hopeful, and yet afraid to hope.

  Uncle Fred and Aunt talked most of the time, and she heard what they were saying, although without paying any attention to it, her own thoughts were so much more interesting than their grown-up conversation.

  “I never can make up my mind,” said Uncle Fred thoughtfully, “whether I prefer to visit the Palambos when they ignore one another completely, or when she contradicts everything he says, or when he talks at her the whole time. I always hope that one of these days one of them will suddenly shy a flower-vase at the other one’s head.”

  “If it ever happens, we shan’t be there. We shall just hear about it from someone who was there. It’s always the way. Like when people get shot in public restaurants.”

  “Dear Kate, I’m so sorry for you. I can see you feel that you’re missing the best out of life.”

  They both laughed.

  “Kate.”

  “Well?” said Aunt, as Uncle Fred paused, flicking the whip idly at the high banks of the narrow lane, where late honeysuckles clung.

  “You never really feel that, do you?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re missing the best out of life.”

  “Certainly not,” said Aunt curtly. “Why should I?”

  Then they were silent, while Brownie walked leisurely up the hill.

  “Oughtn’t you to get out? It’s steep.”

  “He’s all right,” said Uncle Fred. And he added, most irrelevantly: “I suppose one’ll have to do something about the old Grove, sooner or later.”

  “It’ll be a lot of work,” muttered Aunt.

  “And no Lemprière ever works!” returned Uncle Fred fatalistically. “Look at Fanny!”

  “Fanny has bad health.”

  “She wouldn’t have bad health if you didn’t encourage her to have it by doing everything for her.”

  “That will do, Fred.”

  Uncle Fred whistled three or four bars of “Oft in the Stilly Night” and then said that he supposed he was a bit of a bad penny, always turning up where he wasn’t wanted.

  To this Aunt made no rejoinder. Not even a civil contradiction.

  The Palambos lived in a small, long house, thatched and with picturesque ogee windows heavily draped in ivy and clematis, at the end of the village street. The garden was at the back of the house and only a wicket gate and a miniature lawn, divided by a pathway, separated their porch from the road.

  The door was opened by a very young mai
d who said that Mrs. Palambo was at home, and opened a door to the left of the little entrance hall.

  Mrs. Palambo — thin, aquiline, and with a perpetual air of vexation — rose from her embroidery frame. Her church needlework was famous.

  A little black Pomeranian dog flew at the visitors, yapping hysterically, and making rapid darts at Uncle Fred’s legs.

  “How-d’y-do — how-d’y-do — down, Doggie, this minute — down! He never does this as a rule — I’m sorry — down, good little Doggie!”

  Good little Doggie continued to bark, and Mrs. Palambo to apologize, and the Major came in through the French window from the garden and said “That dog ought to be shot,” and the callers seated themselves.

  The room, like the house, was long and low and seemed to be largely filled with china in cabinets and on shelves and brackets against the walls, and small chairs upholstered in velvet, and a number of cushions.

  “It’s rather chilly, isn’t it?” Mrs. Palambo remarked, quite inaccurately. “Do sit nearer the fire.”

  Aunt, who had her own methods of dealing with difficult situations, replied that she wasn’t cold, and she would like to see the cotoneasters, and perhaps the little dog would make friends with Callie out in the garden, and she furthermore indicated that Uncle Fred, being from the West Indies, could never have too much of any fire and would of all things like to be shown Mrs. Palambo’s wonderful embroidery.

  And she walked out of the French window, accidentally displacing a heavy jardinière on the way and taking a sharp jab in the side from the window-fastening.

  Doggie, with a last agonized yelp, shot under a chair, and Uncle Fred and Mrs. Palambo were left tête-à-tête over the embroidery-frame, Uncle Fred looking helpless and Mrs. Palambo quite pleased.

  Callie wandered about in the garden — which was anything but a wilderness, for the Major was an impassioned gardener and a highly skilled one — and hoped they wouldn’t stay too long. It wasn’t very interesting, and she wanted to get to the Umfravilles’ house.