Chapter Two
It was after six when I arrived at the Fishers’ house where the birthday party was taking place but, as I stood on the steps waiting for the door to be opened, I heard the sounds of revelry, so obviously it was still in full swing.
Isabel Fisher opened the door herself, looking hot and dishevelled. ‘Oh, have you come to fetch them?’ she asked. ‘Nobody has gone yet. Do come in, Kit. We’re playing Blind Man’s Buff. At least it started like that, but it seems to have degenerated into a free-for all,’ she added as she showed me into the drawing-room.
I was inured to children’s parties so, although deafened, I was undismayed by the pandemonium.
‘Isn’t it frightful?’ yelled Isabel in my ear. ‘You’re lucky, Kit.’
‘Why?’
‘You can get by with one a year, can’t you? I’m obliged to have three—all different days. See what I mean?’
I saw. ‘It will be better when they’re older,’ I shouted.
‘That’s what I used to think but Laura’s is the worst of the lot—and she’s going to be twelve. If you really want your two——’
‘I do,’ I told her. ‘Thank you awfully for having them; I’m sure they’ve enjoyed themselves immensely.’
‘They have. No doubt about that—but don’t make them say it. Children hate saying it and it’s quite unnecessary. Your two have been angels. I wish I could say it about some of the others! If you really want to take them away just wade in and get them. I must fly!’
There was no difficulty in getting Den. He was watching me from across the room and came at once when I beckoned. His face was white and there were blue shadows beneath his eyes, so I knew he was tired. But Daisy adored parties and was never tired; I saw her in the thickest cluster of children; her cheeks pink, her blue eyes shining and her two golden pigtails flying as she whirled round and round with a boy slightly bigger than herself. As Isabel had said, the only thing to do was to wade in and get her.
‘Oh, Mums!’ cried Daisy as I seized her hand. ‘Oh, Mums—no! It isn’t nearly time—I’m enjoying myself!’
Obviously she was, and I might have relented and let her stay a little longer if it had not been for Den.
Den had always been a worry; he was small for his age and thin and pale. Some weeks ago I had taken him to see a children’s specialist who had examined him thoroughly and said that there was nothing radically wrong. He just needed care and plenty of milk. ‘Is he a book-worm?’ Dr. Ferguson had inquired. He was, of course, and enjoyed books which I thought quite unsuitable for a child of seven years old. ‘Less reading and more outdoor exercise,’ said Dr. Ferguson. This was not as easy as it sounded for if I prevented him from reading he mooned about like a miserable little ghost and was cross and naughty.
When I saw Den with those marks like bruises under his eyes my heart missed a beat—it felt like that, anyhow—all I wanted was to get him home and into bed, so I dragged my daughter out of the room. I found her shoes and stood over her while she changed.
‘Nobody has gone yet,’ protested Daisy. ‘It’s a lovely, lovely party; it’ll go on for hours. Why can’t we stay to the end?’
‘You were asked from three to six and it’s long after six.’
‘Nobody else has gone—and we haven’t said good-bye to Mrs. Fisher. We ought to say, good-bye-and-thank-you-very-much-for-a-lovely-party.’
‘You needn’t,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Fisher has let you off; but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to say it to other people. Hurry up and put on your coat.’
Den was ready and waiting so we let ourselves out of the front door and walked down the street: Den silent, Daisy chattering.
‘It was the nicest party I’ve ever been to. James had a gorgeous cake with cherries in it—and eight candles. We had paper hats and crackers with charms in them. James wanted to play Kiss in the Ring, but Mrs. Fisher said Nuts in May was nicer . . . so we played Nuts in May and then we played “I sent a letter to my love” and then we played Musical Bumps. Oh, and I got a bangle in the Lucky Dip—look, Mums, isn’t it nice and jingly?—and Den got a book. Where’s your book, Den?’
‘I left it in the hall.’
‘What?’ squeaked Daisy.
‘You heard,’ said Den wearily. ‘It was a silly book about dressed-up rabbits. I didn’t want it.’
By the time I had got the children to bed it was nearly nine o’clock and I was too tired to bother about supper. I ate some bread and butter and drank a cup of milk. Then I sat down for a few minutes to glance through the morning paper which was still lying upon the hall table in its pristine folds. But I had not sat there long when I found my head beginning to nod and I knew that if I sat there any longer I should fall asleep.
This had happened before on several occasions and I had wakened in the middle of the night, cold and stiff and miserable. It had been an unpleasant experience—rather a frightening experience—and I had made up my mind not to allow it to happen again. I folded up the paper, put the guard on the fire and went to bed.
*
2
The day following the birthday party was Saturday so I kept Den in bed for breakfast, a treat which he enjoyed. He sat up and ate an egg and read Greenmantle which, although an excellent story, was not what I should have chosen for him.
‘But I like it,’ declared Den, hugging it to his bosom in case it should be snatched away. ‘Why should I have to read silly books if I don’t want to?’
‘You can’t possibly understand it.’
‘I do!’ he cried, hugging it tighter. ‘I don’t know all the words of course but that makes it more interesting.’
It was no good saying any more.
Saturday was an easy day for me. There was no rush in the morning and I didn’t have to cook the children’s dinner; they always went to lunch with Aunt Liz on Saturdays. Sometimes I went too, but more often I sent them alone and had a quiet time by myself. I loved my children dearly but it was pleasant to get them off my hands and do exactly as I felt inclined. To-day however was a special occasion, Aunt Liz was sixty, and although she pretended to be too old for birthdays she liked them to be remembered and celebrated in the traditional fashion.
Aunt Liz had a flat in Heriot Row so we had not far to go, we arrived at half past twelve; the door was opened as usual by Bella, who had been with Aunt Liz since I was a child.
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Bella when she saw us. ‘Goodness gracious me! I’d clean forgotten you were coming! It’s not Saturday, is it? What’ll I do about your dinner? There’s nothing but a couple of chops in the house.’
The children roared with laughter, for this was Bella’s joke, perpetrated every Saturday, but still as funny as ever.
‘I smell roast chicken and sausages,’ shouted Daisy, leaping about the hall like a maniac. ‘And I bet you’ve made meringues, Bella. Have you made meringues?’
‘Why should I make meringues when I didn’t know you were coming?’ inquired Bella, keeping up the farce.
Disturbed by the noise, Aunt Liz emerged from the sitting-room and asked what it was all about.
Aunt Liz was an Edinburgh lady to the backbone. She was tall and straight and lean, with well-marked features and thick grey hair. When her face was in repose she looked severe, but her eyes had a twinkle in them and her infrequent smile was friendly. Her usual garb was a tweed coat and skirt (exceedingly well-cut, the skirt a trifle longer than was fashionable) and sensible lacing shoes, the colour of chestnuts, polished and shining.
‘Come in, come in!’ said Aunt Liz. ‘Daisy, stop prancing like that, you demented creature. What’s the matter with you?’
‘It’s your birthday,’ declared Daisy, embracing Aunt Liz and thrusting the parcel into her hand.
‘Many happy returns of the day,’ said Den, advancing ceremoniously to tender his offering.
‘Fancy you remembering!’ exclaimed Aunt Liz, smiling sweetly.
We moved into the sitting-room; Aunt Liz opened her parcels an
d expressed her pleasure at their contents.
‘Just what I wanted,’ she declared. ‘I need a shoehorn badly and a handkerchief is always useful. Kit, there was no need for you to spend your money on a pair of gloves. Oh, I like them, of course, they’re the kind I always wear.’
Naturally they were the kind she always wore. If they had been in any way different she would not have worn them.
As usual there was a fine array of birthday cards on the chimney-piece.
‘What a lot you’ve got!’ I said admiringly.
‘There are a lot of silly people in the world,’ she replied, looking at the cards with pleasure. ‘It’s just a waste of money. They’d be better to give their shillings to feed the hungry instead of sending birthday cards to an old woman like me. Did I tell you I’d taken on the job of secretary to the Hunger Campaign, Kit?’
‘Not another?’ I exclaimed. Already Aunt Liz was a member of various committees with various charitable aims, including the relief of orphans, unmarried mothers and the aged and indigent sick . . . and being an exceedingly energetic and capable woman she usually got stuck with most of the work.
‘Well, it’s important,’ said Aunt Liz apologetically. ‘And to tell the truth I can’t enjoy my own food unless I feel I’m doing my best to help people that are starving. When are you expecting Simon?’
The sudden change of subject was typical. Aunt Liz had a horror of sentimentality and her reason for assuming her new commitment had been on the verge. . . .
‘Tuesday week!’ cried Daisy before I could answer. ‘Oh, goody, goody, goody! Darling Simon’s coming on Tuesday week. How many days is that?’
‘Ten days,’ said Den without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Then he’ll be here for his lunch the following Saturday, I suppose,’ said Aunt Liz in her usual downright way.
Lunch was ready now so we went into the dining-room and sat down to an excellent meal. Needless to say, Daisy had been correct in her assumption that there would be roast chicken and sausages and meringues. To-day, because it was her birthday, Aunt Liz produced a half-bottle of hock in which to drink her health, and Den and Daisy at their earnest request were each given about a teaspoonful, measured out carefully into delicate glasses. They enjoyed the grown-upness of it, but not the taste.
‘Just like medicine,’ whispered Den to Daisy as he put down his glass.
Fortunately Aunt Liz was slightly deaf.
We talked of one thing and another: I told Aunt Liz about my meeting with Zilla and her complaint that she hadn’t enough to do.
‘Perhaps you’ve met her,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you rope her into one of your committees?’
‘Zilla Maclaren?’ asked Aunt Liz. ‘No, I don’t know her personally but Sheila Brown was talking about her the other day. They had her on the Orphan Committee for a bit and she was just a pest so they were very glad when she faded out. The woman is not dependable.’
There was no more to be said. ‘Not dependable’ was the absolute end.
As usual on Saturdays we played Happy Families after lunch. Aunt Liz had an ancient pack of cards, somewhat dirty and dog-eared, but very much more amusing than the modern version of the game. Aunt Liz belonged to a bridge club and was one of the leading lights, but she did not despise the childish game; on the contrary she played it with zest. It always amused me to see her sitting up very straight in her chair, with her pince-nez perched upon her aquiline nose, listening carefully to every question and answer and when it came to her turn pouncing unerringly upon the holder of the cards she wanted.
‘Kit,’ she would say, ‘is Mr. Bones the Butcher at home? Thank you . . . and Miss Bones? Yes, I thought so. Daisy, is Master Bones at home? Good, that’s the family complete,’ and her eyes would sparkle with pleasure and satisfaction.
The game nearly always became a duel to the death between Aunt Liz and Daisy; for Daisy had a wonderful memory and was on the tips of her toes from beginning to end. Den and I were also-rans, perhaps because we weren’t so vitally interested, so keen on winning as the other two. To-day, for the first time, it struck me that Daisy resembled her great-aunt; not in appearance but in her zest for life. Neither of them was clever—in a scholastic sense—but both had a natural shrewdness of intellect which on occasions almost amounted to ruthlessness. ‘I’ve no use for her,’ Aunt Liz would say of some woman who didn’t measure up to her standard.
All this was very interesting but it prevented me from concentrating on the game and I was aroused from my thoughts by Aunt Liz demanding three members of the Bun family one after the other. Unfortunately all three were ‘at home.’
‘You were dreaming, Kit,’ she declared as she gathered them up. ‘It’s no good dreaming when you’re playing Happy Families. If you’d been listening you’d have realised that I’d got Mr. Bun. I couldn’t have asked Den for Mrs. Bun if I hadn’t got one of the family.’
It was now discovered that Aunt Liz and Daisy had an equal number of families in their possession.
‘Another game!’ cried Daisy, bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘We must have another game—please, please, please!’
‘I’m afraid we can’t,’ said Aunt Liz with genuine regret. ‘I’ve got a meeting at half past three, but we’ll have another next Saturday and I’ll beat you!’
As we walked home together I noticed Den had a book under his arm.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s The Thirty-Nine Steps,’ he replied. ‘I found it in the bookcase and Aunt Liz said I could have it to read if I was careful. It’s by the same man that wrote Greenmantle. Aunt Liz used to know him. Isn’t that wonderful? She said he was a Great Scotsman as well as a great writer of stories. Aunt Liz knowing him makes it a hundred times more interesting.’
Chapter Three
Almost a week had passed since my meeting with Zilla; I had ceased to think about her when she rang up one morning and asked me to tea.
‘It’s quite easy,’ she said. ‘There’s a bus which stops at the end of the road. Our house is called The Cedars; you’ll have no difficulty in finding it. I shall be in all the afternoon so come as early as you can.’
I thanked her and said I would go. Aunt Liz was coming to tea and she enjoyed having the children to herself.
The day was fine and sunny. My spirits rose as I caught the bus and set off on my adventure; it was not a very Big Adventure but my life was somewhat circumscribed by children and household duties, so the mere fact of setting out alone for an unknown destination was quite exciting.
Zilla had said I should have no difficulty in finding The Cedars, but I wandered about and was obliged to ask several people before I discovered it at the end of a cul de sac. It was my own fault, really, for I had imagined Zilla’s house would be one of the modern houses, built quite recently, whereas it was a Victorian mansion, standing alone, withdrawn from its upstart neighbours and surrounded by a high stone wall. There were two large cedars, one on each side of the entrance. The house was solid and unpretentious, built of grey stone with a slate roof.
Zilla had been waiting for me and welcomed me warmly. I noticed she looked better to-day, more like the girl I remembered.
‘Perhaps you’d like to see the house,’ she said. ‘It was frightful when we bought it, but we’ve made a lot of improvements. Are you interested in houses?’
I said I was very interested indeed so she took me round and showed me everything. It was a beautiful house with a wide staircase and well-shaped rooms; the Maclarens had put in fixed basins and extra bathrooms; they had built a veranda outside the drawing-room windows; they had put in central heating and enlarged some of the windows. The furniture was exquisite: lovely old chests and gate-legged tables, fitted carpets, Persian rugs and wide luxurious sofas. The kitchen premises were the last word in perfection; there was an Aga Stove, a deep-freeze cabinet, a dish-washer, and several large, glass-fronted cupboards—in fact there was everything that has been devised to delight the heart of a c
ook.
‘It must be a joy to cook here!’ I exclaimed.
‘Oh, I don’t cook,’ replied Zilla. ‘I’ve got a woman who does all that. She has gone to the village to get some things I wanted but she’ll be back to make our tea.’
‘It’s a lovely house, Zilla. Simply perfect.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said. ‘It’s better than it was, of course, but you can’t do a great deal with a plain oblong house like this. You should see the Carews’ house. That really is perfect. There’s a tower, so one end of the drawing-room is rounded which makes it very attractive. I’d rather have a really old house—like the Carews’—or else a modern house. This one is neither the one nor the other.’
We went out through the veranda and sat on a long swing seat which was shaded by a green-and-white-striped awning. The garden was delightful, with a smooth green velvety lawn and masses of flowering shrubs. They were not yet in bloom but beneath them there was a carpet of crocuses, yellow and white and blue.
‘Now we can talk,’ said Zilla. ‘There wasn’t time to talk properly on Friday and you rushed away before I could ask you about the Wentworths. The people I mean have a beautiful old place called Limbourne.’
‘That’s Gerald’s father,’ I said.
‘Do you mean your husband was a son of Sir Mortimer Wentworth?’
‘Yes.’
‘How interesting!’ exclaimed Zilla. ‘Limbourne is a beautiful place, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve never been to Limbourne. There was a quarrel.’
‘A quarrel? Oh, Kit, what a pity! Why did you quarrel with them? Sir Mortimer is very well off; he could have done a lot to help you.’
It seemed queer that Zilla should take such an interest in my affairs. The Wentworths had treated Gerald shamefully and I didn’t want to talk about them . . . but here I was, sitting on a seat in Zilla’s garden, and there was no escape. Without being positively rude I couldn’t refuse to answer her questions. Zilla was sitting sideways with one leg tucked beneath her and her strange yellow eyes were fixed upon me with an inquiring gaze.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 2