The Stratton Story

by Elizabeth Cadell

“Yes, Mr. Thomas.”

  Miss van der Ryls was a durable old lady who wrote animal stories for under-tens. Gail unloaded her on to Mr. Harold, who was not pleased, but who understood the importance of leaving Mr. Thomas free to entertain Mrs. Stratton. Going back to her room and picking up the telephone to speak to Alberto, Gail wondered idly how much of Mrs. Stratton’s success with all the Brothers was due to her book, and how much to her gentle femininity and soft brown eyes.

  “Neither,” Miss Teller said, when she put the question. “It’s just her manner. Quiet. Lady-like. What the Brothers like is the way she sits without fidgeting, and listens to them without interrupting. Very unusual in authors; the Brothers can’t get used to it. I can see why people can’t believe she wrote the book all by herself—but I never doubted it myself. Did you?”

  “I haven’t read it.”

  “You haven’t . . .” Astonishment choked Miss Teller. “Not read it?” she demanded, when she had sufficiently recovered.

  “No.”

  “But you must! In the way of duty, for a start. It’s . . . Look, you take a copy home tonight. Read it.”

  “I’ve got no time to read during the week.”

  “Once you open it, you’ll make time.”

  “You liked it?”

  “Of course I didn’t like it,” Miss Teller snapped. It isn’t a book you can like. It frightens you.”

  “Thriller?”

  “No, no, no. Didn’t you even read the reviews?”

  “No.”

  “Then take the book home and read it. It’s nothing to do with thrills. It’s simply a story about an old woman of eighty-written by herself, written about her life.”

  “What frightened you?”

  “You’ll find out. The theme is waste—wasted lives. Lives thrown away, like the old woman’s. Long, dreary procession, cradle to grave; no joys, no tragedies, no nothing. That’s the point: nothing. She lives what they call an exemplary life, and when it’s over, she realises that it didn’t get her anywhere. She looks back and sees what she started out with—and what she ended with. All her early hopes, all her early promise gone for nothing. Read it. Talking about it doesn’t convey its . . . its force. Wasted opportunities, wasted time, wasted chances that’s why it’s called The Desert. Leaves a peculiar taste in your mouth; you wonder who first said that virtue was its own reward—and why. It’s a strong book, it’s too strong, and that’s why some people say that the husband must have had a hand in it. But I don’t think so. They shouldn’t be misled by her shy manner and quiet voice. She could have written it. Do you follow me?”

  “You’ve just sold a book. You might as well go on from there and tell me how the Beetham Brothers got hold of it.”

  “Don’t you know that either?”

  “No. Don’t bring up that fingers-on-the-office-pulse business; Adrian went into that.”

  “It’s a complicated story.”

  “Tell me and see if I can follow.”

  Miss Teller looked across the desk with a frown.

  “Considering the fact that you work for Mr. Thomas who—”

  “End of prologue,” Gail broke in. “Just give me the fascinating facts.”

  “Very well. The doctor who treated Mrs. Stratton’s husband happened to meet Christopher one evening in October, at the house of a friend. The doctor, who seems to be a bumbling but kind-hearted old fellow, learned that Christopher was one of the publishing Beethams, and got him in a corner and told him that the wife of one of his patients down in Cornwall had written a book—which he’d read. He said it was remarkable, it was extraordinary, it was ... in short, might he, if the lady gave him permission, show it to Christopher?”

  “So far no complications. The lady gave the bumbling doctor permission?”

  “Yes. He said she’d written the book in the intervals of nursing her sick, probably dying, husband. It sounded like a—”

  “—build-up. But Christopher read the book?”

  “No, he didn’t. He put the thing aside. The next thing he knew—this was at the end of December—was that the husband had died. The doctor came to tell him. He asked what Christopher had thought of the book. Christopher couldn’t tell him, because—”

  “—he hadn’t read it.”

  “Worse. He’d lost it.”

  Miss Teller paused, halted by this astounding memory.

  “Lost it?” Gail repeated, her interest for the first time roused.

  “Completely. He didn’t find it for some time—and when he did unearth it, he read it unwillingly, because he’d got a picture fixed in his mind of a poor little woman scribbling down a novel in between bouts of nursing—”

  “—but being alert enough to bring it to the doctor’s notice and ask him if he knew anybody who knew anybody . . .”

  “No. not quite. He just thought it would be infinitely pathetic, and practically unreadable. When he had read it, he was certain she couldn’t have written it alone—but he’d got to know the doctor pretty well, and he was prepared to take his word. The doctor said the husband couldn’t possibly have had a hand in it, physically or, in his opinion, intellectually. She wrote it alone. When she first came to the office, I was sure she could have written it; behind that mild exterior of hers, you get flashes of . . She considered, frowning. “Of power, I think the word is.”

  “It’s an elegant exterior,” Gail remarked. “How old is she?”

  “Thirty-eight. The husband was about twenty years older. Pity he didn’t last until the money started to roll in. The doctor said they were pretty hard-up towards the end.”

  “His widow’s worth something now,” Gail said, and picked up the telephone, which had been ringing for some time.

  The voice which answered her own was so loud, so commanding, that for a moment she was swept back to her schooldays and had an absurd impulse to rise smartly to her feet. The look on her face made Miss Teller pick up the second telephone.

  “That is the secretary of one of the partners, is it not?” the voice roared in enquiry. “May I know your name, please?”

  “Sinclair. May I—”

  “You have a charming voice, Miss Sinclair. It is Miss, is it not? You sound so very young. Yes, I thought so. Miss Sinclair, my name is Mrs. Westerby. W.e.s.t.e.r.b.y. Westerby. I am extremely sorry to trouble you in this way, but I have been talking to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Stratton, and I understand from her that a reception is being given in her honour.”

  “Well, I—” Gail signalled with her eyebrows for help, but Miss Teller appeared too fascinated to heed her. “The invitations are—”

  “ —not out yet. So I understood. And so I thought that I would telephone to somebody connected with the Beetham Brothers and ask if my name and address might be taken down.”

  “Will you wait one moment, please?” Gail put her hand over the mouthpiece and made signs to Miss Teller: “Can she come?’’

  “What’s to stop her?” Miss Teller signalled in reply.

  “Are you there?” enquired Mrs. Westerby. “Oh, there you are. The name is . . . I’ve told you, of course. Mrs. Stratton wasn’t quite sure about the formalities, so I told her that I would find out for myself if there was any possible objection to a relation of hers being included. I am her late husband’s sister. You don’t think there would be any fear of my being thought an intruder? Do speak frankly, please; you mustn’t have the slightest hesitation in telling me if outsiders are barred. I call myself an outsider as a figure of speech, of course; I think I can claim with truth to be Mrs. Stratton’s nearest relation. But you have only to say the word and I shall withdraw.”

  Gail, her ears buzzing, sought in vain for the word.

  “One moment, please,” she said at last. “The senior partner’s secretary is here. Miss Teller, would there be any objection to our sending an invitation to—”

  “None that I know of,” Miss Teller said into her telephone.

  “Was that Miss Teller? Oh, good, good. I was almost certain that
it was all right, but I do like to make sure, don’t you know? Would you mind taking down my address, Miss Sinclair? It is Vizcaya Lodge. V.i.z.c.a.y.a. That’s another way of writing Biscay —the Bay, you know? Vizcaya Lodge, Shern, Sussex. You have that down? Viz . . . Oh, good. May I apologise,” roared Mrs. Westerby, “for having taken up your time with this small matter? Will you by any chance be at the reception? Yes? I am so glad; I shall look forward to meeting you there. Goodbye. Thank you, and goodbye. Goodbye.”

  Gail put down the receiver and drew a long breath.

  ‘‘No need for deaf-aids there,” Miss Teller remarked. “Getting on for seventy, I’d say. Probably horsey; hunted like mad in her day. Runs the village—Shern’s a village, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it near your brother-in-law’s farm?”

  “About eight miles away.”

  “Rather troublesome as a sister-in-law,” Miss Teller mused.

  “If Mrs. Stratton had wanted her to come,” Gail asked uneasily, “wouldn’t she have said so? D’you suppose this loud-speaker is just elbowing her way in?”

  “Two hundred people, remember—and weather permitting, in the open. With luck, she’ll lose herself in the crowd.”

  “Shall I mention it to Mr. Thomas?”

  “Certainly not. Anticipating trouble. Don’t worry.” Miss Teller advised, “Mrs. Westerby can’t hurt anybody.”

  Later—much later—it was this scene and this remark that was to recur most vividly to Gail. She was to recall how, incredibly, Miss Teller had asserted that Mrs. Westerby could do nobody any harm.

  Chapter 2

  Gail spent the following weekend with her sister and brother-in-law at their farm in Sussex.

  Her sister had married Alan Weekes, who had served for some years in the Royal Navy. He had met Noelle Sinclair at the time when he, with a great many others in his age-group, fell under the axe; when he married, he had no job and very little money. As if to justify his faith in a beneficent Providence, an uncle died, leaving him two hundred neglected acres and a farmhouse. He and Noelle moved in; while Alan took his first cautious steps among the cows, Noelle inspected the dilapidated old house and proceeded to tailor it to her needs. By removing the wall between the kitchen and an adjoining room, she created a large, open-plan living-room; the other rooms on the ground floor were used as bedrooms and the dairy was turned into a bathroom. The empty, echoing upper floor was left to guests who brought their own sleeping bags and spread them out on the bare boards.

  The household was run on haphazard lines, but the two children—a boy and a girl—were looked after by a treasure named Totsy, a relic of uncertain status who had stayed on at the farm after the late owner’s death—sole reminder of a past that had scandalised the district.

  Gail always enjoyed her visits; lack of money, sagging roofs, straying cows, poor crops and high prices were accepted by Alan and Noelle as part of an impecunious farmer’s lot; the compensations were an open-air life, Totsy and an unending succession of Naval visitors. Christopher Beetham had not exaggerated when he classified the farm as a port of call. The once-elegant, once-slim Noelle was plump, and dressed in muddy slacks and shabby sweaters; Alan noticed no difference, and knew only that she was as pretty and as warm and as loving as ever.

  She met Gail on Friday evening as usual, at the local station; conversation between them went on where it had left off.

  “All set for San Sebastian?” she asked, as Gail threw her suitcase into the back of the station waggon.

  “More or less. Getting the car papers is hell; I wish the thing wasn’t in Tim’s name. How’s Alan?”

  “Just the same.” It sounded like a purr of content. “He’s heard of a job for you, if you want it —secretary to the Naval Ski Club at Mirren this winter. Interested?”

  “You mean leave the Beetham Brothers?”

  “Why not? You’re due for a move.”

  “I’ll think about it. The children all right?”

  “Yes. And guess what—there’s probably a little sister or brother on the way.”

  Gail turned to stare at her.

  “Already?”

  “Rebecca’s two and a half. Robert’s nearly four.”

  “You said you wanted a pair. You got a pair.”

  “Alan says we’ve got to look ahead; many hands make light labour.”

  “Did he specify how many hands?”

  “No. But there’s a lot of room for more children.”

  “What about paying for their education?”

  “Oh”—Noelle dismissed the problem with a wave of her hand—“we can think of that later. Heard from Tim?”

  “Yes. He’s sailing up from Gib with those Spanish friends of his.”

  “I daresay he’ll marry one of those girls. But I hope not.”

  Gail removed her gaze from the farmhouse, which was coming into view.

  “Why d’you hope not?”

  “Well ... I had an idea about him.”

  “So did I. But it’s no use. He wouldn’t look at her, and you know it. I hope you didn’t raise Alan’s hopes.”

  “I didn’t say a word —but she’s his only sister, and she’s over twenty and not a soul has ever looked twice at her — out of all the dozens she’s met here. Alan’s wondering what’s missing.”

  “He only has to sniff, to know. It was all right at fifteen to go round smelling of horse, but no man wants to—”

  “I thought we might do something—you and I.”

  “Do what, for instance?”

  “Well . . . get her out of those ghastly old jodhpurs of Alan’s, for a start. And then take her to a decent boutique and rig her out, and make her go to a hairdresser. She might surprise us.”

  “I doubt it. Go ahead and try.”

  “You’d have to help,” Noelle said. “You’re not afraid of speaking out, and you could bawl at her whenever she biffs a man on the back and knocks the breath out of him. It’s that awful heartiness that does it —puts them off, I mean.”

  She brought the car to a halt in the yard. Two small forms appeared from behind the disused pump, and Gail fended them off with her suitcase.

  “No mud yet,” she warned. “Wait till I change.”

  They led her to their room, where a camp bed had been put up for her; it was uncomfortable, but it was better than a sleeping bag on a hard floor upstairs.

  “Pwesents?” Rebecca enquired hopefully.

  “Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask,” Robert yelled at her in panic. “You have to wait.”

  “Quite right,” Gail said. “Never forget the old rule: Those who ask, don’t get; those who don’t ask, don’t want.” She opened her case and produced two small, gay pencil cases. “Here. One each.”

  “No guns?” Robert’s face fell.

  “Your father says no guns yet.”

  Alan, entering, confirmed this prohibition.

  “No toy guns,” he said. “Going pop-pop-pop doesn’t teach you anything. I’ll draw pictures for you with those lovely new pencils.—How’s things?” he asked, kissing the cheek Gail presented.

  “Fine. What’s this about yet another mud-caked child?”

  Alan smiled, his gaze on the fields to be seen from both the windows.

  “Such a wonderful life for them,” he pointed out. “Seems a shame not to produce ’em and let ’em enjoy it. Come and have a drink.”

  “You mean you’ve got time to drink? No cows calving?”

  “Only Noelle.” He picked up his daughter and led the way to the living-room. “Now let’s look at you,” he said to Gail.

  Studying her as he mixed the drinks, he thought she looked as good as usual, and was struck, as always, by the great likeness, and the great difference between her and his wife. Both were good-looking, both easy and unaffected and good company—and after that, the differences began to show. Noelle was far more pliant, less intelligent, and as a wife completely undemanding; she accepted him as he was and shrugged off h
is faults. He thought Gail’s husband—when she made up her mind to choose one—would be kept up to standard. And perhaps that was a good thing; a man needed a jab now and then.

  “How’s the job?” he asked. “Did Noelle tell you—”

  “—you’d got one lined up for me? That would only be temporary.”

  “You’d get some good skiing. While we’re on the subject of jobs, isn’t it time you chucked this office racket and got yourself a husband and some children?”

  “Yes,” Gail admitted. “It is.”

  “Then—? You’ve only got to pull a string and you’ll find a man at the end of it.”

  She leaned back in her chair and let Robert clamber on to her knee, speaking lazily over his blond head.

  “It would be nice if I could fall in love,” she said. “Really in love, as I did when I was seventeen. That was before your time, but Noelle can tell you. I was in a daze for months.”

  “Yes, I heard. And he went to sea and came back two years later and you’d got over it.”

  “Yes. But it was wonderful while it lasted. I’ve never felt the same way since.”

  “You probably never will again. That was purely biological. The next time might not feel as good, but if you’re lucky, it’ll last.” He took her glass and refilled it. “Odd to be talking like this,” he said.

  “It’s odd to be talking at all. This is the first time I’ve seen you and Noelle alone for . . . oh, I can’t remember. Where’s all the weekend crowd?”

  “On the way.”

  “Doesn’t Totsy ever complain?”

  “What’s Totsy got to complain about? They bring food, they cook it, they wash up, they take the kids off her hands and they do all the odd jobs. It’s a bit late to point it out, but Robert’s pants are making your slacks muddy.”

  “They’ll wash.” She stretched luxuriously and Robert slid to the floor. “Oh gosh, it’s heaven to get away from streets and buses and dreary old publishers.”

  “How’s your jack-pot author?”

  “Mrs. Stratton? There’s a sort of party for her on Friday. Have you read her book?”

  “Don’t be silly. If I can open the Farmer and Stock-breeder, I’m doing well. Robert, go and find Mummy and tell her we’re drinking.”