Cherry Ames Boxed Set 5-8

by Helen Wells

  “Your daddy in the British Army?”

  “He used to be.”

  Wade glanced again at Cherry. Then, to her relief, he said in his usual lighthearted way, “Well, cherub, I’m no linguist but I could teach you pig Latin. Now, you take the first letter of a word, and put it at the end, like this—Uriel-may. That’s your name. Surprised?”

  Muriel promptly replied, “I-ay already-ay ow-knay igpay atin-Lay!”

  Wade looked so astonished, so thunderstruck, that all three of them laughed the rest of the way into the village.

  Muriel importantly directed Wade past the pub on High Street and to the right down a quiet lane. At last the jeep drew up before a regular storybook house.

  It was a low, rambling cottage, white with blue shutters, and a blue door. Hedges and bare flower beds surrounded it, damply fragrant in the misty twilight. Branches of low, old trees brushed the windows. Cherry would not have been surprised if Queen Mab and her “faëry ring,” or Puck himself, had come tumbling down the wet eaves on a breath of air.

  “This is where I live!” the tiny flight nurse announced. “Please, both of you, come in for tea. Grandmother said I was to ask you.”

  Cherry and Wade heard only absent-mindedly: they were under the spell of this place.

  “Please come in?”

  The two Americans roused themselves. Wade said to Cherry, “I’ll come to the door and be properly introduced to the cherub’s grandmother. But, gosh, don’t make me sit around at a ladies’ tea party. I’ll meet some of the fellows at the inn and I’ll drive back here for you around eight or nine. All right? Besides,” he added shrewdly, “you may have something private to talk over with the cherub’s grandmother.”

  The blue door opened and Mrs. Eldredge stood in the doorway, on the single stone step. She was a tall, valiant white-haired figure with the lamplight shining out behind her.

  “Do come in!” she called in her clipped British voice. “So nice of you to trouble with Muriel.”

  Muriel held open the gate. They went up the path. Wade looked very brown, very young, very American, next to this parchment-like lady as Cherry said, “Mrs. Eldredge, Captain Cooper.”

  “Delighted, Captain.”

  “How do you do!”

  Wade made his excuses and, after whispering to the disappointed little girl, climbed back into the jeep and drove away.

  “Come in, my dear.”

  Cherry followed her dignified hostess into the living room—or sitting room, as the English called it. It was a low, square, wall-papered room, dominated by a brick fireplace, and cozily furnished. There were pictures and books and a sewing basket. The room looked so unassuming and homelike that it took Cherry a few moments to realize these comfortable mahogany armchairs, the stately sideboard with its sprigged porcelain dishes, the wing chair of faded needlepoint, the flowery waxy chintz curtains, were all very beautiful things. A framed photograph of a young man caught her eye.

  Mrs. Eldredge smiled at Cherry’s frank curiosity, but said nothing.

  Cherry burst out with honest admiration, “I’ve seldom seen anything so inviting!”

  “War has left it all sadly worn and in need of repair. Would you like to see the other rooms?”

  “Oh, may I?”

  Muriel interrupted, romping in with a shaggy brown nondescript dog nearly as big as she was.

  “This is Lilac!” she announced. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “He’s very nice,” Cherry chuckled and patted the floppy ears. Lilac sniffed hard, wagged his tail, barked, offered his clumsy paw, rolled over, and ended up by noisily licking Cherry’s hand.

  “Isn’t he smart!” his small owner beamed. “He’s part collie, part Airedale, and part I-don’t-know-what-else.”

  Cherry, Muriel, and the overgrown puppy made up a retinue, following Mrs. Eldredge through the house. There were three oak-beamed bedrooms with high-backed wooden beds and plump goose-down comfortables, patched it was true but still tempting. There was a roomy old-fashioned kitchen which Mrs. Eldredge called the scullery, a laundry room, and a bathroom whose brassy fixtures were fancy, old and inconvenient. In fact, everything in the house, from its uneven bare wooden floors to the last teaspoon, was worn thread-bare. Yet everything gleamed with good care and with honest use.

  They returned to the living room and sat by the smoldering wood fire. Mrs. Eldredge talked interestingly of old houses. Cherry could not keep her lively dark eyes from straying to the framed photograph on the mantel.

  “That is my son-in-law. Muriel dear, bring Miss Ames the picture.”

  Cherry held the photograph and studied it. The man, just past first youth, was handsome and of fair coloring. The features were strong, clear-cut, well proportioned; the mouth was firm. Cherry could see in Muriel’s baby face a likeness to that rather long head, that high, finely molded forehead.

  “That portrait was made just after Mark left the Army. An odd occasion to have one’s picture taken,” Mrs. Eldredge added bitterly.

  Muriel’s little face was filled with distress. She took the picture from Cherry and clasped it to her, as if to defend her father.

  Cherry was appalled to see defiant tears in the child’s eyes. “Poor little sprite!” she thought.

  Mrs. Eldredge sighed. “You have a picture of your mother, too, dear.”

  “Oh, yes, Aunt Cherry! Want to see it?”

  After lovingly setting down her father’s picture, Muriel trotted out. She returned carrying a little leather folder. Cherry found herself looking into a lovely young face, with Muriel’s same enormous, sensitive eyes. A cascade of golden hair fell about the lovely Lucia’s throat.

  “Isn’t my mother beautiful? I love her dearly.”

  Mrs. Eldredge said quietly, “That is the only mother Muriel has—a bit of paper—and I have no daughter—thanks to the Germans.” She looked down at her veined hands. “Muriel does not remember her mother. Unfortunately she scarcely sees her father. Her father—Mark is—Are you ready for tea? Shall we have our tea now?” She nervously got busy.

  There was nothing Cherry could say. She assisted her elderly hostess in bringing in dishes and food, determined to make herself a cheerful guest in this brave house. She expressed her surprise that tea could be a real supper—though Cherry guessed that her hostess had spread out most of her rations for a whole week, to be hospitable. Muriel’s widened eyes proved that.

  “Do have some more, Miss Ames,” urged Mrs. Eldredge.

  But Cherry was careful not to accept too much.

  The trio grew quite gay over this feast. Mrs. Eldredge told Cherry the history of the curious cups her deceased husband had brought from India, and showed her beautiful Paisley shawls.

  They were folding the big shawls when the outer door opened and Mark Grainger came in.

  For a second there was tense silence. Cherry saw Mrs. Eldredge stiffen. Then Muriel, whose mouth was open in surprise, gave a whoop of delight and ran into her father’s arms.

  He picked her up, held her high, their two fair heads close, and demanded, “How is my daughter today? And what is this you are wearing?”

  “My uniform—I’m a mascot now. Extremely well, thank you. How are you? Oh, father I didn’t know you were coming home!”

  “I didn’t know it myself.” Mark Grainger kissed her and gently put her down. Then he went over to the grandmother. “How are you, Mother Eldredge? Are you all right? How is the head?”

  “Improving, thank you.” The elderly woman hesitated, then met his eyes and forced a smile. “Well, Mark! Quite a surprise. We’re happy to have you at home. Let me present you to an American friend of Dr. Fortune’s—Lieutenant Cherry Ames.”

  Cherry shook hands with Mark Grainger. She took a good look at this man. He was about twenty-seven or eight, a little above medium height, dressed unobtrusively in a dark gray suit. He seemed weary, but otherwise he gave an impression of great vigor and character.

  Cherry said she would take her departure now. But the
y all insisted she stay, and settled down for a visit.

  “I dare say you’re famished, Mark. Tea is already on the table.”

  “I am half starved. Literally.” But he did not say why, or where he had been, or how he had happened to arrive so unexpectedly. Cherry saw that Mrs. Eldredge, even Muriel, tensely avoided asking any questions. There was a kind of dread in the old lady’s saddened eyes. Yet—remarkably—Mark Grainger sat at the table, eating, completely at ease, completely happy and at home here. Was he callous, cynical—or did he have a clear conscience despite the silent accusation in this room?

  “May I stay up late, very late?” Muriel begged.

  “You may stay up a bit longer, to see your father. Mark, Miss Ames has been exceptionally kind to Muriel. She has been entertaining her at the American installation.”

  Mark’s eyes lit up. “I am most grateful to you. I’m sure you are supplying most of the happiness in her life just now.” There was a tone of deep regret in his voice. Then he gave her a friendly smile. “You’re a flight nurse, aren’t you, Miss Ames?”

  “Yes, Mr. Grainger.”

  “I’m an engineer. I’ve been in the Army and I’ve also done some engineering work for the British government.” It sounded very smooth and plausible, the way he said it. He deftly turned the subject away from his activities. “It was while I was studying engineering in your country that I had the great pleasure of knowing Dr. Fortune. How is he—and what is he doing now?”

  Cherry replied, not too specifically, that Dr. Fortune was doing some sort of medical work for the American Army.

  “Research, I suppose?” Mark said pleasantly.

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Grainger.”

  “Dr. Fortune’s passion was research when I knew him. A remarkable man. Lucia was very fond of him.”

  Cherry was puzzled. How could this man probe for information for the enemy—if that was what he was doing—yet in the next breath, mention his wife whom the enemy had killed? Or was this only the most innocent of conversations? It could be interpreted either way.

  Muriel was having a fine time sitting on her father’s knee and telling him about her adventures as mascot. “I’m going to go up in the plane!” she invented. “And fly all over, and help win the war! Did you ever go up in a plane?”

  Mark smiled. “Sometimes, yes.”

  Cherry pricked up her ears. What sort of plane? Going where?

  Then he added quickly, “Before the war, I often flew to various jobs. That’s before you were here, Muriel.”

  “But do you ride in planes now?” the little girl insisted.

  Her young father hesitated. “Let’s talk of something else.”

  Mrs. Eldredge interposed dryly, “Yes, let us, indeed!”

  Cherry waited for Mark’s reply. But he made no move to defend himself. He asked Muriel in a low voice, “Do those naughty children still call you names?”

  “It’s only on your account that they taunt her!” Mrs. Eldredge said sharply.

  Still Mark Grainger made no explanations. His face tightened momentarily: that was all.

  The rest of his visit belonged to Muriel, with due attention for Lilac. There were fairy tales, conversation, conundrums, and a good romp around the living room. Muriel glowed with happiness; her handsome young father looked every bit as happy, and deeply moved. Cherry thought, “Even evil men might love their own children.” Yet, there was something so forthright in this man’s face—something so pleasant in his strong voice—Or was it simply good acting?

  A knock sounded, and the door opened a second time. There stood an old man of the neighborhood. When he saw Mark, a dour look spread over his weather beaten face.

  “Come in, Mr. Heath!” Mrs. Eldredge said. “Will you have a cup of tea? It’s so damp tonight—”

  But Mr. Heath hung back, standing gingerly at the threshold as if the visitor might contaminate him.

  “I just come to say good evening and tell you Mrs. Heath sends her thanks for the periodicals.” He threw a bitter look at Mark, then glanced at Muriel. “Poor little ’un.”

  Just then the phone rang. It was an old-fashioned phone on the wall. Mrs. Eldredge rose and answered it. She listened, then bent her head. “It’s for you, Mark.”

  He sprang up, suddenly charged into action and impersonality. “Yes . . . Yes—Speak louder—Very good, immediately.”

  The young man seized his coat and like a whirlwind, kissed Muriel, called, “Good-bye, Mother! Good-bye, Miss Ames! Please take care of Muriel”—and all but ran out the door.

  Mr. Heath, who had taken all this in, picked up a cushion Mark had knocked to the floor in his hurry. “Good night, mum. I don’t think I’ll be staying.” The old neighbor closed the blue door emphatically behind him.

  Mrs. Eldredge sat down and put her hand over her eyes. The room, so lively a moment before, was now so quiet Cherry could hear the clock ticking and the leaves rustling outside.

  Cherry sat down, too, and took Muriel on her lap. She was determined to protect this bewildered child, as much as anyone could, from her grandmother’s bitterness and the neighborhood wrath. She spoke softly to the little girl.

  “What a nice father you have! I like him very much. And didn’t you have a fine visit! Even Lilac had fun.”

  Gradually, the strain began to leave the child’s face. Cherry talked on, softly, persistently.

  After a while Mrs. Eldredge rose wearily. “Come, dear, time for sleep now.”

  After they had tucked Muriel into one of the high beds, Mrs. Eldredge led Cherry back to the deserted living room. They resumed their places before the fire.

  “Well, Miss Ames, you have seen for yourself. The whole village knows and suspects. Your friend, Captain Wade, is probably hearing about it this very minute at the inn. And Mr. Heath, I fear, is going to add fuel to the fire.”

  Cherry studied the old, finely drawn face in the flickering firelight.

  “One neighbor has complained about Mark to Scotland Yard!”

  Cherry’s black eyes widened. To report a man to Intelligence at Scotland Yard—the equivalent of the American FBI—was extremely serious. “What was done?”

  “Nothing has happened to Mark so far. It probably is simply a question of time. Perhaps—possibly—Scotland Yard is still collecting evidence against him. The neighbors are furious about the delay. Muriel and I are—not precisely ostracized but—oh, the poor child!”

  A little shiver went down Cherry’s back.

  Long after good-byes were said that night—and days after seeing Mark Grainger—one word kept tolling in Cherry’s mind: “Spy. Spy. Spy.” And just as persistently, some faith in Cherry replied:

  “No!”

  CHAPTER V

  First Mission

  CHERRY WAS TAKING A SHOWER ONE EARLY DECEMBER morning, before breakfast, when a whistle blew in the barracks shower room. Most of the Flight Three nurses ducked out of the stalls, dripping and in towels. Summoning them was Captain Betty Ryan already dressed in her uniform.

  “Flight Three, you’re alerted! Calls are coming from holding stations in the combat areas. Urgent! Don’t stop for breakfast—get right down there on the line!”

  Cherry and her fellow nurses ran back to their room, scrambled into their flight clothes—not the trim blue gabardine, but into tough, wind-resistant coveralls and heavy boots—and then ran to the landing field for all they were worth.

  It was still dark on the airfield, windy and cold. Six C-47’s were lined up, their engines humming. Cherry found Captain Cooper waiting for her.

  “Get in, get in,” he said urgently. “I’ve already cleared with base operations. Your sergeant is up there. We’re going up to advance battle positions. Good luck!”

  Wade boosted her up to the open bays. Bunce gave her a hand up, and she and Bunce slammed the heavy double doors. Cherry and Bunce sat down and strapped in, as their plane and the five alongside, quivered, roared, strained.

  Cherry shouted above the racket, “This is
our first test in a combat zone!”

  “This is the real thing!” Bunce yelled back as they shook hands on it.

  Now they heard the C-47 ahead of them taxi down the huge air strip and take off. It was Gwen’s plane. Twenty seconds later their own aircraft started to rock, then skim over the ground. Cherry and Bunce held their breaths. They felt their plane tug—lift—lift again—again—

  In a few more seconds, all the planes were up, roaring over the base. The noise was terrific. Cherry could see the other mighty brown ships in the foggy sky, flying with them in precise military formation. “Some beautiful flying!” she cried. Bunce was so thrilled he could only nod.

  “Did you get water? Sulfa? Blankets?” Cherry yelled.

  “Yes, everything!” her technician yelled back.

  She went back to the medical kit to lay out tourniquets, ointment for burns, and hypodermics. Bunce was pulling the webbing straps down into place. Cherry had a look at their cargo: medical supplies, mostly blood plasma. Not much for their huge transport to carry, but apparently the call came so suddenly, there was no time to load cargo.

  Wade sent his copilot back into the cabin.

  “Captain’s compliments, Nurse!” Lieutenant Mason said. “Wants me to tell you our base notified the holding station when we took off. They’ll be all ready and waiting for us. Captain says load the wounded as fast as possible—we may be under fire.”

  “Yes, sir! Are all six planes going to the same holding station?”

  “No. We’ll separate. Several holding stations, scattered all over the battle area! Excited?”

  Cherry and Bunce grinned. Cherry admitted, “This is kind of different from our forty-five minute jaunt up to Prestwick. What’s the flying time this trip?”

  Bill Mason looked at his wrist watch. “Our base is an hour out of London. Twenty minutes to cross the English Channel. Half an hour to an hour more across enemy-held territory.”

  “Whew!” Bunce whistled. “Where’re we going, sir?”

  “Only Captain Cooper knows, Sergeant, and he’s not saying. Well, kids, you have a couple of hours to get ready.”