When Pam had read it she held out her hand to me and said in a shaky voice, “I thought it was a hopeless muddle – but it makes sense. How did you know the way to do it?”
“There was a girl at school who was learning secretarial work; she had difficulty in reading her own shorthand notes and I found I could help her by writing it down like this. It’s easy to fill in the spaces afterwards. Who is Percy Blakeney? I seem to know the name?”
“Of course you do! He was the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” I echoed in surprise. “Then that means——”
“It means that Gil is helping people to escape from France . . . over the mountains into Spain.”
“Merchandise?”
“Human beings were the merchandise exported by the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Yes, of course,” I murmured. It was years since I had read the books.
“It’s the sort of thing Gil would enjoy,” said Pam in thoughtful tones. “He’s very . . . adventurous. Percy Blakeney was his hero; he adored all the Scarlet Pimpernel books. We used to read them together so he knew I would understand. Oh, Sarah, isn’t it wonderful! My own darling Gil! I wonder why he couldn’t write to me before. Perhaps he was ill.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But he’s all right now. He says you needn’t worry . . . and he couldn’t do a job like that unless he was perfectly fit.”
“It must be dangerous,” said Pam apprehensively.
I couldn’t deny this. “But he’s happy,” I said. “You can tell from the way he writes that he’s in good spirits. He’s useful because he can speak the lingo and he gets on well with the chaps.”
“That must have been Pierre! I mean the man who gave you the letter. Do you think he could take an answer?”
“I asked him but he said he wasn’t going back. I couldn’t get much out of him; he was a surly individual.”
“Oh well, perhaps it’s safer,” said Pam with a little sigh.
We talked some more about it and presently Pam exclaimed, “Oh, it’s wonderful! I’ve just begun to realise it properly. It’s as if a dark cloud had rolled away and the whole world was full of sunshine. Everything looks different!”
“But you were sure he was alive, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I knew he was alive . . . but now Paul will know it, too. Paul won’t keep on wanting to give away Gil’s clothes.”
“Give away Gil’s clothes!” I echoed in dismay.
“It has been . . . difficult,” she explained. “You see the Listons have given away all Sam’s belongings – and Paul thinks it’s the right thing to do. It distresses me when Paul thinks I’m being silly and sentimental and selfish.”
I managed to remain silent but it wasn’t easy.
“Oh, he doesn’t say it, of course! He just thinks it,” said Pam hastily. She added, “And you can see his point of view, can’t you?”
I looked at her and wondered . . . I wondered whether Paul Hetherington had been jealous of the love between his wife and his only son.
“Let’s try again,” I suggested. “Now that you’ve got into the way of it you might be able to decipher the first part of the letter. It’s an account of the accident.”
Pam nodded. “Yes, we must find out what happened. I want to make a fair copy of the whole letter for Paul.”
We went over it again and this time we made better progress, but even with the help of the magnifying glass there were a good many gaps in the narrative. We filled them in as best we could by guessing. It took a long time but when we had finished the fair copy read as follows:
“This letter is very secret. Nobody must know about it. That is why I have written it like this. We could always read each other’s squiggles so I hope you have not forgotten. First I must tell you about the accident. It happened on a dark misty night. Sam was larking about and fell overboard. I shouted for help but nobody came and I was scared stiff because I knew he was a poor swimmer so I kicked off my shoes and dived in after him. I hunted about but he had disappeared. I could not find him in the mist. At last I realised that it was hopeless – you can imagine my feelings! The ship was miles away by this time so the only thing to do was to look out for myself. I struggled out of my clothes and swam ashore in my underpants. It was a long exhausting swim but I made it and crawled out of the water on to a sandy beach. I knew I was somewhere on the south coast of France. After resting for a bit I started to climb a cliff but I was tired and dizzy so I fell and injured my head. When I regained consciousness I was lying in bed in a fisherman’s cottage. They had found me on the beach. I was ill for a long time and the injury to my head made me lose my memory. I did not know who I was nor where I had come from. The fisherman and his wife were very kind to me. Their son had been killed at the beginning of the war and they felt I had been sent to them to take his place. It was rather pathetic. His name was Eugene so they called me Gene. I did not know my name. When I recovered I was able to help them with the fishing. As you know I am pretty useful with a boat. Gradually my memory began to return. It came back in flashes like switching on and off an electric light. It has come back completely now and I am perfectly fit. I have explained all this so that you will realise why I could not write to you before. I am afraid you must have been dreadfully worried. . . .”
When we had got thus far Pam said, “Don’t bother any more, Sarah. I can do the rest of it myself. Oh dear, it’s dreadful about Sam, isn’t it? He was such a fine boy, so full of life and fun!”
“It was dreadful for Gil,” I said sadly.
“Yes, dreadful. Sam was his best friend, they had known each other for years——”
“But you don’t know what happened to Sam!”
“He was . . . drowned,” said Pam with a little sob. “Gil would never have given up hope and swum ashore until he was quite quite sure.”
“You don’t know for certain.”
“No,” she admitted doubtfully. “But you see he wasn’t a good swimmer – not like Gil. Gil has always been keen on swimming; he has won dozens of cups and prizes for swimming and diving.”
“You told me he was like a seal.”
“Yes, just like a seal. That’s one of the reasons why I knew he was alive.”
We were silent for a few moments.
“What about Pierre?” said Pam at last. “I ought to give him something for his trouble.”
I told her what I could – there wasn’t much to tell – and added that I had rewarded him. She wanted to repay me but I refused to take the money . . . and she didn’t press the matter. Instead she said softly, “‘Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.’”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s what I feel! You always understand!”
Pam smiled rather sadly. “I understand because I’ve been casting my bread upon the waters for months and months; giving away money I could ill afford, pinching and scraping so that I need never refuse a begging letter. Oh, I don’t take any credit for it! I mean it isn’t a Christian idea – to give in the hope of being repaid. Paul would say it was a pagan superstition.”
“But it’s in the Bible,” I pointed out.
“There are lots of things in the Bible which aren’t Christian,” replied Pam. “‘Bread upon the waters’ is one of them. I knew that all the time, but the idea had taken root in my mind and I just – just couldn’t get rid of it.”
I nodded. I knew from experience how difficult it was to get rid of an idea which had taken root in one’s mind.
“I haven’t thanked you,” said Pam. “It isn’t because I’m not grateful, it’s because I haven’t words. Oh, Sarah, if you hadn’t been there and made that man give you the letter he would have gone away and lost it! I know he would! How can I ever thank you enough? It’s silly to say, ‘thank you.’ I wish I knew——”
“Don’t over-pay me, Pam.”
“I couldn’t! . . . but I won’t say any more.” She sighed and added, “You must go now, darling. I�
�ve made you terribly late for supper but Mr. Morris won’t mind if you tell him why.”
“‘Safer not to tell anyone,’” I reminded her. “I shall just say I’ve been helping you, that’s all.”
Pam followed me into the hall and kissed me. She said, “Don’t worry too much, Sarah. Perhaps Charles has lost his memory – it’s possible, isn’t it?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, it’s some other reason,” said Pam earnestly. “It’s something we haven’t thought of. You’ll find your bread, my dear.”
Then she opened the front door and I went home.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
One morning at breakfast father received a letter from Lottie; he read it carefully and exclaimed, “I can’t believe it! Lottie must have gone mad!”
“What has she done now?” asked Willy.
“She’s going to be married.”
“But, Father, that’s good news!” I said. “It means that Mac is coming home. Has he got leave? I suppose his parents have——”
“It isn’t young Macnab.”
“What do you mean? She’s engaged to Mac!”
“Apparently she has changed her mind. She intends to marry Sir Clive Hudson.”
“Sir Clive Hudson!” I echoed incredulously. “You mean the man who owns Brailsford Manor? I thought he was quite old!”
Father didn’t reply; he was re-reading the letter. Then he handed it to me and got up and left the room.
“The old boy seems upset,” said Willy. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“Funny!” I cried.
“Well, he wasn’t upset when a bomb fell on his flat.”
“Of course he’s upset – frightfully upset! So am I! She’s engaged to Ian Macnab – you know that as well as I do! He’s in the desert – fighting! What does it mean? What on earth can have happened?”
“It’s no good getting upset about Lottie’s vagaries. Read the letter,” suggested Willy. “Read it aloud. I haven’t much time and Lottie’s fist is difficult with all those whirls and twirls. I can’t bear affected handwriting. Go on, Sarah, we may as well know the worst.”
I took up the letter and read it aloud:
Riverside,
Fairfield
“Dear Father,
This letter is to tell you I am going to be married to Sir Clive Hudson. He has been taking me about a lot since Mac went away and yesterday he asked me to marry him and I said I would. I expect you will be surprised, but Mrs. Meldrum says you will be very pleased about it. He has a lovely place called Brailsford Manor. It is only about five miles from Fairfield so you probably know about it. His mother lives with him, but she will go and live somewhere else when we are married. I have been to Brailsford Manor several times and it really is a lovely place. There are stables for hunters and green-houses and lovely gardens and a lake with swans. Clive is a good deal older than me of course and he is a widower but he says I need not be jealous of his first wife because they were not happy together. He has given me a lovely sapphire ring – and he said what did I want for a wedding present. I can have anything I like. I think I shall have a little car. It would be nice to have a car of my very own. We are going to be married in London – and of course I want you all to come. You will be getting a proper invitation soon. I have not told Mac yet, but I thought you could write and tell him. It would be easier for you to write. I am afraid he will be rather surprised, but I have waited a long time and it is no good waiting any longer. It will be nice to live near Fairfield where I know such a lot of people – and Brailsford is a lovely house for parties. I have written to Lewis to see if he can get leave and come to the wedding. It would be nice if Lewis could come.
With much love from your loving
Lottie
“P.S. I am enclosing Mac’s address. You can tell him I still want to be friends with him.”
“Good lord, what a letter!” exclaimed Willy. “It’s practically illiterate. Didn’t she learn anything at that posh school? She always was a spoilt brat – but that’s the limit. She’s going to marry a lovely house and a lovely garden and a lovely lake with swans and a lovely sapphire ring. I hope they’ll make her happy.”
I was so shattered that I couldn’t speak.
“Don’t worry, Sarah,” said Willy, helping himself to marmalade. “You worry far too much about the family.”
“It’s Mac I’m worrying about.”
“You needn’t. He’s had a lucky escape.”
“She was such a dear little girl.”
“She was always utterly and absolutely selfish. Mother and Father spoilt her – I’ve told you that before – and the Meldrums seem to have finished the job.” He got up and added, “That letter ought to be put in a gold frame studded with diamonds . . . no, sapphires. Well, I’m off, Sarah. I may be late for supper; I’ve been summoned to an interview with Sir Edgar Romford.”
“Oh, Willy, did you write to——”
But Willy had gone.
I cleared the table and was washing up the dishes when father came in.
“Have you read the letter?” he asked. “It’s a dreadful letter, Sarah. It’s a selfish, heartless letter. I can scarcely believe our own little Lottie can have written it.”
“Yes, I feel the same.”
I should have taken her away from those people,” said father wretchedly. “I knew that woman was foolish, but I left my child in her care.”
“You couldn’t help it,” I pointed out. “Anyhow it’s too late to think of that now. Do you know anything about the man?”
“Only by hearsay. He must be forty-five or more; he was married before, but his wife left him. She’s dead now.” Father sighed heavily and added, “I wouldn’t mind so much if Lottie had fallen in love with the man.”
“She has fallen in love with his possessions.”
“What am I to do? Would it be any good for me to go to Fairfield and see her?”
“Well, would it?” I asked.
He took up the letter which was lying on the kitchen table and read it again. Then he put it down.
It was time to take a strong line, so I turned from the sink and faced him. “Listen, Father, you can’t do anything. You can see from the letter that Lottie is quite determined to marry the man, can’t you? If we don’t want to lose Lottie altogether you’ll have to accept it and put a good face on it——”
“She won’t be happy!”
“Perhaps not . . . but that’s all the more reason why we should stand by. She may be glad of our help some day.”
He looked at me in astonishment. “You’re wise,” he said.
“It isn’t wisdom, it’s experience,” I told him. “If you’re in trouble – lonely and miserable and anxious – it’s a good thing to be able to fall back on your family. I’m sorry for people who haven’t got families to fall back on.”
He took up the cloth and began to dry the dishes. As a rule I didn’t allow father to do any household chores, but to-day I made no objection. He did it very carefully and took a long time over the job. However I hid my impatience.
When the dishes were all dried and put away he said, “I shall have to write to that boy. It will break his heart, Sarah! What am I to say?”
“Do it now,” I suggested. “I expect they’ll put the engagement in the papers and he might see the announcement. It will be less frightful for poor Mac to hear about it from you.”
“Yes, I had better write to his parents too,” said father miserably. He added, “I never thought I should have cause to be ashamed of Lottie.”
*
A few days after we had received her letter Lottie rang up and spoke to me; she asked with some anxiety what father had said.
I was glad she had the grace to be anxious and, as I had made up my mind to be agreeable to her, I answered amicably, “Father was surprised and upset, but if you’re quite certain you want to marry Sir Clive Hudson he won’t make any objection. You’ll want Father to marry you, of course.”
&nbs
p; “Well . . . no,” said Lottie. “You see we’re going to be married in a big fashionable church . . . and Clive’s uncle is a canon . . . so we thought . . .”
“You don’t want Father to take any part in the ceremony?” I asked incredulously.
“He won’t mind, will he? You see, Clive’s uncle——”
“Is a canon,” I said. “You told me that before.”
“You can explain to Father, can’t you, Sarah?”
I felt inclined to tell her to do her own explaining. Then I realised that it would be easier for father if I were to tell him. Lottie had said he wouldn’t mind but I thought he would “mind” a good deal.
“Sarah, you’ll explain, won’t you?”
“Very well,” I said.
“He won’t mind,” repeated Lottie. (It was always easy for Lottie to deceive herself when she wanted to get her own way.) She added, “Oh, Sarah, I nearly forgot! Has father written to Mac?”
“Yes, and also to his parents.”
“Good,” said Lottie with a sigh of relief. “You see, Clive wants us to be married quite soon and it’s sure to be in all the papers because of his being a baronet.”
“Yes,” I said. “Well, good-bye, Lottie.”
“Wait, Sarah! There’s another thing: you’ll be getting your invitation, of course, but I wondered . . . I mean would you mind if I didn’t have you as one of my bridesmaids? You see, I’m going to have Madeline and Ruth and Betty and Daphne. All of them are tall and fair and Mrs. Meldrum thinks——”
“Mrs. Meldrum thinks it would make a better show if you didn’t have someone small and dark.”
“How did you know?”
“A little bird told me.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Sarah?”
“Not in the least,” I replied cheerfully. The idea of being one of Lottie’s bridesmaids had never occurred to me and I could think of nothing I should dislike more.
There was another sigh of relief. “That’s all right, then. Clive says we must have the reception at Barrington’s; they’ve got a lovely big room for receptions, haven’t they?”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 22