At first I only wanted to rest and sleep and walk round the garden with grandpapa, but soon the fresh air and good food helped me to recover and I was eager to climb the hills. My favourite walk was up the steep path by the side of the burn to the top of Grey Ghyll and home by the old Drove Road.
Grandpapa was horrified at this idea. “You can’t go alone,” he said firmly. “If I were ten years younger – or maybe twenty – I’d come with you like a shot, but my legs are not as spry as they used to be.”
I said no more. He had always been anxious about people walking alone on the hills and I didn’t want to worry him.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he added. “But you know my views, don’t you? A twisted ankle could lead to serious trouble. If you could find somebody to go with you . . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him, taking his arm. “We’ll just walk round the garden together. I want to see the stand of conifers you’ve planted.”
In these peaceful surroundings, familiar since childhood, it was difficult to believe that a war was raging, guns were thundering and men were being killed every moment. Only the morning papers and the nine o’clock news kept us in touch with realities. For months past we had been hearing of victories and advances – and the end had seemed in sight – but now the aspect had become less favourable: Hitler had called up boys of sixteen and was said to be preparing for a last desperate throw.
“It’s now or never,” said grandpapa, who had a large map pinned up on the wall of his study and followed the course of events from day to day. “If Hitler waits until spring for his offensive the Americans will have built up their reserves. Yes, it’s now or never – and Hitler knows it.”
This could only mean there would be hard fighting and I thought of Lewis, of course. I wondered how many women were thinking of one particular man who would be in mortal danger.
“You often have letters from Lewis, don’t you?” asked grandmama; her thoughts had been moving in the same direction.
I nodded. “Yes, but I haven’t heard from him for nearly a fortnight. He was in Brussels for a couple of days’ leave and engaged a room with a private bathroom. He said he had had four baths already and intended to have another before he went to bed.”
Grandpapa laughed, and said he hoped Lewis had bought himself a huge cake of scented soap, so as to do the thing properly, but grandmama sighed and said, “Poor Lewis!”
The next morning when I came down to breakfast there was a letter from Lewis on the table; it had been forwarded to me by Mrs. Raggett. I seized it eagerly and tore it open . . . and saw that it was from a military hospital near Salisbury! For a moment or two I gazed at it in dismay but my fears were allayed when I realised that, although it was written in pencil, it had been written by Lewis himself in his own characteristic hand:
“Dear Sarah,
Don’t get in a flap. Father may or may not have got the telegram to say I’ve been wounded but anyhow there’s no need to worry unduly. It happened in a village which we thought had been cleared of Jerries, but not so! A few had remained in hiding and gave some trouble before we managed to round them up. Poor little Wilson was killed, Barnes was badly wounded and I was shot in the arm – the left, of course, or you wouldn’t be getting this untidy scrawl. The bone was fractured and it was exceedingly painful. When I came to, and saw what it looked like, I thought it was good-bye to my arm. The chap in the Field Dressing Station was of the same opinion. However it seems we were both wrong. The surgeon here, John Smith by name, operated and patched it up and has made it wonderfully comfortable. He assures me that in time it will be almost as good as new . . . and I’m being dosed with a marvellous new drug called penicillin which prevents wounds from going septic. It’s annoying that I’ve been sent to Salisbury (if I were nearer London you and father could pop in and see me), but I’m in a pleasant ward with two other fellows and the hospital is very well run: the sisters are capable and there are several V.A.D.’s who are easy on the eye – so I can’t complain. Of course it’s a bit sickening to be put out of action at this stage of the proceedings – I’m sorry I shan’t be there to see the end of the show and the downfall of Herr Adolf Hitler – but it can’t be helped. At any rate I shall be able to strip my sleeve and show my scars and say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s Day’ like the old bore who feasted his neighbours yearly on the vigil of Agincourt.
Will write soon again – meanwhile don’t worry – and lots of letters, please!
Love from Lewis”
As I was reading the letter for the second time grandpapa came in. “A letter from Lewis?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s been wounded.” I gave grandpapa the letter and ran to answer the telephone. The bell was ringing and I was sure it was father.
I was right. Father had just received the telegram saying that Lewis had been seriously wounded; he would scarcely believe me when I told him that I had got a very cheerful letter written by Lewis himself.
“It says ‘seriously wounded,’” repeated father.
“Yes, but it isn’t as bad as they thought. Fortunately there’s a very good surgeon in that hospital; he has patched up the arm and assures Lewis that it will be ‘almost as good as new.’ It will take time, of course, but that’s all to the good.”
“All to the good?”
“Lewis is out of it, Father! He won’t be in the horrible fighting when Hitler makes his ‘last desperate throw.’ We ought to be thankful he’s safe.”
“Yes, of course . . . if he isn’t seriously ill.”
“I’m sure he isn’t,” I said earnestly. “His letter is just like Lewis. It’s a jokey letter. Why don’t you go to Salisbury and see him? That would ease your mind.”
“I’ll go to-day,” said father more cheerfully.
Meanwhile the grans had read Lewis’s letter: grandpapa said that Lewis seemed so cheerful that his condition couldn’t be serious; grandmama said she hoped his wound was serious enough to keep him in hospital until the war was over.
I nodded and agreed.
“Just like women!” exclaimed grandpapa. “Lewis is very disappointed; he wants to see the end of the show.”
“Of course Sarah and I are ‘like women,’” retorted grandmama with asperity. “We are women, aren’t we? Women don’t want their sons and brothers and grandsons to be killed. If women had the ordering of affairs there would be no wars. Women know that wars are not only wicked, they’re foolish. Nobody wins.”
“Nobody wins? What on earth do you mean, Jane?” asked grandpapa, looking at her in amazement.
“There’s only one thing worse than losing a war – and that’s winning it. I don’t remember who said that, or words to that effect, but he knew what he was talking about.”
“I suppose you think it better to sit on the fence?”
“There would be no fence to sit on if women had a say in the matter. I don’t suppose German women like wars any more than we do.”
“So we’re to have petticoat government?”
“You might do worse . . . but it would have to be petticoat government for every nation under the sun.” She smiled and added, “There might be other troubles, of course, but there wouldn’t be any wars.”
“What about the Amazons?” asked grandpapa.
Grandmama hesitated, so I flew to the rescue.
“Did the Amazons wear petticoats, Grandpapa?”
The grans both laughed and the discussion ended with grandpapa going off to his study to find a book about the Amazons, in which he hoped to discover details of their attire.
“I don’t know why it’s so annoying to be told you’re like a woman,” said grandmama thoughtfully.
The argument hadn’t been serious, but there was always something interesting in arguments between the grans. I thought of this as I sat down to write to Lewis; it would amuse him to hear about the discussion.
*
Immediately after lunch I set off to walk to Ryddelton; it was a pleasant walk through coun
try lanes (perfectly safe in grandpapa’s estimation) and I wanted to post my letter and buy some things for Lewis. Grandmama suggested he might like handkerchiefs, which seemed a good idea, and I could send him sweets and a bottle of Eau-de-Cologne.
When I had done my shopping it was still quite early so I decided to call on Minnie Dell. I always went to see her when I was staying at Craignethan.
Minnie and her youngest sister were sharing a little house in the town; both were good needlewomen and, beginning in a small way by altering clothes for their friends, they had gradually built up quite a lucrative little business. As usual I was warmly welcomed and invited into the comfortable parlour.
“Our work is war work, Miss Sarah,” said Minnie earnestly. “Really, it is. You see people haven’t enough coupons to buy new clothes and it’s good for their morale to look nice. Maggie and I have got more work than we can cope with; you’d be surprised what we can do with old rags.”
Maggie was very like Minnie, but twice the size! She hadn’t had “the fever” when she was eight years old.
I was regaled with tea and a slice of Minnie’s gingerbread cake – which was as delicious as ever. Minnie wanted to know all about the family and was very distressed to hear that Lewis had been wounded. The news that Lottie had a baby was received with delight.
“I’d like fine to see her,” declared Minnie. “Would there be any chance of Miss Lottie bringing the wee girl to Craignethan?”
I thought it unlikely but I promised to tell “Miss Lottie” that Minnie had been asking for her and was anxious to see her baby.
“And tell Mr. Willy that I’ve still got his totem,” added Minnie, pointing to the hideous little figure which stood in the place of honour in the middle of the chimney-piece.
“And she uses his stool every day,” put in Maggie, smiling. “The wee stool is terribly important. It got mislaid in the spring cleaning and Minnie was that miserable – you wouldn’t believe it! She could neether sew nor take her meals without the wee stool beneath her feet.”
“I’d put it away in the back of the press for safe keeping,” explained Minnie, chuckling.
“Yes, she’d done it hersel’ but it was me that got the blame,” declared Maggie.
They both laughed. It was delightful to see them so happy together and so prosperous in their own small way; I knew father would be glad to hear I had been to see Minnie and that all was well with her.
*
The grans were always a little apprehensive when I was out by myself so I had made a habit of calling to them the moment I got inside the front door. To-day I called out as usual: “Hallo, here I am! I went to see Minnie, that’s why I’m a little late!”
Immediately the drawing-room door opened and grandpapa came out. He took my arm and led me into his study.
“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed in alarm.
“I’ve something to tell you.”
“Something has happened?”
“Something pleasant,” said grandpapa cheerfully. “A friend of yours has arrived. He got here soon after you had gone. I don’t mind telling you grandmama has fallen in love with him.”
“Who is it?”
“A friend of yours, Sarah.”
It occurred to me that it might be Duncan. “What a nuisance!” I exclaimed. “I’m enjoying a peaceful holiday; I don’t want to see anyone.”
“He has come a long way to see you.”
“Grandpapa, is it one of your jokes?”
“No, it’s not ‘one of my jokes,’” he replied. “I don’t want to keep you guessing, Sarah; I’m just trying to prepare you for a big surprise.”
I gazed at him in astonishment; I was still uncertain whether or not it was “one of his jokes.”
“It’s Charles Reeder.”
“Charles?”
“Yes.”
“It can’t be Charles! It can’t . . . possibly . . .”
“You had better sit down,” said grandpapa, seizing my arm and guiding me to a chair.
My knees gave way and I sank into it in a heap.
“Sarah, my dear!” exclaimed grandpapa, looking at me anxiously.
“It’s all right,” I murmured. “I just – just can’t believe it. Do you really – mean he’s here – at Craignethan? How did he – get here?”
“He came in his car. He has been looking for you.”
“Looking for me? That’s nonsense! He could have got my address at Fairfield. Besides . . .”
Grandpapa sat down and took my hand. “I don’t know the ins and outs of it, Sarah. The poor fellow was exhausted when he arrived. He wanted to know whether you were alive or dead. He was absolutely all out – and in no condition to give an account of himself. However the news that you were actually here at Craignethan, alive and well, worked wonders, and a tot of whisky and a solid meal completed the cure. Just sit there quietly and I’ll go and get him.”
“Wait a minute, Grandpapa!” I exclaimed, clinging to his hand.
“No hurry, my dear! Take your time. Charles says he can stay here for a few days if you want him. He’s not sure if you’ll want him to stay.”
“What did he mean?”
“I don’t know – exactly. He said there had been a misunderstanding. We didn’t like to question him about it.”
“Grandpapa, I don’t understand! Why did he come here . . . if he didn’t know I was here?”
“He thought we would know what had happened to you.”
The whole thing was a complete mystery to me and was becoming more mysterious every minute. I was in a fog of bewilderment.
For a few minutes we sat in silence; then I took out my powder-compact and examined myself in the little mirror. My face had a greenish tinge and looked very queer . . . but it improved when I gave my cheeks a good hard rub and powdered my nose.
Grandpapa chuckled. “I can see you’re feeling better; I’ll go and fetch him.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Charles paused in the doorway and looked at me doubtfully. I couldn’t speak but I held out my arms so he came and knelt beside me and took my hand.
“Oh, Sarah!” he said softly. “There’s such a lot to explain. I’ve been the most awful fool that ever was! I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me.”
“Of course I’ll forgive you,” I whispered. It didn’t matter what he had done. . . . I had got him back safely.
He put his arms round me and for a little while we were silent. I was remembering the last time he had held me like this – it was so long ago that it seemed as if it had happened in another life.
“Listen, darling,” said Charles at last. “I’ve been a fool – but I’ve paid dearly for my foolishness. When I saw the whole place in ruins I nearly went mad.”
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “What place was in ruins? Where have you been? Why didn’t you get my address at Fairfield and come and see me?”
He sighed. “Yes, I’ll tell you everything – but it’s all such a muddle that I don’t know how to begin.”
“Tell me this, Charles: did you see me that day at Barrington’s?”
“Yes.”
“You ran away from me!”
“Yes, I ran away. I was angry with you.”
“Angry with me?” I asked in amazement.
“It’s a long story, Sarah. I had better tell it to you from the beginning.”
“Wait!” I cried. “Tell me first why you were angry.”
Charles had got up and was sitting on the edge of the big solid table which grandpapa used for writing his letters.
“Very well,” said Charles, nodding. “There’s a lot to tell you (about all that has happened to me since that cold misty morning when I said good-bye to you at Fairfield) but I’ll begin at the end of the story, when Colonel Robert Loudon and I managed to escape from an internment camp near Hamburg and, after various adventures, arrived in London. The first thing——”
“Internment camp!” I exclaimed. “Is that where you’ve
been all this time?”
“Most of the time.”
“Oh, poor Charles! How dreadful!”
“That wasn’t the worst of it,” he said. “The worst of it was solitary confinement in a Berlin prison . . . but you can hear about that later. You want to know the end of the story, don’t you?”
I nodded. I was too upset to speak.
“Well, the first thing I did when I got to London was to go to Fairfield, of course. I had been thinking about you for years – dreaming of you – picturing you at the old house, so it was a shock to find strangers there. However, Mrs. Yorke was very kind; she asked me to come in and she gave me a cup of tea. It was sad to see the drawing-room – so different from what I remembered! But perhaps it would have been worse if it had looked the same with strangers living in it. Yes, I believe that would have been worse,” said Charles thoughtfully.
After a moment’s pause he continued, “Mr. and Mrs. Yorke were old. He was a retired clergyman and had come to St. Mary’s temporarily to fill a gap. The Yorkes hadn’t been there very long and were finding it rather too much for them; they were looking forward to going back to their own quiet home. Mrs. Yorke told me all this – and more – she was very chatty. She told me that Mr. Morris had gone to London at the beginning of the war; I asked if his daughter were with him. ‘Oh no!’ replied Mrs. Yorke. ‘Mr. Morris’s daughter married Sir Clive Hudson. They have a big place called Brailsford Manor about five miles from here . . . and there’s a baby girl.’
“‘Are you sure?’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Mrs. Yorke in surprise. ‘I know Lady Hudson quite well; I often see her in the village and she’s always very friendly and pleasant. Some people say she behaved rather badly: she was engaged to be married to another man and broke it off when he went abroad . . . but I don’t believe everything I hear.’
“She went on talking but I was too stunned by the news to listen. My one idea was to get away as quickly as I could. As we were saying good-bye she asked if I would like Mr. Morris’s address – she could find it for me if I would wait – but I replied that it didn’t matter and came away.”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 29