Tilly thought so, too. She liked the old church best when it was empty, shadowy, and peaceful. You could see it better when your eyes were not distracted by people, nor your ears by sounds.
Captain Herd was now admiring the font. “For christening babies,” he said in a thoughtful voice, not really proffering this unnecessary piece of information, but trying to show an intelligent interest in all he saw.
“Yes,” agreed Tilly.
“That reading desk isn’t very pretty,” said Captain Herd.
“The lectern,” said Tilly. “No, we don’t like it much, either. We hope to get a new one some day—after the war, perhaps.” She hesitated and then added, “And that’s the rose window, of course,” pointing to it as she spoke, for by this time she felt doubtful whether Captain Herd would know, and it seemed better for everyone’s sake that Captain Herd should not put his foot in it too badly, at the very start.
“Yes,” said Captain Herd. “It’s shaped like a rose, of course…I like that window, too.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” said Tilly quickly. “You must be absolutely horrified at Joseph and his Brethren. Old Lady Chevis gave it in memory of her husband so they can’t take it down, but it’s terribly, terribly bad.”
“Thank you,” said Captain Herd, with a little smile (he certainly wasn’t a goose).
“You may admire the south window, of course,” she continued. “Lots of people do. The glass is modern but good—look at the shafts of sunlight streaming through the panes.”
“One might say one admired the richness of coloring,” suggested Captain Herd.
“Oh, definitely,” said Tilly. “But as a matter of fact one would be better not to say too much—”
“Oh, definitely,” agreed Captain Herd quickly.
Mr. Grace was in the vestry. He came out when he heard their voices and welcomed his visitor cordially, so Tilly abandoned the eagle to his fate and went home to peel the vegetables.
***
“Pedro was very tender,” announced Tilly, as she entered the kitchen with a trayload of china.
“I’m glad,” said Sal. “I thought it was safer to do him in a casserole. I had him in soon after eleven and did him slowly. Put those in the scullery—Joan’s there.”
Tilly carried the tray through the kitchen, noticing as she went that everything was tidy. Sal was that sort of person, she cleared as she went along. If Liz had cooked the lunch, the whole place would have been piled up with bowls and dishes of every description.
Joan was clattering about in the scullery and singing tunefully, but she stopped to smile at Tilly. “Did I do all right?” she inquired. “I didn’t ’and the plates the wrong side or anything, did I?”
“I thought you did splendidly,” replied Tilly.
“Miss Sal said I can go early,” continued Joan, seizing this favorable moment for her announcement. “It’s because m’ uncle’s ’ere. ’E’s ’aving ’is ’olidays now. So m’ mother said, come ’ome early, she said, if ther’s nothing special on. I don’t need to, if you want me special.”
“Of course you must go,” said Tilly. (She was aware that a visit from Joan’s uncle was an important event.)
“M’ uncle’s still at Brighton,” said Joan, plunging about at the sink. “’E still runs that garage. Of course there ain’t much doing in the gas line, but ’e does munitions now—does them in ’is own workshop, like. Little bits of shells and things. People come in an ’elp. It’s a pity we ain’t got munitions at Chevis Green. There’s plenty of people could spare ’alf a day to make them…don’t you bother drying those dishes, Miss Tilly, you’ll muss up your nice frock. I’ll do them in ’alf a jiff.”
“What about tea?” inquired Sal, looking in. “It’s disgusting to think of tea when we’ve just finished lunch, but if that young man is staying I’ll have to make a cake or something—”
“He isn’t,” said Tilly. “In fact he’s just going—he seemed sort of restless, I thought.”
“Restless?”
“It may have been the rose window. He knew nothing about it, of course.”
“Nothing at all?” asked Sal in alarm. “Then Father—”
“Oh, he got through,” declared Tilly. “Father was calling him ‘Roderick’ so it must have been all right. He asked for Addie’s address.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Why not?” said Tilly. “Addie’s quite capable of dealing out raspberries if she feels that way.”
***
The old house settled down to a peaceful afternoon. Tilly was weeding in the garden, Liz had gone back to the farm, and Joan had finished her work in record time and vanished. Sal fetched a book and sat down in the rocking chair near the kitchen window. She had done a good job of work and earned her leisure, and she intended to enjoy it to the full. She was rereading Emma: it was one of her favorite books, partly because she felt that Chevis Green was a modern version of Highbury. There was a “Miss Bates” in Chevis Green—or at least a lady who resembled her closely—and a “Mr. Woodhouse” too: perhaps these characters are to be found in most English villages. It was very quiet, and Sal was sure that this was the sort of afternoon the old house enjoyed. Old gentlemen enjoy being at rest during the hottest time of the day, and the old house was very like an old gentleman. The clock ticked stolidly and the fire crackled and Sal “read in her book.”
Suddenly Sal heard a sound—it was the creak of the back door opening—and a moment later there were footsteps in the passage; footsteps that sounded furtive and hesitating. Sal raised her head and listened. She was alarmed. There were dozens of people who had right of access to the back premises of the Vicarage, but any of these would have walked in confidently, sure of a welcome, sure of sympathy or of help in any trouble that had brought them here. Who could this be? Sal half rose—and then hesitated and sat down again; it was too late for flight.
The kitchen door was opening now, and the intruder looked in…he was an officer in battle dress.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know anyone was here,” and then he stopped and looked at Sal. “But—they said you were in London!” he cried.
Sal had never seen the man before. “They said I was in London?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he declared, coming nearer and gazing at her. “Yes, that’s what they said. Why did they?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Sal in alarm, for it seemed to her that the young man was behaving in a very odd manner.
“It doesn’t matter,” he declared. “I’ve found you, that’s the main thing.”
“But I don’t know you.”
“You’re Addie, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” replied Sal firmly. “And I’m not the least like Addie.”
“You aren’t the least like anybody,” he agreed, smiling at her and perching himself on the edge of the table.
Sal did not return the smile. She assumed a dignified air. “I don’t know you,” said Sal. “If you want something you had better say so—”
“It’s all right,” he interrupted. “Honestly it is. I ought to have explained before, but it gave me a sort of shock meeting you like this. They said you were in London, so I managed to get your address and I was going to call on you at your flat. I thought you were Addie, of course.”
“I’ve told you I’m not Addie.”
“I know,” said the young man. “I’d forgotten there were four.”
Sal heaved an elaborate sigh.
“I’m muddling it all frightfully,” said the young man in self-reproach. “It’s all so clear to me that I keep on forgetting to explain. I’ll tell you exactly what happened. I’ve been having lunch here, and then I said good-bye and Mr. Grace saw me off. Well, when I was about halfway to Wandlebury I remembered about the umbrella. Miss Marks left it here yesterday, didn’t she?”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” said Sal, who was beginning to see light.
“She said she left on the dresser in the kitchen…yes, there it is!”
“Yes,” said Sal.
“I didn’t know what to do, really,” declared Captain Herd, frowning. “I’d said good-bye and all that. I didn’t want to barge in and disturb Mr. Grace…so I thought I’d just nip in by the back door and see if I could find the gamp myself. It was lucky, really.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Captain Herd took the umbrella and put it beside him on the table. Then his eyes came back to Sal. “You aren’t angry with me, are you?” he inquired.
“Not now,” said Sal, smiling.
“Why do you ask me what I meant? Most people would have said, ‘Why was it lucky?’ or something.”
Sal laughed. “Because you’ll tell me if you want to. People do. If they want to tell you a thing, they tell you, and if not…”
“I do,” he said earnestly. “I saw you in church yesterday at the wedding and I wanted to meet you properly.”
“This isn’t properly,” Sal pointed out.
“Markie’s umbrella has introduced us,” declared Roderick Herd. “If it hadn’t been for Markie’s umbrella, I shouldn’t have met you. Odd, isn’t it?”
Sal looked thoughtful. She might have looked even more thoughtful if she realized that the umbrella was only a link in the chain—the chain stretching back to Tilly’s duster and Cleopatra’s nose.
“Markie is rather a wonderful person,” continued Roderick Herd. “We see quite a lot of her, of course, because Ganthorne Lodge is so near the camp and the men are allowed the use of the kitchen premises—it’s like a club, really. Miss Marks is always about, cooking or washing or something, and the men simply adore her. She helps them to write their letters and shows them how to mend their socks.” He laughed softly and added, “When word went forth that Miss Marks had lost her umbrella, the whole battalion volunteered to come over to Chevis Green and fetch it—but of course I was coming, anyhow.”
“To see the rose window,” put in Sal.
“Yes,” agreed Captain Herd, looking at her doubtfully. “Yes—it’s—as a matter of fact, I’ve learned a good deal about ecclesiastical architecture today. And you needn’t think—”
“Oh, I didn’t!” said Sal quickly.
There was a little silence; quite a comfortable sort of silence. The clock was still ticking away industriously.
“What a quiet house it is!” said Roderick Herd, lowering his voice to match the quietness.
“It’s so old,” explained Sal. “Old people like being peaceful, so do old houses—at least that’s what I think.”
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’ve been exempted—if that’s what you mean. I do the shopping, and cook—all that sort of thing.”
“Do you shop in Wandlebury?”
“Once a week,” said Sal. “We get most of our rations in Chevis Green because we like dealing with our friends.”
“I suppose you go to Wandlebury on Mondays,” said Captain Herd in a casual sort of tone.
“No,” replied Sal gravely. “I’m much too busy on Monday mornings.”
“Are you busy on Tuesdays?” he inquired. “I mean we might have coffee together at the Apollo and Boot.”
“Yes—no,” said Sal. “I go on Thursdays, but there’s no time for coffee. It takes ages, standing in the queue for fish and things.” She hesitated, wondering whether to ask him to come here to tea. Liz would have asked him. Liz would have said, “Come over and see us; come whenever you like,” but Sal couldn’t—the words wouldn’t come.
He sighed and stood up. “I must go,” he said. “I ought to have been back before this. What a life!”
She went with him to the door. His motorbike was in the yard, leaning against the wall.
“I shall have to whizz,” he said, smiling at her.
“Don’t whizz too fast,” said Sal anxiously.
He was not tall. In fact, he was just about her own height—so the very brown eyes were on a level with her own—but he was tremendously strong. You could see how strong he was by the way he wheeled out the heavy motorbike. He was tremendously self-confident, too. His brown face and his white teeth were rather an intriguing contrast. Sal watched him “whizz” down the road and then went back to the kitchen. She found Miss Marks’s umbrella lying on the table.
Chapter Four
Sal was laying tea in the schoolroom. When no outsider was expected, the Graces always had tea in the schoolroom; it was comfortable and informal, it encouraged comfortable, informal conversation (you could eat more and let your hair down, as Liz put it). The schoolroom was a very pleasant place; it was a long-shaped room, low-ceilinged, with windows facing south and west. The carpet was very shabby, so was the furniture, but the Graces had seen these things from infancy so the shabbiness did not worry them. Here were old-fashioned armchairs (in which Victorian ladies had sat, embroidering petticoats, or sewing lace collars onto their dresses), and a large sofa, shaped like a half-moon, which fitted into a corner; there were also a gate-legged table and a battered Sheraton bureau, and several bookcases, full of shabby books. The only modern note was struck by the electric kettle that stood in the grate…it was beginning to sing cheerfully as Sal chose the cups and plates from the cupboard in the wall. She chose them carefully for each one was different—they were, in fact, survivors of many different sets that had belonged to members of the Grace family in bygone days. The Coleport cup and saucer had come from old Mrs. Thynne—Sal’s maternal grandmother—and the Dresden had belonged to Mr. Grace’s aunt and had been bestowed upon Liz for her seventh birthday. There were two cups and several saucers and plates of the Limoges set, very fine and fluted and decorated with sprays of autumn leaves, which had been a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Grace—Sal remembered the days when this set had been complete. Other cups and saucers were souvenirs of visits to Bath and to Brighton and bore the heraldic devices of these towns. The remainder of the china reposing in the schoolroom cupboard had been discovered in a box in the attic. Some of it was good and some without intrinsic value, but the Graces found it interesting to speculate and to discuss where it had come from, and which of their ancestors had chosen and used it. The silver teapot was old and dented, but very bright, for Sal loved it and liked to see it shining. She warmed it carefully and measured out the tea—the kettle was boiling now.
“Joan doesn’t mind when she has her holiday,” said Tilly, coming in.
“Oh, good,” said Sal, without enthusiasm. Liz came in after Tilly and shut the door. She sat down on a Victorian chair and stretched out her long legs before her; they looked longer and slimmer in the closely fitting breeches and heavy stockings and thick brown shoes she wore for her work on the farm. “Joan’s going to Mant for her holiday,” said Liz in a casual voice.
“To Mant?” inquired Sal with interest. “I thought she was going to her uncle at Brighton.”
“Mant is a person, not a place,” explained Liz.
“A man or a woman?”
“A woman,” said Liz firmly. “She said, ‘I’ll go to Mant. She can have me anytime so it doesn’t matter when I get my holiday,’ or words to that effect.”
“Mant!” said Sal, savoring the word thoughtfully. “Mrs. Mant, I suppose.”
“Miss Mant, perhaps.”
“Short for Mantalini?”
“Who knows?” said Liz, leaning back and cocking one leg over the other.
Tilly had taken no part in the discussion; she had begun to giggle. “Tilly knows,” said Sal, looking at her.
“I’m sorry, but you’re both wrong,” declared Tilly. “Mant is m’ uncle’s wife.”
“What a pity!” said Sal regretfully. She took up the teapot and announced, “You can’t have sugar because I want it for jam, and Joan forgot the saccharines.”
“Hell,” said Liz without rancor.
“If Father heard you—”
“But he can’t, the darling,” reasoned Liz. “And anyhow, I only mean that place in Sweden—or is it Norway? Father wouldn’t mind a bit if I said Birmingham.”
“It’s those men—” began Sal.
“Not on your life,” interrupted Liz. “Those men are scared stiff when I’m anywhere about. I think they’re afraid I’d tell Father if they said damn. It cramps their style a lot. Can’t we have jam?”
“Not today,” said Sal.
“You can have jam yesterday and tomorrow,” said Tilly solemnly as she helped herself to a cress sandwich and handed the plate to Liz.
“I don’t mind much,” declared Liz. “I look forward to this all day—sprawling and drinking tea and saying whatever happens to come into my head. Heaven will be like this—not golden gates and harps.”
“Some people want harps,” objected Sal.
They were silent for a few minutes, munching cress.
“And anyhow,” said Sal at last. “You wouldn’t appreciate doing as you like if you could do it all the time…like the people in the Abbey of Thélème. They were obliged to do what they liked all the time. It was a punishment.”
“Makes one believe in astrology—almost,” said Liz thoughtfully.
“What does?”
“People’s lives. What you want in Heaven depends entirely upon what you’ve got here, and what you’ve got here depends upon Fate. Some people’s lives are so dull and others’ are so interesting.”
“It’s you, really,” objected Sal. “Your life is what you make it.”
“Yes, it is. Some people would find it frightfully dull to be the daughter of the parson at Chevis Green.”
“But we don’t,” cried Liz. “That’s exactly what I mean. It’s in you from the beginning. Either there’s this mysterious thing in you that makes you happy—that makes you interested in everything and interesting to yourself—or else there isn’t, and you’re dull and dreary and discontented.”
The Four Graces Page 3