The Four Graces

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I can wait until lunch,” replied Aunt Rona, looking around and selecting the most comfortable chair. “I don’t want to be the least trouble to anyone. You mustn’t look upon me as a guest, Sarah.”

  “No,” said Sal doubtfully.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Sal nodded. “I met you in London with Mother.”

  “You were very small,” said Aunt Rona, with the flash of white teeth that did duty for a smile. “But people do remember me. I have often been surprised to find that people remember me when I have no recollection of them.”

  “Yes,” said Sal, unsurprised at the news.

  “Of course this doesn’t apply to you, Sarah,” continued Aunt Rona, gazing at her critically. “I shouldn’t have known you in the street, but meeting you here it was obvious you were Sarah. You were always pale and thin.”

  “Yes,” said Sal.

  “I met you at Parkinson’s Hotel,” said Aunt Rona. “It was when poor Jack was with me—we called at the hotel because he wanted to see your mother. You had been to the dentist that afternoon.”

  “To the doctor,” said Sal.

  “Of course. Your mother had brought you to London to see a specialist about your back.”

  Sal wished Aunt Rona would talk of something else. It had been so frightful. The doctor had said she must lie perfectly flat on her back for six months…Mother had tried to be cheerful about it—both of them had tried to be cheerful.

  “Poor Mary,” said Aunt Rona, with a sigh. “What an anxiety you were! What an expense!”

  “Yes,” said Sal. “I must have been, I suppose.”

  “Mary had a very unfortunate life—four daughters and no son.”

  Sal was about to agree again, and then she changed her mind. Why should I? she thought. It isn’t her business…how does she know Mother wanted a boy? Mother never said so to her, that’s certain.

  “You must let me do the flowers,” Aunt Rona was saying. “That shall be my job, Sarah. It’s astonishing what a difference flowers can make to a room—even to a dull, shabby room—if they’re really well arranged. One has to love flowers and understand them to get the best effect.”

  “Yes,” said Sal. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see about—about some things.”

  Sal had said that Father must not be disturbed, but now she had changed her mind. She would have to tell Father that Aunt Rona was here; she must break it gently to him so that he might get used to the idea before lunchtime. With this end in view she opened the study door and went in. He was writing.

  “It’s Aunt Rona,” said Sal in a low voice. “She’s had all her windows broken.”

  “Poor soul!” said Mr. Grace vaguely, without looking up.

  “Father—”

  “I’m busy, Sal. We’ll talk about it at lunch. She isn’t seriously injured, is she?”

  “She isn’t injured at all.”

  “I thought you said she had broken something.”

  “Her windows,” said Sal urgently.

  Mr. Grace looked at Sal over his spectacles. “She must have them mended,” he said.

  “She can’t, Father. Everyone’s windows are broken. There isn’t enough glass—”

  “Not everyone’s,” interrupted Mr. Grace, glancing at his own.

  “In London, Father.”

  “Yes, yes. But I’m not a glazier. What can I do about it? Really, Sal—”

  “Addie told her to come here.”

  “Here!” exclaimed Mr. Grace. “No, no. That would never do. Rona was always a trifle—er—difficult. Even Mary found her a little—er—difficult, and Mary was extraordinarily easy herself. So you see—”

  “Yes, Father, but—”

  “No,” said Mr. Grace with unusual vigor. “No, Sal. The desire to have her here does great credit to your heart, but you don’t quite understand.”

  “She is here,” said Sal.

  “She is here!” cried Mr. Grace in—yes, in alarm, and he half rose from his chair and looked toward the windows as if (Sal thought afterward, though at the time she was too distracted to formulate the idea) he actually contemplated escape in that direction.

  “It’s all right,” declared Sal, assuming the role of comforter. “We’ll look after her—Tilly and I—and Liz of course. You needn’t bother about her at all.”

  “But Sal—”

  “But, Father, how can we refuse to have her? She’s brought her suitcase.”

  “A big one?” asked Mr. Grace, speaking in a whisper and glancing at the door.

  “Not very,” replied Sal unconvincingly.

  ***

  Tilly was in the back bedroom flicking about with a duster in a desultory way. It was obvious that Tilly was feeling a bit ruffled. She would be more ruffled, thought Sal, when she had had the opportunity to converse with Aunt Rona.

  “Have you told Father?” asked Tilly, flicking the mirror contemptuously.

  “Poor Father,” said Sal. “He isn’t at all pleased. I believe he would have liked to say damn.”

  “Liz will say it for him when she gets home. It’s perfectly frightful cheek. That’s what it is. Why should we have her? She isn’t even related to us.”

  “Because she hasn’t anywhere else to go.”

  A silence ensued, a very lugubrious silence. It was broken by the entrance of Aunt Rona.

  “Ah, here you are!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you had gotten to.”

  “This is Tilly,” said Sal, introducing them.

  Aunt Rona advanced upon Tilly and kissed her in a pecking manner on the cheek. “There,” she said. “Now I know you all—except Elizabeth, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Sal. “Yes, you’ll see Liz at teatime.”

  Aunt Rona looked around. “This is a very small room,” she said. “I should prefer the front bedroom. I looked in as I passed and saw some—er—garments there, lying about. A friend of your father’s, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Sal, nodding.

  “He won’t mind moving in here,” said Aunt Rona cheerfully.

  “We can’t move him,” said Tilly, opening her mouth for the first time.

  “No,” said Sal, backing her up. “He uses the table for his work. It would be too cramped to bring the table in here. No, I’m afraid we can’t ask Mr. Single to move.”

  “So perhaps you’d rather not stay,” mumbled Tilly, her face very red with embarrassment.

  Sal looked at Tilly in amazement (it did seem odd that Tilly, the shy one of the family, had managed to utter these words, but, like many shy people, Tilly sometimes burst forth with startling utterances, astonishing herself no less than her friends).

  “I mean,” continued Tilly, floundering in a morass of silence. “I mean this isn’t a very nice room, it’s rather dark—it faces north, too—but it’s the only room we’ve got for you, so if you don’t like it—”

  “No, no, you mustn’t worry,” said Aunt Rona, finding her voice and speaking in the most friendly manner imaginable. “Of course I quite understand, Matilda. It doesn’t matter in the least. I’m sure I shall be most comfortable here.”

  It was fortunate that Joan appeared at this moment, carrying the pigskin suitcase. She dumped it down on the floor and stood back, breathing heavily (perhaps a trifle more heavily than was actually necessary, thought Sal, looking at her in some alarm).

  “Oh, thank you,” said Aunt Rona in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite different from her normal manner of speaking. “Thank you. If you will just move it a little…No, over here…or perhaps I could have it on the ottoman…and please undo the straps.”

  “This is Joan,” said Sal, trying to make things easier.

  Aunt Rona took no notice; she had moved over to the dressing table and was using her lipstick with a practiced hand.

&nbs
p; “Is there anything else, Miss Sal?” inquired Joan.

  “No, thank you, Joan,” said Sal.

  “Oh, wait a moment, please,” said Aunt Rona, still speaking in that extraordinary voice. “I will give you my hot water bottles. I have two. I should like one put in now and the other at nine o’clock. Fill them with hot—but not boiling—water, please.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sal knew that she would not sleep so she took Emma to bed with her, hoping that the well-known story would soothe her troubled spirit and dissipate her worried thoughts, but it was no use at all; the worries kept flooding in and she found herself reading whole pages without taking in the sense. She put down the book in despair and allowed her thoughts full rein. What a frightful day it had been! Aunt Rona had arrived only this morning, yet it felt like a month at least. I shouldn’t have let her stay, thought Sal, but how could I help it? I couldn’t turn her away from the door, could I? All the same, thought Sal, if I had known what she was like, I believe I could have tried…

  Sal thought of the day in detail. Lunch first. Liz had not come home to lunch, for they were busy at the farm, and William had taken sandwiches with him, so he was not home, either. Four of them sat down to lunch, a very small party, and Aunt Rona had talked the whole time, with Father answering politely. Sal had done her best but she was not good at small talk—none of the Graces was—and Tilly had been absolutely dumb. Aunt Rona had rested in the afternoon, to recuperate after her journey, and had come down to eat (in the drawing room, of course) with renewed vitality brimming over with conversation. Roderick had come over from Ganthorne on his motorbike, then Liz had arrived—and William—and to each one, Aunt Rona’s presence had to be explained, and each one had seemed less pleased to make her acquaintance. Fortunately (or was it unfortunately?) Aunt Rona seemed oblivious of the fact that her presence was resented. She had chatted brightly, leaving no gaps at all in the conversation, and everyone had sat around eating and drinking and saying “yes” or “no.” She must think we’re awful, thought Sal. Perhaps we are awful. Perhaps if we tried to love her…but how could you love a person who bored you to death, a person who made interesting conversation impossible by talking banalities all the time? Liz had been the first to lose patience. She rose and said, “I’ll feed the hens for you, Sal.” And Sal, who had been looking forward to feeding the hens herself and so escaping from the room, had been obliged to thank Liz for undertaking the task. “Ah, hens!” said Aunt Rona. “One of the little daily tasks! And I daresay Captain Herd will go on with you and help you to carry the heavy pails.” “Er—oh, yes, of course,” said Roderick.

  Liz and Roderick! Well, Sal had known before, hadn’t she? She hadn’t needed Aunt Rona’s arch look as the two left the room together to tell her what she had known before.

  Then after supper Aunt Rona had gotten hold of Father (who had been out all the afternoon visiting his parishioners and wanted—as Sal well knew—to be left in peace to read his book), and the two of them had walked up and down the terrace together, Aunt Rona talking interminably in her penetrating voice. Sal had made up her mind that Father must be protected from Aunt Rona, and yet, the very first day of her visit, Aunt Rona had gotten him like this, had carried him off beneath Sal’s very nose…and Sal could do nothing about it, nothing at all except watch them from the window and worry and fret. I’m no use, thought Sal. I’m no match for her—none of us is. She can do what she likes with us.

  The following day was wet; Tilly took the key of the side door of the church and went off to play the organ. The churchyard was dismal, the grass sodden, the tombstones black and dripping. Water poured off the roof of the church, gurgled down the pipes, and splashed into the gratings. Tilly opened the side door and went up the short flight of steps to the organ. She did not start practicing at once but took her seat and leaned back against the grille. It was quiet and peaceful here. There was no peace at home. Presently she would begin to practice the voluntary that she intended to play next Sunday—it was Handel’s “Water Music”—but for the moment she only wanted silence.

  Suddenly she heard steps on the little stair and William’s head appeared. He hesitated there and looked at her. “I followed you,” he said.

  “Why did you?” asked Tilly crossly.

  “Do you and Sal want me to move?”

  “Move?”

  “From my bedroom,” explained William. “Mrs. Mapleton asked me to change with her, and of course I can—easily—it would be no bother at all.”

  “If you move, I shall never speak to you again,” cried Tilly hysterically.

  William seemed undaunted by the threat. He said, “That’s all I wanted to know. It seems rather unchivalrous but my shoulders are fairly broad.” He gave a deep chuckle and turned to descend the stairs.

  “Don’t go,” said Tilly imperiously.

  “I thought you didn’t feel like talking,” said William.

  “I didn’t, but now I do,” she replied.

  William sat down on the top step and waited patiently.

  “Everything is horrible,” said Tilly at last. “Everyone is upset—Father, Liz, Sal, everyone. It isn’t all Aunt Rona’s fault, either.”

  “Most of it is, but not all,” agreed William.

  “You notice things, don’t you?” said Tilly, looking at him curiously.

  “I’m learning,” said William, with a sigh.

  “You aren’t happy, either.”

  “Not very,” agreed William.

  There was a little silence.

  “I expect things will come right,” said William at last.

  “I don’t,” declared Tilly. “I think everything is going wronger and wronger every day—every hour, really. I don’t want Liz to marry Roderick.”

  “You can’t do anything to stop it.”

  “And what’s the matter with Sal?” continued Tilly in an unsteady voice. “Sal is always so—so dependable, so peaceful and—and understanding—but now—”

  “Sal is very worried,” said William.

  “I’m a beast,” said Tilly miserably. “I feel all beastly inside…as if there was a devil inside me. It’s because I hate Aunt Rona, that’s what it is. I hate everything about her…the way she talks to Joan…it makes me feel quite sick to hear her talk to Joan.”

  “I don’t suppose Sal likes it either,” said William thoughtfully.

  “You think I’m a beast, don’t you?”

  “I think you could—help—more,” said William cautiously.

  ***

  Sal and Joan were in the kitchen, making jam. It was a good employment for such a wet morning, and a very companionable sort of employment. Sal heard all the gossip of the village. She heard that Cynthia Bouse (from the Whistling Man) was walking out with Jim Feather, and his father wasn’t half mad about it, neither: and she heard that young Mrs. Foley was “having another,” the third in two years, and she heard that Mrs. Toop had fallen out with Miss Bodkin, and they were not on speaking terms.

  There never was such a fiery-tempered woman as Mrs. Toop, thought Sal, with a sigh. Practically all the trouble in the village could be traced back to Mrs. Toop; she had a perfect genius for saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment, and in the wrong way…and little Mr. Toop was such a kindly, sociable man.

  “It was at Elsie Trod’s,” said Joan, with relish. “Maria Toop was there, and in comes Miss Bodkin. They were ’aving a cup of tea and Elsie was giving a drop to ’ar baby. ‘You didn’t ought to do that,’ says Miss Bodkin. ‘Tea’s bad for ’is stummick.’ With that Maria goes off the deep end and says, ‘What do you know about babies, any’ow?’ And that was ’ow it began.”

  “Miss Bodkin was right,” said Sal. “I’ll stir for a bit, shall I?”

  “If you don’t mind,” agreed Joan, surrendering the wooden spoon. “It’s pretty ’ot ’anging over the fire for long. That’s ’ow it
began,” continued Joan. “It went on for hours—so Elsie says—she says they’d both forgotten ’ow it began before they got to the end of calling each other names.”

  Sal nodded. She could well believe it.

  “The new people at The Beeches ’ave moved in,” continued Joan. “Lovely furniture they’ve got. It’s Empire, Mrs. Feather says. She’s doing a bit of cleaning till they find a cook. Fancing getting furniture all the way from New Zealand, Miss Sal!”

  “From New Zealand?” asked Sal in surprise.

  “Empire,” explained Joan. “New Zealand would be Empire.”

  “It means French Empire,” said Sal.

  “French Empire! Well, Mrs. Feather didn’t know that.”

  Sal smiled. It was obvious that Mrs. Feather’s ignorance would soon be remedied.

  “Mrs. Feather says they’re queer sort of people,” continued Joan. “They don’t ’old with church, Mrs. Feather says, and they’re always ’aving rows together.”

  This was getting a bit too gossipy so Sal changed the subject. “How is your father?” she asked.

  “Better,” said Joan. “You let me stir, Miss Sal, your face is like a beetroot. You can get out the pots if you like; they’ll warm nicely on the cool part of the stove.”

  “I’m glad he’s better,” said Sal, counting out the pots. “Does the doctor think he’ll be able to get up soon?”

  “Sunday,” replied Joan. “It’s a great ’elp to m’ mother, me getting ’ome early. She said I was to thank you, Miss Sal. That Mrs. Mapleton thinks I get out too much.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so!”

  “She said to me this morning, you’ve got a very good place ’ere, ’aven’t you? That’s what she said.”

  “Well,” began Sal.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Joan. “I know I’m well off compared to some, but she didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t so much what she said as ’ow she said it. She meant it spiteful.”