“Hasn’t it boiled long enough?” inquired Sal, knowing quite well it hadn’t.
“Five minutes more,” replied Joan, glancing at the clock. “Oh, Miss Sal, I almost forgot. Did you ’ear about the Fate?”
“The Fate?” asked Sal.
“Sports and that,” said Joan. “It’s going to be at Chevis Place. Mr. Feather told me when he brought the letters this morning. Tea and ices and Aunt Sallies, and all that—a proper first-rate Fate.”
“No!” exclaimed Sal. This was news indeed.
“Yes.” Joan nodded. “Quite soon, too. I was just wondering ’ow I could freshen up my best dress a bit. P’r’aps I could get a new collar or something.”
There was a little silence, filled with the bubbling of the jam. Sal was reflecting philosophically upon values, upon the shifting values of material things. The value of a possession depends upon whether or not you really need it, thought Sal. If a woman has six pairs of stockings, the value of one pair is not very high, but if she has only two pairs, the value of one pair is far more than three times as much. This was too muddling for Sal so she abandoned that line of thought and came down to brass tacks. A frock hanging in your wardrobe (a frock you wore only very occasionally) was not really of very much value to you, but if you gave it to Joan and Joan could wear it at the fete and enjoy it…and it really would suit her, thought Sal, looking at Joan and envisaging her attired in it.
Joan was even more enchanted with the offer than Sal had expected.
Chapter Eleven
It was still raining in the afternoon. Sal had hoped Aunt Rona would retire to bed but, instead, she seated herself in the drawing room and indicated that she wished Sal to keep her company.
“We can do some mending,” said Aunt Rona. “I expect you have quite a lot of mending to do.”
For a moment Sal thought Aunt Rona intended to help her with her task and was about to accept gratefully, but even as the words formed themselves upon her lips, Aunt Rona produced a silk stocking from her work basket and surveyed it with a worried frown.
“So annoying,” said Aunt Rona. “One can’t get silk stockings in England, and of course I can’t wear anything else. I have them sent over from America—it’s the only way.”
She took out a little hook and began to pick up the stitches of a ladder, one by one.
Sal’s basket of household mending was bulging with garments requiring attention. She always intended to keep the mending down but it piled up too quickly. The linen was old and needed constant patching and Father was terribly hard on socks.
“You see,” said Aunt Rona, displaying her work. “You see, it scarcely shows. Of course it takes a long time to do, but it’s worth the trouble. If you do a thing at all, you should do it with all your might,” added Aunt Rona complacently.
“Yes. It’s very neat,” said Sal. She chose a piece of gray wool and began to fill in an enormous hole in the heel of Father’s sock.
A few moments later Tilly came in and sat down. “Shall I put a patch in this towel?” she inquired, holding up the article in question.
Sal looked at her in amazement. It was not Tilly’s job to help with the mending. She did other things, of course, knitting, or ironing or anything else that needed to be done; mending was Tilly’s pet aversion.
“Shall I?” repeated Tilly. “It needs a patch, doesn’t it? I can take a bit off this old towel to patch it with.”
“Oh, yes! Yes, thank you,” said Sal gratefully.
There was silence. Tilly tried to think of something to say, something bright and cheerful, or amusing, but she couldn’t think of anything at all. How queer it was! She and Sal and Liz could talk all day without stopping, but now, with Aunt Rona sitting there, her mind was an absolute blank. It seemed odd that Aunt Rona wasn’t talking—but perhaps Aunt Rona felt the same, or perhaps Aunt Rona thought it was not worth while making conversation for girls. Yes, that must be the reason, thought Tilly, glancing in Sal’s direction. Was Sal trying to think of something to say? Sal’s head was bent over the sock. She was darning as if her life depended upon it.
I must say something, thought Tilly, so she opened her mouth and said, “I wish it would stop raining.”
“The farmers need rain,” said Sal.
There was another silence.
“You must find it dull here, Aunt Rona,” said Tilly.
“Not at all,” replied Aunt Rona brightly. “As a matter of fact, I’m very fond of the country. Of course one would have to run up to town occasionally.”
Tilly pondered these words, and the more she pondered them, the more ominous they seemed: “One would have to run up to town occasionally.” That meant—well, obviously that meant…if one lived here…always. Tilly glanced at Sal to see if she had heard and, hearing, understood the implication, but Sal was darning assiduously.
The silence that followed Aunt Rona’s statement became unbearable. Tilly wanted to scream. She was just wondering what would happen if she screamed when the back door bell rang.
“That’s the back door,” said Sal, rising.
“Doesn’t Joan answer the bell?” inquired Aunt Rona.
“Joan’s out,” replied Sal.
“Again!” exclaimed Aunt Rona.
Sal was glad to escape. It was a bit mean to leave Tilly there alone, especially when Tilly had been so decent, but Sal had to escape. If she hadn’t been able to escape, something appalling might have happened. Sal could not have borne it another minute. She ran through the kitchen and opened the back door and found Mrs. Element on the step; a wet bedraggled figure in a very long, brown waterproof and a shapeless felt hat. Mrs. Element was thin and angular with large feet that flapped as she walked; her face was pale and freckled; her forehead was bumpy; her hair had been sandy, it was now faded to the color of old hay, but these misfortunes were redeemed by a pair of really beautiful brown eyes, clear as crystal and full of human kindness.
“Oh, Mrs. Element!” cried Sal in dismay. “Oh goodness, how wet you are! Your rheumatism—”
“I won’t come in,” said Mrs. Element. “It’ll muss up your floor.”
“Of course you must come in! Let me take your coat. I’ll get you a cup of tea in half no time.”
“It’s reel good of you, Miss Sal,” said Mrs. Element, coming in with a show of reluctance, though of course she had intended to come in all the time and would have been surprised beyond measure if she had not been offered tea.
“I knew Joan was out,” continued Mrs. Element, taking off her felt hat and placing it on the draining board of the sink. “So I just thought I’d come up and see you. It’s about Bertie. Bertie Pike—you know. I’ve ’ad ’im all the war.”
“I know,” nodded Sal. “You’ve been most awfully good to him.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Element. “Yes, that’s right. Jim and me, not ’aving children of our own (through no fault of ours, Miss Sal, though there’s people who throw it in our faces), we took a fancy to the little chap. Just like our own ’e is.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, Miss Sal, ’is mother’s wrote to Jim saying as ’ow the bombs are over and she wants ’im back. That’s the position, Miss Sal,” added Mrs. Element, obviously pleased with the word.
“Oh, Mrs. Element!”
“That’s the position,” repeated Mrs. Element. “Bertie don’t want to go back and we don’t want ’im to go back. There it is.”
There it was. Mrs. Element was sitting back in the chair with her hands folded, waiting confidently for the verdict, quite certain it would be a favorable verdict, too. What was Sal to say? Solomon had ordered the child to be cut in half, thought Sal distractedly.
“I’m afraid,” began Sal. “I’m afraid his mother has a legal right—”
“Oh, Miss Sal!” cried Mrs. Element reproachfully. “Oh, Miss Sal, ’ow can you! We’ve ’ad
’im four years come October—and you know what ’e was like when we got ’im. Thin and miserable and ’alf starved—neglected, that’s what ’e was—nobody ’adn’t bothered their ’eads about the pore lamb, nobody ’adn’t even taught ’im to be good. What sort of a mother is that, Miss Sal?”
Sal was silent. She agreed with Mrs. Element wholeheartedly.
“You’d ’ardly believe it,” continued Mrs. Element. “You’d ’ardly believe it, but when Bertie came to us ’e didn’t even know about Jesus. ‘Oo’s Jesus?’ ’e said to me. You’d ’ardly believe it, but it’s true. You ask Jim. Seven years old, ’e was, and knew nothing more than a black ’eathen…and now,” continued Mrs. Element earnestly. “Look at ’im now, Miss Sal; as nice a little chap as anyone would want to see, a reel little gentleman and clever as paint. Doing well at school and winning prizes for arithmetic…Look at ’im now, Miss Sal!”
Sal knew it was all true—all and more—the Elements had made a splendid job of Bertie.
“I thought you might write to Mrs. Pike,” said Mrs. Element, after a short silence.
“She wouldn’t take any notice of what I said.”
“You could tell ’er the position,” declared Mrs. Element. “You could put it nicer than Jim and me. It was Jim’s ideer really. Ask Miss Sal, ’e said. You go up and ask Miss Sal, she’ll put it right. You will, won’t you, miss?”
“I’ll try,” said Sal reluctantly. “I’ll write to her if you want me to, but I’m afraid if his mother wants him, he’ll have to go back.”
“You write,” said Mrs. Element, smiling for the first time. “It’ll be all right if you tell ’er. Jim said so. Jim said, ‘It’ll be all right if Miss Sal writes ’er a letter. Remember that beautiful letter Miss Sal wrote when Mother died?’ A beautiful letter it was,” said Mrs. Element reminiscently. “Jim and me ’ad gone to Bristol for the funeral, and you wrote to us, Miss Sal. I ’adn’t never got on very well with Jim’s mother, but when I read that letter, I cried and cried—beautiful, it was.”
Sal was so full of conflicting emotions that she was speechless. She poured out a cup of tea for Mrs. Element and handed her the sugar bowl.
“Not for me, thank you,” said Mrs. Element. “It ain’t right to take people’s sugar. If you ’appen to ’ave a sack-reen ’andy I’ll ’ave one. Useful stuff, ain’t it? I don’t know ’ow I’d get on without sack-reen. I use it for rhubarb—sweetens it lovely—makes a nice tart, rhubarb does, if you can spare the fat.”
Sal agreed. She was glad to change the subject—cooking was always a nice safe subject and practically inexhaustible. She sat down and poured out a cup of tea for herself and they proceeded to exchange recipes. But Mrs. Element had not forgotten and as she was going away, with Sal’s pet recipe for a ginger sponge tucked into her handbag, she paused on the step and said, “Oh, it’s stopped raining, that’s nice. You’ll write and tell ’er the position, won’t you, Miss Sal?”
When Sal returned to the drawing room, Aunt Rona had vanished and Tilly was sitting alone on the sofa staring in front of her in a dejected sort of way.
“Where have you been!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were never coming back…I was rude to her, Sal.”
“You weren’t!” cried Sal incredulously.
“I was—really—about Joan. She’s such a pig about Joan, isn’t she? And I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I was definitely rude,” declared Tilly emphatically.
“How did she take it?” inquired Sal.
“That was the queer thing. She didn’t seem to notice. Do you think she’s very stupid?”
Sal sat down beside Tilly on the sofa so that they could talk in whispers. (Odd that one should have to talk in whispers in one’s own drawing room; odd, but necessary, for Aunt Rona had a way of appearing suddenly and silently when one least expected her.)
“Do you think she’s stupid?” repeated Tilly.
“No,” said Sal. “No, she’s rather clever in her own way. Stupid in some ways, perhaps…”
“You never know what she’s thinking,” complained Tilly.
It was true, of course, and to Sal’s mind this was the most unbearable trait in Aunt Rona’s personality. You never knew what she was thinking. Her eyes were opaque, and unchanging, they gave no clue to her thoughts; her tongue, instead of revealing her thoughts, obscured them still further. Her armor had no chinks—or none that Sal could find—and you could not offend her for she never took offense. She was always bright and pleasant and often smiling, but her smile was not a proper smile for it never reached her eyes.
“She’s made us all horrid,” said Tilly miserably.
“There’s frightfully dangerous poison in her,” said Sal.
They were silent for a few minutes, their heads close together, and Tilly began to feel comforted, for she and Sal were in tune again (it was wretched to be out of tune with Sal). Sal understood about it now, she understood that Tilly was sorry for being “difficult” and the blame had been laid upon Aunt Rona and her poisonous influence; so that was all right.
“Sal,” said Tilly in a threadlike whisper. “Have you noticed Aunt Rona talks as if she intended to stay here—always?”
“Yes,” said Sal.
“It couldn’t be—I mean do you think she has designs on—on Father?”
“Yes,” said Sal.
“You’ve noticed it!” exclaimed Tilly in dismay. “I was just hoping it was imagination!”
“No,” said Sal. “No, it isn’t imagination. That’s why I try to—to keep track of her. Father is terrified of her, I’m certain of it.”
“What are we to do?” cried Tilly. “What are we to do? If she has made up her mind to marry him, he hasn’t a chance!”
“I don’t know about that,” said Sal thoughtfully.
They were silent again.
“Perhaps William could do something about it,” said Tilly at last.
“William!”
“Yes, William is rather—deep. I don’t mean deep in a horrid way, of course, but he sees a good deal more than you would think.”
“I don’t believe William could help much.”
“I shall talk to him anyhow,” declared Tilly.
Chapter Twelve
Yesterday had been wet, but today it had cleared up and the sun was shining brightly. Sal walked down the garden with a bucket in each hand; she was going to feed the hens. The henhouse was at the end of the garden near the stream; it was the same stream that flowed between the cottages at Chevis Green and, later, joined the Wandle and flowed through the square at Wandlebury. Here, in the Vicarage garden, the stream was in its infancy, smiling and chuckling like a happy baby. Watercress grew in the shallows in the curve of the bank, and willows flourished beside it. Quite near, and casting a shade on the water, was a weeping elm and, back from the henhouse, there was a wild piece of ground, gay with rose-red willow herb that Jos Barefoot treasured for his bees. Jos loved his bees. He was like a bee himself; small and brown and wizened. His eyes were brown like chestnuts and his voice was high-pitched. Bees crawled over his arms but never stung him. “They knows old Jos,” he would say. He was too old to do much work, but he pottered around and kept the garden from becoming a wilderness.
Sal called the ducks and fed them; the hens came scurrying after her; she had one hen sitting on a clutch of eggs and another with a brood of young chickens. Usually this work made her happy but today it had no power to cheer or soothe her. She was so worried and miserable. It had been hard for Sal to grow up, she had gone through a difficult time, she had felt discontented and unhappy…then that phase had passed or been overcome and for a long time she had felt serene and at peace with the world, wanting nothing more of life than her father, her sisters, her books, people to help, and enough to do. Now the old turmoil had returned and she felt that life was rushing on and she was standing still. It was a horrible feelin
g. Liz and Tilly were so different, thought Sal. They had few problems. Tilly was still a child for all her twenty-three years. She was shy and retiring; she did not lay herself open to the hurts of life, she sought no adventures. Tilly lived in her “little wooden hut,” content and happy. Liz took life as it came, enjoying it, living in the present. Sometimes she got hurt, of course, but she did not learn to be careful. She gathered herself up and rushed on. Gay, golden, brilliant Liz! She was a year older than Sal, but Sal had always felt herself to be the elder. Liz would never grow up; nothing would teach her to be cautious. It was natural that men should fall in love with Liz, she was so friendly and unselfconscious, so vital. Sal paused in her work and thought of Eric Coleridge. He had come to Chevis Green as Mr. Grace’s curate, a delicate creature with a thin, eager face and soft, brown eyes, which followed Liz like the eyes of a faithful spaniel. He had loved Liz to distraction—there was no doubt of that—he had loved Liz and won her heart and then he had gone away to succor the heathen. He had received a call, and because he did not want to answer the call, he had answered it. Eric was that sort of man, conscience-ridden, ultrasensitive, fanatical. Sal had been very angry with Eric, for it seemed to her that Eric had a duty to Liz, and surely Liz was just as important as the heathen? But she was glad afterward when she thought about the matter in cold blood, for a fanatic does not make a comfortable husband. Liz had been badly hurt, but she had faced it bravely, so bravely that nobody had known—not even Father, thought Sal—and after a little while, there was no need to be brave. Liz was whole again, breasting the world with her usual zest and confidence…And now there was Roderick. (Well, of course. Who could help falling in love with Liz?) And Roderick was a real man, a proper man, the sort of man who would know exactly what he wanted and go all out to get it…and Liz was more than half in love with him already.
So I ought to be glad, thought Sal. She was trying very hard to be glad when Jos Barefoot came around the side of the henhouse with a large rake in his hand.
The Four Graces Page 8