“Them chickens is growing well,” said Jos in his thin high voice. “They be pecking already. You give ’em a ’andful of grit, Miss Sal. Chickens be like ’umans; they needs grit.”
That’s what I need, thought Sal, looking at him. She was very fond of Jos and she respected him. Like Tilly he was content and happy in his little hut.
“Were you at the wedding, Jos?” she asked.
“I don’t ’old with weddings,” declared Jos, sitting down upon an upturned barrow and beginning to fill his pipe. “Too much fuss, to my mind. Weddings is nothing to make a fuss about. Weddings is lotteries, that’s what.”
“You never took a ticket, Jos.”
“Not me,” said Jos. “I never ’ad a woman—never wanted one. Weddings is lotteries; they may be all right an’ they may be all wrong. You’m not thinkin’ of gettin’ married, Miss Sal?”
“No,” said Sal, smiling.
“That’s right. You be better as you are. Passon couldn’t do without you neither. You be better as you are.”
“It’s a good thing everybody doesn’t think so.”
Jos shook his head. “Ar,” he said gravely. “There’s Toop. Toop would ’ave been better without that woman. You can’t deny it, Miss Sal.”
Sal could not, so she was silent.
“It ’appened when Toop was in Lunnon,” said Jos, striking a match and lighting his pipe. “’E met Maria at a party—fish an’ chips it was—an’ Maria looked reel smart in a blue dress an’ ’er ’air done up to kill. Toop was took with ’er but ’e wouldn’t never ’ave ’ad ’er if ’e ’adn’t ’appened to see it wrote up on the Albert ’All.”
“Wrote up on the Albert Hall!” exclaimed Sal, repeating the statement word for word in her amazement.
“’Ave Maria,” nodded Jos. “That’s what it said—’Ave Maria. It give Toop quite a turn…wrote up on the Albert ’All in letters a foot ’igh…so ’e ’ad ’er.”
Sal knew the Toops well, of course, and she had often wondered what had induced the cheerful, friendly little man to marry Maria. Now she had been told the reason and she saw no reason to disbelieve it. The story was too circumstantial; neither Toop nor Jos could have made it up.
Jos was now talking about his bees. He always came back to his bees if you listened to him long enough and Sal was glad to listen. Already she felt a good deal better about things. Jos was so friendly and good, and (in spite of his eighty-odd years) so innocent. The world could not be such a bad place, after all, when it contained people like Jos. She was still standing there, enthralled, when she heard her father calling her. Jos heard him too, for his hearing was extraordinarily keen.
“There’s Passon,” said Jos, motioning with his thumb. “Sounds to me as if something’s up, Miss Sal.”
“Yes,” said Sal, her eyes widening with anxiety. “Yes, I’d better fly—”
“I’ll finish ’ere,” said Jos, nodding.
Mr. Grace was coming to meet Sal; they met halfway down the garden. He took her arm and led her to a seat.
“What is it?” asked Sal. “Aunt Rona—”
“No, no, it isn’t anything serious.”
“Nothing serious?”
“Just a little—er—misunderstanding with Miss Bodkin,” said Mr. Grace.
“Miss Bodkin! Oh, dear!” said Sal. “What has Miss Bodkin been doing now?”
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Grace. “She seems a little put out, that’s all. I think perhaps you might be able to—er—clear up the matter.”
Sal looked at her father. He had a slightly guilty air, the air of a small boy who has been discovered stealing the jam. “What have you been doing to Miss Bodkin?” Sal inquired sternly.
“Er,” said Mr. Grace. “The fact is Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe brought some flowers to church on Sunday morning and put them into the altar vases.”
“Oh, Father, how awful! Miss Bodkin always does the flowers on the first Sunday in the month.”
“I know,” agreed Mr. Grace. “Miss Bodkin had them. They were all white—rather uninteresting—and then Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe arrived with some lovely pale blue delphiniums.”
“Oh, Father! You don’t mean to say she put them in!”
“Er—yes. As a matter of fact—”
“You let her!”
“I helped her,” said Mr. Grace in defiant tones. “I held them for her and handed them to her, and she put them in. It was a great improvement.”
“How could you!” cried Sal in horror-stricken tones.
“Really, Sal—”
“It’s serious,” declared Sal. “It’s very, very serious. I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“Serious?” said Mr. Grace. “The whole thing is absolutely childish. Miss Bodkin ought to know better.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t,” said Sal.
“You can go and see her,” said Mr. Grace, who was feeling more cheerful now that he had confessed his sin. “You’ll be able to make it all right. You could take her a few flowers, perhaps.” (He stopped. Sal was looking at him.) “Oh, well, perhaps not—flowers,” said Mr. Grace doubtfully. “Perhaps—er—eggs. We want to make things right. It would be a pity if Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe were to fall foul of Miss Bodkin.”
It had happened already, thought Sal—and yes, it was a thousand pities. Miss Bodkin, though extremely trying and touchy, was kindhearted au fond and wielded a good deal of influence in Chevis Green. She was a prominent member of the Women’s Institute; she was an authority upon knitting and jam and invalid food. The village laughed at Miss Bodkin behind her back, of course, but it was kindly laughter for she was well liked and always ready to help when there was trouble in the house.
“I’ll go now,” said Sal, rising. “I’ll go to the village first and see what I can do. It’s most unfortunate. I did want Archie’s wife to start off well. She could do such a lot for the village if she liked people—and people liked her.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Grace thoughtfully. “Yes, Sal. You’re right and I’m wrong. It isn’t a small thing. I am extremely sorry about it.”
***
The village of Chevis Green had been altered and remodeled by an ancestor of old Lady Chevis. The cottages, separated from each other by little gardens, were disposed upon two sides of a large triangular patch of bright green grass; the few shops, the garage, and the inn were built along the third side. There were trees on the green, mostly large beeches, which threw a pleasant shade. At one end of the green was the War Memorial and beside it a comfortable wooden seat that had been gifted to the village by Archie Chevis-Cobbe on his accession to the property. There had been a large German gun beside the seat, but it had been removed for salvage during the Chevis Green salvage drive.
Mrs. Element, emerging from her cottage to pick some mint, happened to glance in the direction of the War Memorial and saw two figures sitting upon the seat in earnest conclave. She called to Mrs. Bouse, who lived next door, and Mrs. Bouse popped out.
“Miss Sal talking to Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe,” said Mrs. Element, pointing.
“Lor’!” exclaimed Mrs. Bouse. “Fancy that, now! They don’t ’alf look friendly—fancy Miss Sal takin’ up with ’er. Interferin’, Emma Bodkin says.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Element doubtfully. “Yes, Emma Bodkin seems to ’ave got ’er knife into ’er for some reason.”
“Emma Bodkin says she’s goin’ to turn the village upside down.”
Mrs. Element seemed wonderfully calm in the face of this frightful prospect. Her eyes strayed to the two ladies on the seat and at this moment the two ladies laughed very heartily indeed—even at this distance one could hear them laughing. “Miss Sal won’t let ’er,” said Mrs. Element firmly.
There was a short silence and then Mrs. Bouse said, “I’ll send Clarer along to Mary Feather.”
“Tell ’er to look in at the Alemans
on the way,” suggested Mrs. Element.
Clara did her errand thoroughly, and ten minutes later, the whole population of Chevis Green—or at least the female half of it—was peeping out of its windows at the two ladies and discussing the implications of their meeting.
Sal had run Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe to earth at the garage and had led her gently but firmly to the seat. She had found it quite easy to explain the position to Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe; that lady had “caught on” at once and expressed her contrition in suitable terms.
“Well, there it is,” said Sal. “Awfully silly, of course, but people are like that—especially Miss Bodkin—you’ve got to walk like Agag in a village like Chevis Green.”
“I’m terribly sorry about it,” repeated Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “I never thought—but of course that’s no excuse—I should have thought…only, you see, I’ve never lived in a village before. Tell me about Miss Bodkin.”
“Her father used to be the vet. He sent Emma to school in Wandlebury when she was young, which wasn’t yesterday, and Emma came back with big ideas. There isn’t anybody in Chevis Green with whom she has much in common—that’s the trouble.”
“She’s a cut above the village women, you mean?”
“Yes. She wants to be friends with them, but friends on her own terms—slightly patronizing terms. She’s always willing to help them when they’re in any sort of trouble but she won’t accept help in return.”
“Not a true daughter of the horse leech?”
“No,” said Sal, smiling.
“I wonder why they were singled out as being so frightfully rapacious,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe thoughtfully. “It seems a little unfair. Thousands of years pass and the daughters of the horse leech are still a byword.”
“It’s most unfair in this instance, at any rate,” declared Sal. “Miss Bodkin is a nuisance, admittedly, but she’s frightfully generous and kind. As a matter of fact, I’m sorry for Miss Bodkin; she’s lonely, you see, and lonely people are apt to be prickly.”
“I feel an absolute beast,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “Do tell me, what can I do about it?”
“It won’t be easy,” Sal warned her.
“No,” agreed Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “No, I daresay it won’t. What can you suggest?”
“Well,” said Sal. “Well, I’m afraid there’s only one thing for it; I’m dreadfully afraid you’ll have to go and see Miss Bodkin and ask her to tea.”
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe began to chuckle and then she threw back her head and laughed heartily, so heartily that Sal was forced to join in.
“But, honestly, it will be rather awful for you,” declared Sal. “Miss Bodkin is—well, Father calls her an estimable woman…”
“Don’t,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, mopping her eyes.
“She’s very kind, of course,” continued Sal. “I don’t know what the village would do without her, really, but she isn’t—awfully—interesting.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe in a trembling voice. “Just tell me what to say. Do I apologize about the delphiniums?”
“Heavens, no!” cried Sal in alarm. “You don’t mention delphiniums.”
“I see,” nodded Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “I just ask her to tea and show her around the garden—or no, perhaps that would be a mistake. The garden is full of delphiniums.”
It was Sal’s turn to lead the laughter this time.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, blowing her nose. “Tell me, will Miss Bodkin be very—er—”
“I don’t think so,” replied Sal. “She may be a tiny bit sticky at first, but she’ll simply love being asked to tea at Chevis Place.”
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe rose. She said, “I know how busy you are so I won’t keep you. Thank you very much. I do hope you’ll go on looking after me. It looks as if I shall need a good deal of looking after.”
“Don’t go,” said Sal. “I mean unless you have to, of course.”
“Don’t go?”
“No,” said Sal, patting the seat with her hand. “Sit down for another—well, say for another ten minutes.”
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe sat down. “Why?” she asked.
“Because they’re all looking at us,” said Sal. “I didn’t tell you before, because it’s rather a horrid feeling. Do you hate it?”
“No, not really,” replied Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “But why—oh, yes, I see! It’s very nice of you, Miss Grace.”
They were silent for a few moments. Sal felt the eyes of the village boring into her (but I must bear it, she thought). She could not see the audience, but she knew it was there.
“It really is very kind of you,” reiterated Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.
“Not particularly,” said Sal, smiling. “Not entirely altruistic, I’m afraid. You see we want you to help us. There are all sorts of things you could do; for instance, the Women’s Institute.”
“Of course. Perhaps they would like a talk,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe with alacrity.
Sal was pleased, but also surprised. Most people had to be pressed to talk to the Women’s Institute, persuaded and encouraged, assured that the audience would be small, uncritical, and appreciative of the simplest peroration; here was somebody actually offering to talk as if talking was the most natural thing in the world.
“A talk! Oh, yes,” said Sal.
“About books, I suppose?”
“Ye-es, but not too literary. They would like a talk about the sort of books they read themselves.”
“What do they read?”
“Light novels, mostly. Janetta Walters’s books—that sort of thing.”
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe was silent.
“I know Janetta Walters isn’t exactly literature,” continued Sal, smiling. “But Chevis Green loves her books, and to tell you the truth I rather enjoy them myself. You must admit there’s something rather nice about them.”
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe admitted nothing.
“Perhaps you don’t read them,” ventured Sal.
“I used to,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.
Sal glanced at her companion and saw that she was staring at the War Memorial in a very odd way; staring through it, really.
“Archie likes them,” said Sal. “He’s got a whole set of them.”
“I know,” replied Archie’s wife.
It was distinctly intriguing, but it was not Sal’s way to probe into affairs that did not concern her, so she decided to change the subject.
“About the fete—” she began.
“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, looking very much relieved. “I wanted to talk to you about that, but Miss Bodkin put it out of my head. I’m running the flower stall, and I wondered if you could possibly take it over for about an hour in the afternoon to give me a chance of having tea. I don’t really mind about tea, but Archie seems to think I shall die if I don’t have some refreshment.”
Sal agreed at once. “Of course,” she said. “Archie’s quite right. When shall I come?”
They made the necessary arrangements and rose to go. The ten minutes had extended itself to nearly twenty.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe, hesitating before saying good-bye. “Would it be a good thing to ask Miss Bodkin to help me at the flower stall—or not?”
Sal looked thoughtful. “Rather—daring,” she said, “but—yes—I think you might. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe Miss Bodkin could resist it.”
“I shall put my fate to the test,” declared Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.
Sal watched her walk across the green toward Miss Bodkin’s cottage. She’s going to get it over at once, thought Sal. It’s what I should do myself…
Chapter Thirteen
After Sal had departed to clear up the Bodkin imbroglio, Mr. Grace remained sitting upon the seat. It was an iron seat, not nearly such a comfortable seat as the one near the War Memorial on Chevi
s Green, but Mr. Grace did not notice the outward discomfort, his inward discomfort was so acute. He had said to Sal that the matter was childish—and so it was—but the fact did not absolve him from blame. He had caused offense to a woman; a lonely woman, defenseless, one of his own flock. Thinking of Miss Bodkin as a sheep made his behavior seem a good deal worse, made it seem unreasonable. He had said Miss Bodkin ought to know better, but does a sheep know better? Does any sane person expect a sheep to know better? Isn’t it the very essence of sheephood to be foolish, easily led, to rush madly from one end of the field to the other for no reasonable cause? And poor Miss Bodkin had reasonable cause, thought Mr. Grace, pondering the matter gravely. Here was a woman who had done her best to beautify the altar of her church, had picked flowers from her garden and brought them to God’s House…and he had allowed, nay, he had helped to “improve” her handiwork. It was natural that she should be hurt by the implication that her work was not good enough. Mr. Grace beat his breast—figuratively speaking, of course—thoughtless in the extreme, inconsiderate, lacking in understanding, deficient in charity. Sal had been right to take a grave view of the matter; he had been lamentably wrong to treat it as of no account.
Mr. Grace was so busy reproaching himself that he did not perceive the approach of his sister-in-law. It was not until Rona was within a few yards of him that his danger became apparent, and by that time, it was too late to escape.
“Ah, George!” exclaimed Rona in her usual penetrating voice. “I saw you from the window and I thought you looked a little depressed.”
Mr. Grace said nothing. He had no intention of taking Rona into his confidence, neither did he intend to lie.
“And it is such a beautiful day,” continued Rona, sitting down beside him. “The sunshine, the flowers, the birds singing in the trees…all sent for our benefit, George, to cheer us and to uplift our spirits.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Grace shortly. It was, to a large extent, his own attitude to Nature, but oddly enough the sentiments coming from Rona’s lips annoyed him profoundly. If only she would go away, thought Mr. Grace, with (it is to be feared) a deplorable lack of Christian charity and hospitality.
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