“I’ll take them all,” declared Sal recklessly.
Mrs. Element had kept a pound of butter, two rabbits and a fowl, a jar of honey and a cake. I suppose this is Black Market, thought Sal, as she paid for them, but the proceeds were to go to the Red Cross, which made it seem better. Sal had brought a basket of eggs to sell, so she handed these over and stood aside to watch the fun. She had a letter she had brought to show Mrs. Element; a letter from Bertie’s mother saying that Bertie was to go home at the end of the month, but she decided that this was neither the time nor the place to produce the letter…let them enjoy today, thought Sal. They were enjoying themselves immensely, that was obvious. Mrs. Element was thoroughly happy, she was feeling important, she was glorying in the bustle and rush, and Bertie was happy too, helping to count out change and doing it a great deal quicker and more competently than his elders. Sal saw the look of pride and affection upon Mrs. Element’s face as she glanced at Bertie, and she saw Bertie return the look with a cheerful, mischievous grin. It mustn’t happen, thought Sal. It shan’t happen if I can prevent it…perhaps if I went and saw Mrs. Pike I might manage to persuade her to leave Bertie here. The letter was in Sal’s pocket and it seemed to weigh her down; it was a heartless letter, completely lacking in human feeling, completely selfish. Mrs. Pike did not want Bertie for his own sake, she just wanted a boy, somebody who would be “useful.” Sal remembered the very words. “There are all sorts of jobs he could do out of school hours, and he is mine so why should that Mrs. Element have him now he is an age to be useful.” I’ll go, thought Sal. I’ll ask Father if I can go to London and see her. I could stay the night at Addie’s flat.
Sal left her purchases with Mrs. Element and wandered on. She had lost the others, of course, but she would find them later; meantime it was very pleasant to be alone in the crowd. The sun was golden and it was getting warmer every moment; it would be grilling soon, but Sal liked heat, and she was comfortably aware that her smooth, white skin would remain smooth and white under the most trying conditions. I suppose it would be like this in Malaya, thought Sal, suddenly…and that made her think of Roddy. Of course she had been thinking of Roddy “at the back of her mind” all the time, but now she allowed her thoughts to dwell on him. He was in London now; perhaps he was doing a little shopping before presenting himself at the barracks where he had been posted for the course. He would shop well, Sal thought, for he knew exactly what he wanted, he would be polite and firm and quick. Sal wished she could see him walking smartly along Piccadilly in the brilliant sunshine—yes, it was lovely to think of Roddy, but unfortunately when she thought of Roddy she could not help thinking of Liz, and thinking of Liz made her feel wretched. Mr. Grace had decided that nobody was to be told of the engagement for at least a month. Roderick was going away, and a month would give everyone time to settle down. Sal would have time to think it over (it was the greatest mistake to rush into matrimony without a period of reflection), and if, at the end of a month, Sal and Roderick were still of the same mind, Liz could be told and the engagement made public. Thus said Mr. Grace, and Roderick had agreed, though somewhat reluctantly. Sal had been forced to fall in with the plan, though all her instincts were against it. She wanted Liz to be told at once. She and Liz had always told each other everything; it would be impossible to hide this enormous secret from Liz for a whole month. Besides, Liz had a right to know, and to know immediately. Surely it was better to know, than to go on thinking about Roddy and wondering why he did not write, wondering why he had gone without saying good-bye to her.
Sal was pushing her way through the crowd when suddenly she came face-to-face with Joan, and of course Joan was wearing the blue frock.
“It’s lovely,” said Joan, smiling. “It fits me a treat. Makes you ’appy to feel you look nice, don’t it?”
“You look very nice indeed,” said Sal with perfect truth.
By this time it was getting on for four o’clock so Sal made her way to the Flower Stall. Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe had chosen her site with care and the tables had been placed beneath the leafy branches of a fine old chestnut tree. The flowers were magnificent and were beautifully arranged. They were in pails, the smaller flowers in front and the larger, such as lupins, delphiniums and hollyhocks, behind. The effect was that of a high semicircular bank of gorgeous coloring.
Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe was busy selling. She had chosen to wear a perfectly plain frock of black charmeuse that molded her pretty figure and showed it to advantage. Black was absolutely right against that gorgeous mass of color—she looked marvelous, thought Sal, and Archie (who was standing near) obviously thought the same. Miss Bodkin was helping to sell; her choice of garments was less felicitous. Her bright-pink silk frock was scarcely more vivid than her face, and, like her face, was shiny. The pink hat (which she had bought in Wandlebury) was just the wrong shade; it was high in the crown and narrow in the brim, and her carroty hair straggled from beneath it. She was wearing pink stockings and pale tan shoes with straps across the instep. To complete the mess Miss Bodkin had donned a small apron of yellow muslin with little black spots; rather a pretty apron taken upon its own merits, but an unsuitable adjunct to her costume. However, it did not matter, for Miss Bodkin was completely happy and completely oblivious of her extraordinary appearance.
“Delphiniums?” said Miss Bodkin to an inquiring customer. “Yes, certainly, two and sixpence a bunch. They’re from Chevis Place garden, of course. Lovely, aren’t they? I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beauties before…and so fresh. Two bunches? Oh, thank you; that will be five shillings, won’t it?”
“I say, Sal,” said Archie, seizing Sal’s arm. “I say, you’re going to take over and let Jane have some tea, aren’t you? Thank heaven for that. She’s simply wearing herself out with those damn flowers. What do you think of my Jane? Isn’t she absolutely marvelous?”
“Marvelous,” agreed Sal, looking up at him with her frank blue eyes.
Archie squeezed her arm. “And she’s tremendously taken with you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I did hope—I mean I do want her to have friends here, and I was sure you two would get on like a house on fire. You both like books and all that sort of thing. So do go on with it, won’t you? Come up to Chevis Place whenever you can—as often as you possibly can. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will,” said Sal, nodding.
“Grand!” said Archie. “And now for goodness’ sake, get hold of Jane and make her come and have tea. I’ve got to go and judge competitions at five, so unless she comes now—”
“Are you going to judge the ankle competition?” Sal inquired with a slightly mischievous look.
“Are you going in for it?” inquired Archie, closing one eye.
They both laughed.
At this moment Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe saw Sal and beckoned to her. “So good of you!” exclaimed Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe. “Archie is getting restive so I had better go. Look, this is the list of prices.”
Sal took it and examined it. She said in a low voice, “Congratulations on Miss Bodkin.”
“It was too easy,” replied Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe out of the side of her mouth. “We’re bosom friends now. I want to ask you more about her later.” Aloud she said, “If you get muddled about the prices just ask Miss Bodkin. She’ll keep you right.”
“Just ask me,” said Miss Bodkin, bustling forward. “You’ll soon get into the way of it. This is the cash box, here, on the table. We’ve made over twenty pounds already.”
Chapter Nineteen
Liz was helping at the tea tent. She was extremely busy but she did not mind, for being busy helped to take her mind off her troubles. She had spent all night thinking of Roderick and trying to remember all he had said, and she had been forced to admit to herself (for she was extremely honest with herself) that Roderick had never said anything the whole world might not have heard. He had been friendly, that was all, and, if it had not
been for Aunt Rona, Liz would have accepted him as a friend and nothing more. Aunt Rona had not said much, but she had looked a great deal, and she had so managed things that Liz and Roderick were constantly being paired off, constantly finding themselves in each other’s company. She had managed it with consummate tact and guile, just as she managed everything and everybody at the Vicarage. (What a fool I have been! exclaimed Liz, tossing and turning on her bed.)
It was all the more galling because Liz had known from the very beginning that Aunt Rona was a dangerous person and not to be trusted; so why—why on earth—had she allowed Aunt Rona to meddle in her affairs? Why had she allowed the hints and innuendos to affect her feelings? She had accepted the “managing” and gone off with Roderick and all the time Roderick was longing to be with Sal—hating me, thought Liz. But, no, that was not fair. Roderick didn’t hate her. In fact, Liz was pretty certain Roderick liked her quite a lot. He didn’t hate her—but he didn’t love her. He loved Sal. Well, that wasn’t surprising. Sal was a darling. Sal was a far finer person than herself.
Now that William had opened her eyes, the whole thing was perfectly plain to Liz, and the more she thought about it the plainer it became; Liz couldn’t imagine for the life of her why she hadn’t seen it for herself. “Blind!” said Liz aloud. “Stone-blind.” And she raised herself and turned her pillow for the fifth time. Why hadn’t she seen? Was it because she was used to receiving attention, because she was used to being admired? (Rather a nasty thought, that.) But let’s be fair, thought Liz. I’m used to being in the limelight because Sal and Tilly prefer the shadow. They don’t like talking to strangers and I do. Somebody has to talk and entertain people who come to the house. This reflection—which was perfectly justified—comforted her a little, but it did not comfort her for long. She felt angry and sore, and very humble. Everybody knew. William knew, of course, and how thankful she was that William had told her. It really was very considerate of him, but William was considerate to a surprising degree; surprising that such a big, clumsy creature should have so much delicacy of feeling. She remembered their conversation in detail, his remarks about Aunt Rona, for instance: “An unpleasant character,” William had said. “Why don’t you tell her to go away?” Well, why don’t I? thought Liz. She must go before she does any more mischief in the Grace family. Having settled the fate of Aunt Rona, in her own mind, Liz began to think of Roderick again. She had been angry with Roderick at first, but, now that she was getting things clear, her anger had evaporated. It wasn’t Roderick’s fault. She must dismiss from her heart all angry feelings about Roderick…she must dismiss from her heart all feelings for Roderick. Well, that wasn’t going to be easy…
So the night had passed and here was Liz in the tea tent, much too busy to do any more serious thinking, but not too busy to be conscious of an aching heart.
“Miss Grace, your table is asking for milk,” said Mrs. Bouse, ambling past with a plate of buns in each hand.
“Oh, sorry!” exclaimed Liz, and she seized a milk jug and flew for her life…for your heart might be broken into fragments, but a table that asked for milk must not be denied. But how ridiculous—a table—asking for milk! It was the sort of silly joke the Graces adored (or had adored before the advent of Aunt Rona) and Liz actually found herself giggling as she thought of the manner in which she would present the joke to Sal and Tilly. “Can I have some milk, please?” she would say in a creaking voice, the sort of voice you would expect from a table…and then she thought, but my heart isn’t broken, not really; I’m not absolutely shattered as I was when Eric went away. I’m upset, of course, and I feel horribly degraded, but—
“Could we ’ave some more sandwiches, miss?”
“Yes, of course,” said Liz.
“May I have a second cup of tea?”
“Will you bring some more hot water?”
“Are there any chocolate biscuits?”
“Could we have a table for three?”
“Yes,” said Liz. “Yes, certainly. Yes, of course. No, I’m afraid not. No, not at the moment, but this table will be free soon.”
***
Mr. Grace was superintending the children’s races. It was extremely hot in the field near the river and there was no shade, so he was very glad that he had flouted his daughters’ wishes and put on his panama hat. It was an old hat, yellowed and shapeless, but that did not worry Mr. Grace.
“The girls would like me to get sunstroke, of course,” said Mr. Grace, explaining the matter to Toop, who was helping him to marshal the children at the starting line. And Toop, instead of being horrified at this frightful injustice to Mr. Grace’s devoted daughters, nodded quite cheerfully and said, “That’s right, sir. Women be all for show.”
“It’s a perfectly good hat,” continued Mr. Grace, tugging it down over his ears so that it looked like a very shabby halo around his kindly, rubicund face.
“So it be, so it be,” agreed Toop, who was so attached to his vicar that he would have agreed with equal alacrity that black was white.
By this time Mr. Grace had explained his plan of campaign to his helpers, who consisted of William, Jos Barefoot, and Toop. William and Jos were dispatched to the winning post, Toop was to fire the gun. So far so good, the difficulty was to get the children into line, and to keep them standing behind the white line until the moment came to start. They hopped about with excitement; they shrieked with joy and dug each other in the ribs; some of them stood on their hands, kicking their legs in the air, and seemed oblivious to the fact that this was an unorthodox manner of starting the hundred yards. Fond mothers broke through the ropes and rushed at their offspring to tie up shoelaces or hair ribbons or make other small adjustments of dress, and were chivvied away by Toop waving the starting gun in a threatening manner. Mr. Grace was aware that it was essential to obtain a “good start” not so much for the sake of the children as the parents. The parents were watching with the closest attention to see that justice was done and it might cause quite a lot of trouble in the village if any of them had cause to complain. They would complain, of course, whatever happened, but Mr. Grace was determined they should have no just cause, so he went up and down the line putting the children in place, explaining exactly what they were to do and exhorting patience.
“One, two, three,” said Mr. Grace loudly. Toop fired and away they went…it was a charming sight. The boys were in gray or blue flannel shorts and white shirts; the girls in gaily colored frocks. Away they went, their hair flying in the breeze of their passage, fat legs and thin legs, long legs and short legs, all twinkling and scurrying and galloping down the meadow. Mr. Grace watched them, smiling. It was indeed a charming sight.
“George,” said a voice behind him.
Mr. Grace’s smile faded. He turned reluctantly.
(“Dashed, that’s what ’e was,” said Toop, retailing the incident later to his great crony, Jos Barefoot. “You could see all the ’appiness leakin’ out of ’im like a sieve. Why does ’e bear it, that’s what I want to know?” “’E be a mild-mannered man,” replied Jos, removing his pipe and spitting into a flowerpot with uncanny accuracy. “Why does ’e bear it?” repeated Toop thoughtfully. “You got to bear things from a wife—badgering an’ what not—but she ain’t ’is wife, nor won’t be neither.” “I b’ain’t so sure,” said Jos in his squeaky voice. “She be after Passon, she be. ’E don’t get no peace, not in ’is own garding nor nowhere. She be after ’im all day. ‘Jawge,’ she bellers. ‘Jawge, where are you? Where are you, Jawge!’” [Toop smiled—he could not help it; Jos Barefoot’s rendering of Rona’s “Oxford accent” was extremely funny.] “Ar’ she be a proper ow’d vixen,” added Jos, shaking his head.)
“George,” said Rona. “George, haven’t you finished here? I’ve been waiting at least twenty minutes. I should like to meet Mrs. Chevis-Cobbe.”
“She’s over at the Flower Stall.”
“I know. I saw
her there. I think it would be the right thing for you to introduce us.”
“Get Liz,” said Mr. Grace. “I must find out from William who won.”
William was walking toward him, smiling and holding a child firmly by each hand. “Timothy Feather first, Lizzie Aleman second,” said William, showing them off with pride.
Timothy was scowling with bashfulness in the sudden limelight, but Lizzie was all smiles. She was a young sister of Joan’s—there were dozens of little Alemans—and as she spent a good deal of her spare time at the Vicarage she was in no awe of its master.
“I was second!” cried Lizzie, running up to Mr. Grace and taking his hand. “I come in just after Tim. The gentleman saw I did.”
“She’d ’ave won,” declared Mr. Aleman, who had been watching his daughter’s progress with the keenest interest, and now approached to do battle upon her behalf. “She’d ’ave won outright if that young varmint ’adn’t rode ’er off. Rode ’er off, that’s what ’e did,” said Mr. Aleman bitterly.
“No, ’e didn’t, then,” cried Mrs. Feather, bustling up behind him. “It was ’er pushed ’im—right at the start—put out ’er ’and an’ shoved. I saw it with my own eyes, there now.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Grace gravely. “I was watching very closely and the race seemed perfectly fair.”
“’E rode ’er off,” repeated Mr. Aleman.
“She shoved ’im—didn’t she, Tim?” said Mrs. Feather.
Tim scowled horribly. He stood first on one leg and then on the other. “Nobody didn’t shove me an’ I didn’t shove nobody,” said Tim gruffly.
“Splendid,” exclaimed Mr. Grace. “Nobody—er—shoved—er—anybody. It was a grand race, a magnificent race…and perfectly fair. You agree, don’t you, William?”
The Four Graces Page 14