Mrs Charles Moray was perfectly right. From his first sight of the blue and scarlet engine Maurice simply never looked back. He could be heard murmuring the names of favourite engines in his sleep. With a maddening persistence he imparted technical details during the family meals, a circumstance particularly obnoxious to Mr Craddock, who considered himself to be the fount of knowledge and had no desire to receive instruction from a child of seven. A frown descended upon the Jovian brow, a ponderous displeasure filled the room. When Mrs Craddock’s faint attempts to change the subject were disregarded her hands shook nervously. On one particularly trying occasion she dropped the teapot, scalding her wrist and flooding the table, but during the ensuing disorder Maurice could still be heard reciting the stations between London and Bristol, with Benjy chirping behind him and getting half of them wrong.
All this was trying, but both little boys now submitted to having their nails cut, and to washing their hands before meals, a practice previously considered to be sissy. Miss Silver found this expression intriguing, as it could not by any possibility have derived from Mr Craddock. A conversation with Mrs Craddock enlightened her. It appeared that they had been less than two years at Deep End. Mr Craddock had been there a little longer, getting the place ready for them and for the Colony.
‘You see, we used to live at such a pretty little place called Wyshmere—at least I and the children did. My husband travelled a lot. He was an artist. There were several artists in Wyshmere, and when he was killed in an air crash we just stayed on. Of course the children had to go to the village school. I was not nearly clever enough to teach them myself, and there wasn’t any money until my old cousin Francis Crole left me quite a lot. It was so very kind of him, because I only saw him twice. He came down after my husband died and paid for everything. And he came again a year later and said I hadn’t got any sense and the children were running wild, and I’d better marry someone who would look after them and me. He was killed in an accident about a month later, and he had made a new will and left me a lot of money. So I married Mr Craddock.’
Miss Silver was remembering Jennifer’s ‘He wouldn’t like her to die—because of the money.’ She found herself hoping that Cousin Francis had tied it up securely. Aloud she said,
‘Then Mr Craddock is the children’s step-father?’
A faint flush came into Emily Craddock’s face.
‘Oh, yes. It is a marvellous thing for them having a man like him. He came down to Wyshmere for a holiday after Cousin Francis died. Everybody thought him wonderful. The Miss Tremletts lived there too, you know. They quite worshipped him, and so did Jennifer.’ She paused, drew a long sighing breath, and added the one word, ‘Then.’
‘Children take these fancies.’
Emily Craddock sighed again.
‘Yes, they do, don’t they? But he was so good to them. He took such an interest. He gave Jennifer lessons in saying poetry. He said she really had talent—but I don’t think I want her to go on the stage.’ She drew another of those deep tired breaths. ‘Oh well, you never know how things will turn out, do you?’
They were sitting in the large shabby ground-floor room which served as schoolroom and playroom for the children, Mrs Craddock at her everlasting task of mending, Miss Silver winding pale blue wool for a baby’s coatee. Her niece by marriage, Dorothy, the wife of Ethel Burkett’s brother, was expecting her third child. Since there had been a dozen childless years before the first was born, everyone in the family was very much interested. A boy was hoped for, hence the pale blue wool.
Miss Silver looked compassionately at the small figure bent over a much patched pair of shorts and said,
‘Sometimes they turn out better than we expect. Your boys are strong and healthy, and Jennifer is very intelligent.’
‘She is like her father. He had the artistic temperament. She has it too.’ She spoke rather as if it was a malady of some sort.
Miss Silver wound her wool in silence for a little. Then she said,
‘Have you not thought that it would be better for her to be at school?’
Mrs Craddock looked up in a startled manner.
‘Oh—yes—I did—’
‘It would be good for her to have the companionship of girls of her own age. She is too sensitive, too intense. She needs to be taken out of herself.’
Emily Craddock shook her head.
‘Mr Craddock wouldn’t let her go. He doesn’t approve of boarding schools, and they are very expensive. You see, we had to buy this place. And then there have been the alterations. It cost quite a lot to convert the stables for the Miss Tremletts. And the lodge, and the two new cottages. It was a wonderful thing to do of course. Mr Craddock has such very high ideals. I don’t understand them all of course. He says I am very earth-bound, but when you have so many things to do in a house—and I’ve never been very good at them—it doesn’t seem to leave you much time for anything else, does it? But of course I do feel that it was wonderful of him to want to marry me. Everyone at Wyshmere felt that—and it’s a great privilege for the children.’
Miss Silver wrote a letter that evening. It was addressed to Mrs Charles Moray, and it ran:
‘My Dear Margaret,
This is an interesting old place. Such a pity that it was bombed, but the Craddocks’ wing is most comfortable. The children are a little out of hand, but I have very good hopes of them. You were quite right about the book of trains, which has been a great success with the little boys. Mr and Mrs Craddock are being all that is kind. He is a most interesting man, and very goodlooking. I understand that he is engaged upon an important book. She, I fear, is not very robust, and I am glad to feel that I can spare her some fatigue. I hope that all is well with you.
With my love,
Yours affectionately,
Maud Silver.
P.S.—Pray let me know whether you are able to get the wool I mentioned.’
This letter she stamped and placed upon a small table in the hall. There was only one incoming post a day, and the man who delivered the letters cleared the two post-boxes—the one at the gate of what he still called Deepe House in defiance of Mr Craddock and the Colony, and the other amongst the cluster of cottages at the foot of the rise. The Colony corresponded voluminously, Deep End practically not at all. The Miss Tremletts in particular received letters, magazines, and periodicals from all over the world, and wrote reams in reply. Miranda’s mail was also very extensive but mainly home-produced. The postman, a very respectable man of the name of Hawke, regarded it with disapproval. ‘Stands to reason a woman’s bound to have two names same like anyone else, and stands to reasons she’s bound to be Miss or Mrs. Indecent it looks to me, having nothing but her Christian name on the envelopes. Miranda—just like that—for all the world like going about without her clothes on! Stands to reason she’s bound to have a name! Same as anyone else. And why don’t she use it?’ There being no answer, and the sentiment being generally approved, he was able to repeat it until by force of custom the subject lost its interest.
Instead of leaving her letter on the hall table Miss Silver might have gone down to the gate and posted it. Or, if she preferred the longer walk, she could have gone as far as Deep End and pushed Mrs Charles Moray’s letter into the red slit which brightened the wall of old Mr Masters’ cottage. Rain or shine, snow, hail or thunder, Mr Masters would be out in his porch at ten o’clock to have a word with Mr Hawke. During the war years, when it was Mrs Hawke who had taken round the letters and cleared the boxes, he had felt bitterly deprived. Most days it would be no more than ‘Morning, postman’ and a brief bulletin about his rheumatism, with perhaps a word or two in return about Mr Hawke’s grandfather-in-law who was going to be a hundred on his next birthday, whereas Mr Masters was only ninety-five, and no use trying to slip in an extra year or two, because everyone knew his age, and his daughter-in-law, still known as young Mrs Masters though she was turned fifty, wouldn’t have it. She was a large and in the main silent person, but i
n matters like how old you were and how many times you’d got the prize for the best marrows over at Deeping she would speak up very awkward. Downright unfeeling, old Mr Masters considered. For the rest, she was a hard-featured woman who kept him and the cottage like a new pin and found time and energy to put in three hours a day up at Deepe House, which neither she nor anyone else in either Deep End or Deeping could bring themselves to call Harmony.
As Mr Masters put it:
‘Might as well start giving me a new name at my time o’ life! And who’s Craddocks to go giving names and taking of them away—you tell me that! Ignorance and impertinence, that’s what I call it! Why, that there old house bin standing there since Queen Elizabeth’s time, and if you haven’t got a right to your own lawful name after all that time, when have you got a right to it—you tell me that!’
TWELVE
MARGARET MORAY RECEIVED Miss Silver’s letter at breakfast on the following day. It was a dark morning, and she took it to the window to get a better light. Then, still without opening it, she put it down before her husband.
‘What do you make of it, Charles?’
He gave it his frowning attention, asked to have the light switched on, and slanted the envelope towards it, flap uppermost.
‘Well, I should say it had been opened.’
‘So should I.’
She slit it carefully at the bottom end and read the innocuous missive aloud.
Charles Moray looked up from his porridge.
‘What were you to do about it?’
‘Let Frank Abbott have it, and send her a postcard to let her know whether we think it’s been tampered with. The postscript about the wool is the cue. If I was quite sure, I was to say, “How much of the wool do you want? I can get it all right.”’ She hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t know that I can make it as definite as that.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Well, I thought I might say, “I think I can get the wool you want. Will find out for certain and let you know.” I suppose they will be able to make sure at the Yard. Do you know, Charles, I do wish she hadn’t gone down there. I don’t like it a bit.’
Charles Moray didn’t like it either, but he wasn’t going to say so. Instead, he unfolded the rather lively newspaper with which he preferred to cheer his porridge and remarked in a carping tone that Beauty Queens got plainer every year.
Margaret came to look over his shoulder.
‘Darling, what a frightful bathing dress!’
‘If you call it a dress! I shouldn’t. I wonder how much more she could leave off without getting arrested!’
She kissed the top of his head.
‘I don’t know, darling—I’ve never thought it out. I do hope Michael isn’t being late for school. Betty will cut it too fine.’
Mrs Moray’s postcard was duly delivered by Mr Hawke next day. He was naturally aware that the new governess up at Deepe House was an indefatigable knitter, but he found himself unable to take a passionate interest in whether she could or could not get some particular kind of wool. And why write to London about it? Miss Weekes at the Fancy Stores in Dedham had a very good selection.
Meeting Miss Silver on his way up to the house, he imparted this information, adding,
‘And Mrs Hawke says it’s the best she’s seen for ever so long—quite pre-war, as you might say.’
He bicycled on to Deep End, pleased with his own kind thought and with Miss Silver’s pleasant response. And no harm in doing Miss Weekes a good turn either, her sister Grace being married to a cousin of his own at Ledstow.
Miss Silver went rather thoughtfully back to the house with her postcard, which she made a point of showing to Mrs Craddock.
‘This special shade of pink is sometimes a little difficult, and it must be an exact match. Mrs Moray was so kind as to say that she would do her best to get it for me.’
It was a little later that Jennifer came into the room. Since this was considered to be holiday time, Miss Silver had not attempted regular lessons, but was endeavouring to find things that would interest the children to hear about or to do. Maurice was working on a model engine, and what Maurice did Benjy of course must copy. In Jennifer she discovered a quick and sensitive response to poetry and drama. Some short one act plays had been obtained, and all three children were rehearsing one of them. Already some pattern had been introduced into their days, and the first beginnings of order and punctuality instilled.
Jennifer came in now, said briefly, ‘Mrs Masters wants to see you before she goes,’ and then stood staring out of the window as Mrs Craddock put down her mending and hurried out of the room.
Jennifer did not speak. She looked out at a graceful leafless tree, tracing its outline on the glass with the top of her finger. Miss Silver, watching, was aware of the moment when she stopped thinking about the tree and the pattern which it made against the sky. Until that moment Jennifer’s thoughts had been lifted into an atmosphere of pure enjoyment—this lovely line and that, the way they crossed, the way through all the crossing and turning that they sprang upward towards the light. And then all at once she didn’t see the tree or sky any more. She saw her own hand spread out against the glass—a long, thin hand with the shape of the bones just showing through because a gleam of wintry sun was on the pane and its light made the flesh translucent.
It was when the sun came out that Jennifer stopped seeing the tree and began to stare at her hand. Looking on with interest and concern, Miss Silver was aware of a stiffening, a tension, an extraordinary concentration of the child’s whole being. She might have been looking at something repulsive, something horrible.
Miss Silver laid her knitting down upon her knee and said in her most matter-of-fact tone,
‘Is there anything wrong with your hand, my dear?’
Jennifer whipped round, startled, angry.
‘Why should there be?’
‘I thought perhaps—you looked as if you were not very comfortable.’
‘It’s just a hand, isn’t it? It’s just my own hand. Why shouldn’t I look at it if I like? There’s nothing wrong about looking at your own hand, is there?’
Miss Silver had taken up her knitting again. She said with a smile,
‘Sometimes if you look too long at a thing it gets out of focus. It may even look like something else.’
Jennifer tossed back her dark untidy hair.
‘Well then, it didn’t! It looked like a hand. It just looked like my own hand—see?’
When she turned round she had put her hands out of sight behind her back. Now she thrust them out at Miss Silver, staring not at them but at her.
‘They’re just my hands—they couldn’t be anything else. I don’t know what you are talking about. They’re just my hands.’
Miss Silver continued to smile.
‘And sadly dirty ones, my dear. It would be much easier for you to keep the nails clean if they were cut a good deal shorter. Your hands are a very nice shape. If you will allow me to cut your nails, you will not only find them much easier to keep clean, but a great deal pleasanter to look at.’
She thought there was the beginning of a shudder, but it was controlled. With an abrupt movement Jennifer turned away and went over to the bookshelf, where she stood fingering the books, pulling one out a little way and pushing it back again, taking another down and fluttering the pages. Presently she said in a discontented voice,
‘They’re all as old as the hills. They belonged to the house. Did you know that? And the house used to belong to the Everlys. There aren’t any of them left now. Miss Maria Everly was the last of them, and she died before the war. She was ninety-six years old. This was her schoolroom, and these were her books. There aren’t any more Everlys. Old Mr Masters told me about them. He’s Mrs Masters father-in-law—he lives in the cottage with the post-box on the wall. He remembers Miss Maria Everly. He says she was a terror, but a real lady for all that. He says there aren’t any left now—only bits of girls in breeches, and some that are old eno
ugh to know better. He’s a very interesting person to talk to—I like going down there and talking to him. Only sometimes—’ She frowned and broke off.
‘Sometimes what, my dear?’
‘Oh, nothing. He won’t talk to everyone, you know—not about the Everlys. He says least said, soonest mended. You won’t say I talked about them, will you? Did you know all the furniture in this room belonged to the house? It was the schoolroom, and nobody bothered to have the things taken away. The good things were all sold, but He bought the rest when he bought the house.’
Since Jennifer never gave Mr Craddock any name, the pronoun no longer surprised Miss Silver. She let it pass without comment.
Jennifer pulled out another book. ‘Ministering Children!’ she said in a tone of scorn. ‘I hate them!’
Miss Silver, who was familiar with this pious classic, remarked mildly that there were fashions in books just as there were fashions in clothes.
‘They talked differently a hundred years ago, just as they dressed differently, but I do not think that they were at all different in themselves.’
Jennifer rammed the Ministering Children back into their place.
‘I hate them!’ she said with emphasis. Then with a sudden and complete change of manner she turned round and came out with, ‘I saw Miss Tremlett, and I wasn’t quick enough, so she saw me. She says they’ve got a paying guest coming. And why can’t she just say lodger and have done with it? Paying guest is just nonsense, isn’t it? If you’re a guest you don’t pay, and if you pay you’re not a guest. That’s all there is about it, and I shall just go on saying lodger. Every time I meet them I shall say it—“How is your lodger today, Miss Elaine? How do you like your lodger, Miss Gwyneth?” I wish I had said it to Elaine this morning. The lodger comes this afternoon, and they are going to give a party for her to meet everyone tomorrow. Gwyneth is taking the bus into Dedham this afternoon to buy cakes for it, and Elaine is going to make drop scones. And He will go, and I suppose you will too, but my mother won’t, because I shall make her lie down on her bed and rest. And I think it would be a good plan if I locked her in.’
Death at the Deep End Page 8