Green Girl

by Sara Seale

  “There was Nonie,” she reminded him.

  “You’re thinking I’m an unnatural and far too casual parent, aren’t you, Harriet? My daughter, unfortunately, doesn’t care for me very much, so it’s been difficult to establish any kind of companionable relationship.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t gone the right way about things,” she said.

  “Very likely not,” he agreed a shade regretfully. “I left her too much to servants in the early days when I shut the place up and racketed round the world, I suppose. By the time I settled down here again I was a stranger to her, so I sent her to school.”

  “Was she here alone all that time?” Harriet asked.

  “Oh, no. She went to her grandparents every so often, but I’m not sure if that was a good thing,” he replied rather shortly, and she looked surprised for, apart from his cousin Rory, he had never mentioned other relatives.

  “Grandparents?”

  “Kitty’s people. They still live in Dublin. They wanted to adopt Nonie at one time, but that notion was intended as a reproach rather than an honest desire for the child, I think.”

  “Poor Nonie ... poor little girl...” she murmured, and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Conserve your pity, my dear, until you get to know one another. You may find it thrown back in your face,” he said dryly. “But don’t look so startled; you’re possibly young enough to meet my daughter on her own ground. In fact, of the two of you, I would say you were the younger.”

  The weather grew colder and the house with it. Harriet could understand now why most of the rooms were shut up in winter for, with no central heating, the Castle would become icy if really hard weather set in, and she was grateful when Duff reverted to his old habit of living in two rooms, not only for the warmth, but for the greater intimacy engendered by the familiar mug and the little breakfast-room where they now took their meals. It was an intimacy that stopped there, however. Every evening he bade her goodnight downstairs and she repaired to her high, impersonal bedroom which, despite a good fire, always struck chill. She would listen for the sounds of him moving about next door and wished he would sometimes poke his head round the intervening door and wish her a final goodnight just to be friendly, but although she never turned the key in the lock, the door remained closed between them and she hadn’t the courage to risk a snub by making the first overtures herself.

  She was, had she understood her conflicting emotions during the night watches, already halfway to being in love with the ugly stranger who, although her husband, treated her with the mixture of indulgence and impatience a kindly uncle might have shown; she was, had she known it, so starved of the personal affection that life in a busy community must perforce rule out that she would have laid her untapped store of loving and giving at the feet of any person who had need of her.

  She resisted with admirable self-control the temptation to woo the two Alsatians into caring for her, but their polite indifference continued to hurt her. The dog, she imagined, had thawed slightly and bore with a little judicious petting, even sometimes offering a paw, but Delsa still would have none of her, and waited impatiently for her master’s return.

  “It must be wonderful to have some living creature so devoted, so utterly dependent on your every mood,” she said one day, and he caught the note of envy and longing in her voice.

  “I’m afraid with this breed you’ll always have to take second place if their hearts are already given,” he said gently. “I must buy you a dog of your own, something that will be company for you when you’re alone. The magic of your fairy-tale’s beginning to wear off, isn’t it?”

  “No—oh, no!” she protested quickly, afraid of a gentle snub at the expense of her regrettable habit of expecting miracles, and then could have hit him for uncovering a truth she had not faced for herself. Clooney had, indeed, become a disappointment.

  “Don’t feel too cheated, Harriet,” he said, touching her cheek with compassionate fingers: “You expect too much, you know, with that unbridled imagination of yours working overtime. Things will fall into proportion as you get older. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about a dog for you.”

  But she found her own dog, and that made it doubly precious, for it was the first concession she was to win for herself by putting up a fight.

  Now that the days had turned so much colder, she had acquired the habit of putting out food for the birds every morning after breakfast, braving Agnes’ displeasure by invading the kitchen for scraps.

  “You’re a quare wan,” she said, but for once her bright, bad-tempered little eyes softened. “Well, it’s not your feathered cronies gets the benefit, I’m thinkin’, for the food’s gone in the wink of a pig’s eye, an’ if you’re encouragin’ rats, himself won’t be best pleased, an’ so I’m tellin’ you.”

  But it was not rats that were stealing the birds’ food. Harriet hid herself, deciding to watch, and presently a lean and very bedraggled dog advanced a tentative, quivering snout between the iron bars of the high, locked gates, and then squeezed its skinny body through into the courtyard and wolfed down Harriet’s offerings with such lightning speed that she blinked incredulously at sight of the empty dish.

  “Oh, you poor thing, you must be starved!” she exclaimed with compassion, emerging without caution from her hiding place, and the dog gave her one wild, terrified look and bolted back through the bars of the gates.

  Harriet made no mention in the kitchen of the raider, but she bribed Molly to save bones and, meat scraps each day without the cook’s knowledge, and for a week she fed the dog, not attempting to touch and scare it. Then one morning she ventured to coax it to come to her and after some hesitation the animal advanced on its belly in a series of ingratiating wriggles and allowed her to stroke it. After that her cup was full of joy, for each morning the dog was waiting for her, and having overcome the first hurdle of fear and suspicion, fawned upon her with pathetic eagerness. It was, she supposed doubtfully, a rather odd-looking animal and decidedly common.

  “I’m afraid you’re no beauty,” she told it sadly, but at least, she thought, its eyes were beautiful, soft and dark and heartbreaking with the renewal of trust and love she herself had put there. Something strange and tender happened to Harriet when each day she had to leave the dog and shoo it away to wherever it belonged, for it was an outcast like herself. Duff had promised her a dog; well, she would have this one and none other—for had it not chosen her? Whoever it belonged to could, she thought, scarcely object to selling it, judging by its blocking condition.

  She enlisted Molly’s aid, and one day they smuggled the dog into the old laundry at the back of the kitchen and gave it a bath.

  “You’re not thinkin’ of kapin’ it here, are you, ma’am?” Molly asked when it had become clear to her that the operation was not merely to satisfy a kink for hygiene that the heathen English seemed to be born with.

  “Of course. Mr. Lonnegan has promised me a dog, and this is the one I’ve chosen—at least he really chose me. Do you know who he belongs to?”

  “Ah, sure, that wan’s been kicked around from one cottage to another this past twelve month. ‘Tes a stray, the craythur, an’ nobody owns it. But himself will not be wishin’ to have it here with his prize Alsatians, let me tell you,” the girl said, and Harriet replied: “We’ll see. It wouldn’t hurt those snooty Alsatians to be taken down a peg or two, if it comes to that, and I sure Mr. Lonnegan’s no snob.”

  Whether he was a snob or not, however, Duff proved anything but amendable when confronted with his wife’s choice of a pet.

  “My dear child! You’ll be the laughing stock of the place if you trail a monstrosity like that about with you,” he said, eyeing the newly-washed mongrel with much disfavour.

  “He’s not a monstrosity—only ill-treated and half-starved.”

  “He’s certainly that, poor-beast,” Duff allowed. “We’ll give him a square meal and send him home.”

  “He hasn’t got a home. Molly s
ays he’s been around for ages and nobody wants him.”

  “Well, I don’t want him, either. As a matter of fact I’ve heard of a suitable dog for you—well-bred spaniel pup, five months old, house-trained and all the rest of it, so you can forget about this extraordinary-looking animal. I’ll find it a good home with one of the tenants, if that will satisfy you.”

  “No, it won’t, I’m afraid,” she said nervously but quite firmly, and he gave her a quick look. He had not expected to have any argument over such a trivial matter, but he was beginning to recognize a stubborn streak in Harriet that gave her courage if she was driven beyond a certain point.

  “But my dear, be reasonable,” he said kindly. “You can’t adopt every common stray that takes your fancy.”

  “I only want this one. He chose me,” said Harriet. “At first he wouldn’t come near me, but I’ve been feeding him for a week and he trusts me. You can’t gain a creature’s trust and confidence and then turn it away.”

  He regarded her reflectively, wondering for a moment if this was a rather subtle dig at him, but Harriet was not subtle, and the eyes raised to his held a look of such anxious pleading and hope that he was uncomfortably reminded of the same expression in the eyes of the dog.

  “Duff—” she said, her gentle voice a little unsteady for the first time, “I’ve never asked you for anything—and I do need a new coat and some warm jersey’s and things, but they can wait—suppose ... suppose no one will take him in ... suppose you hadn’t taken we in? There’s not much difference between us, you know—we’re both strays.” He looked down at her crouched beside the dog, both of them gazing at him with identical expressions, and he wanted to take the pair of them and knock their silly heads together.

  “Oh, for sanity’s sake keep the brute!” he exclaimed, “but don’t think you can pull that orphanage stop again and get away with it, young woman—both strays, indeed! And I warn you, Harriet, if he makes any trouble with my two, out he goes, and not all your tears will get me to change my mind a second time.”

  But she was not paying any attention, for she had sprung to her feet at his first words, her face suddenly radiant, and as he finished speaking, she flung both arms round his neck and kissed him.

  “Oh, Duff—dear Duff! Thank you!” she cried, then hastily disengaged herself and stood rather awkwardly on one foot.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I—I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “Why the heck should a kiss from my wife embarrass me? It was very pleasant,” he retorted, but his eyes were a little impatient. The warm, spontaneous gesture had indeed been pleasant, but he hadn’t cared for that swift withdrawal.

  “Well, you never kiss me—just that once in the vestry, and I suppose that was sort of expected of you.”

  “Have you wanted to be kissed, then?”

  “It—it would be friendly. Just goodnight and good morning, you know.”

  “I see. Just a habit of convention between acquaintances.”

  “I had thought we were friends,” she said then.

  “Did you, Harriet?” he said with unexpected gentleness. “Then that should be a beginning. You shall have your chaste goodnight salutation if it’s important to you, but there’s nothing to stop you bestowing the same favour upon me, if you’re so inclined, you know. Now, what did you mean when you said you needed a new coat and sundry garments? You have an allowance, so for pete’s sake, why don’t you use it?”

  “Oh!” she said, and looked embarrassed. She had not appreciated that she could draw cheques without asking, never having had a banking account, neither did she know what to buy to meet the requirements of her new life.

  “What shall I call him?” she asked to change the subject, and gazed with such rapture at the unspeakable mongrel that he answered, quite sharply:

  “Since you’ve overruled me against all my better judgement in this matter, I claim the right to christen the perisher myself. He shall be Uriah Heep, and no name could suit the cringing tyke better,” he said, but if he had hoped to ring an indignant protest from her, he was disappointed.

  “Uriah...” she said reflectively. “Well, it’s certainly unusual, and—you can call him anything you like, dear Duff, since you’re letting me keep him.”

  “H’m...” he grunted, eyeing the dog with distinct disfavour. “Well, you’ll have to placate Agnes if he pinches the Sunday joint or cocks his leg in her kitchen, so be it on your own head. Now, for heaven’s sake, Harriet, go and fit yourself out with some sort of trousseau, or the neighbourhood will be saying I keep a tight hold on the purse-strings where my wife’s concerned. I can’t run to the mink I wouldn’t allow you to accept from Samantha, I’m afraid, but get yourself a decent fur coat; you’ll need it when the winter really sets in.”

  “Where—and what sort of coat?” she asked, alarmed by such vague and extravagant-sounding orders.

  “Oh, how the devil should I know? You need a woman to advise you, I suppose,” he said, and as if on cue, Samantha Dwight walked in, unannounced, observing provocatively,

  “I’ve kept tactfully away while the honeymoon period would, one presumes, make visitors unwelcome, but now I thought it time I renewed acquaintance with your little wife, Duff dear. What’s this I hear about womanly advice? Does your charming Harriet need feminine support? She could certainly do with a few good clothes ... What a very extraordinary animal! Is it yours?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SAMANTHA undertook the supervision of Harriet’s wardrobe with enthusiasm. There was nothing she liked better, she said, than shopping for pretty clothes and basking in the flattering attentions of persuasive sales ladies, also it would give her an excuse to prolong her visit with her Aunt Alice. “Why not let us run down to Dublin for a couple of nights and do the thing properly, Duff?”

  “I’ll not risk Harriet getting a taste for city ways. The local shops are quite good enough for our requirements here. We don’t entertain,” he said, and Samantha looked amused.

  “Are you going to make the same mistake all over again, darling?” she said softly. “Even the most devoted wife needs an occasional break from Clooney’s splendid isolation.”

  “I think you must be forgetting, Samantha. My mistake didn’t lie in denying freedom but in allowing too much, and—no, I don’t intend to make it again,” he replied. “Apart from that I can no longer afford the extravagance of eight years ago, as you should remember.”

  “I don’t have to go to Dublin for the few clothes I’ll need here, Samantha, and Duff—I haven’t got extravagant tastes, as you should know, so if you can’t afford—”

  “I’m not on the breadline yet, my dear, so don’t look so guilty,” he interrupted with slight irritation, then added more gently; “Thank you all the same for your concern. Clooney rather tends to swallow up one’s income with nothing much to show for it, except debts and obligations and a hefty overdraft, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Harriet, but she was not really enlightened. She knew little enough about financial affairs, having been supported by charity all her life, and since even the responsibility of housekeeping was denied her, she had no idea of the demands a place the size of Clooney could make.

  “I wish—” she began, but Samantha’s mischievous little air of attention stopped her. It was not the moment to plead for a share in domestic responsibilities, neither did she flatter herself that she could improve on the existing methods of household expenditure. She could, however, and did, keep a watchful eye on the purse-strings when buying clothes for herself, and found that Samantha soon wearied when the more expensive items of her choice were politely turned down in favour of something cheaper.

  “Really, Harriet, you don’t have to be quite so cheeseparing,” she exclaimed. “You’ve got an allowance, haven’t you? Well, for heaven’s sake blow the lot or have the bills sent direct to Duff. He’s hardly likely to grudge you a few extra bits of nonsense—Kitty cost him enough, God knows!”

  “All t
he more reason, then, for me to practise economy,” Harriet said with a touch of primness, and Samantha who, if she privately thought of Duff’s choice of a wife unrewarding, had no intention of jeopardising her own right of entry to his house by alienating Harriet, replied indulgently: “Okay, honey, you do what you think best. Duff’s luckier than he deserves, the old skinflint.”

  “Skinflint? Oh, no, Samantha!”

  “A figure of speech, darling. I’m very fond of your husband, so any names I call him are purely terms of affection. But how come you never managed to scratch up some kind of trousseau yourself, or were your parents skinflints, too?” It was the sort of awkward question which had been bound to come up between them sooner or later, Harriet thought, but since she did not know how much or how little of his affairs Duff was prepared to discuss with strangers she answered briefly that her parents were dead and anyway there had been no time to think of a trousseau.

  “So I’ve rather gathered. If I didn’t know Duff as I do, I’d have been inclined to have obvious ideas for all this indecent haste—what a surprising blush, darling! Don’t take me too literally, will you? My more outrageous remarks are born of habit rather than malice, you know,” Samantha said lazily, and Harriet, whose colour had been occasioned by Samantha’s obvious ignorance of the true nature of her marriage rather than the implied suggestion, was relieved when the subject was dropped.

  She never felt quite at ease with this glamorous stranger, but she came to look forward to those days when Samantha would call for her to drive into Knockferry to shop; not only did she enjoy the novel pleasure of acquiring a wardrobe, but also a more familiar acquaintance with the countryside.