But politeness did not, alas, win the day.
Apart from their trim appearance, so sharply in contrast with her own untidiness, it seemed to her that their coming had introduced a jarring element, just when she and Andrew were on the verge of a better understanding, and that while she herself was, secretly, most keenly disappointed by the interruption, Andrew himself almost welcomed it.
“I’m extremely sorry, but I’m painfully late as it is,” she declared hastily, with a perfunctory glance at her watch. “Please make my apologies to your sister.” And giving him no chance to say another word, she hurried after Maureen and the kitten, and almost ran with them in the direction of Garsford House.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ashamed of herself afterwards for having behaved with such gaucheness, Catherine hoped that she would have the good fortune to run into Cecily again before long—and not in Beryl’s company. She wanted to make amends for her seeming rudeness.
Still more, in her heart of hearts, did she long to encounter Andrew. There had been so many loose ends left hanging about in that curiously intimate conversation with him. She longed to know, for instance, what he meant by that surprisingly bitter reference to his own childhood. Why should he have been unhappy, brought up in a prosperous family With a little sister whom he obviously adored, and who as plainly loved him deeply in her turn?
But she saw nothing of Cecily—who, had she known it, was away on a visit to Beryl’s family, at their Thameside house—and though she caught a glimpse of Andrew from time to time, working ceaselessly in the fields with his men on the unrelenting business of the harvest, she was never within hailing distance of him.
The weather was glorious—day after day of unbroken sunshine, of which every farmer in the district was taking full advantage. At Garsford House the children, revelling in their summer holiday, spent every possible moment out of doors, taking all their meals, breakfast included, in the garden. Even Hilda, grown like the children, brown as a berry, caught something of the carefree spirit, and forgot to frown when the children came in late for tea, or even when Matron, launching one of her special “surprises,” whisked, the seniors off on a bus ride and picnic at the very last minute, thereby upsetting the whole routine of the day.
Hilda was still, it was true, slightly shocked at Matron’s vagaries, but she was beginning to see that they sprang not from casually good-natured impulses, but from a deep understanding of the children’s needs. Monotony, Matron declared, was inseparable from a large, unwieldy institution, of the old-fashioned kind: without a strict adherence to routine, chaos would result. But in a small Home like Garsford House there was no excuse for a slavish clinging to rules and regulations, in holiday time, at any rate. After all, when ordinary ‘parents suddenly decided to “give the kids a bit of a spree,” they didn’t start fussing over all sorts of silly domestic trifles. They just cut a few sandwiches, banged the back door, put the key under the mat, and cleared off. And if Johnnie missed his dose of tonic, or Jill her afternoon rest, what did it matter, for goodness’ sake? A treat, dropping from the skies, would do more good than either.
Catherine realized soon that Geoffrey Barbin, who was a constant visitor to the Home, exercised a welcome influence over Hilda in this respect. She had gradually forgotten, it seemed—or at least forgiven— his traitorous siding against her in the matter of Andrew Playdle’s broken hedge; and when he teased her about her own childhood, forcing her to admit that she had not only adored “surprises,” but regarded them as her natural right, she began to reflect that there might be something, after all, in Matron’s occasional eccentricities.
Nevertheless a good many of the inmates of Garsford House breathed a sigh of relief when, towards the close of the holidays, Hilda took leave of absence for a weekend. Capable, conscientious and kindly as Hilda undoubtedly was, it was difficult to relax when she was around; indeed Catherine overheard Nicola saying confidentially to Ruth one afternoon: “When Miss Dewney’s away, it’s like getting out of your boots into your slippers. Comfy, if you know what I mean!”
Rather ashamed of her secret agreement with this point of view, Catherine found herself wishing she could perform some small act of kindness for Hilda before she returned. But before she could settle on anything more original than giving her room an extra “do” and putting fresh flowers on her chimney-piece, a more pressing claim was made, on her philanthropy.
Geoffrey, delivering a large sack of carrots for winter storage on the Friday evening of Hilda’s absence, happened to comment on the long hours he was being forced to work, through the illness of one of his most useful men.
“I get through the ordinary jobs all right,” he observed philosophically, as he folded up his empty sack. “It’s the extra ones that I can’t seem to cope with. And somehow whenever one wants a chap for a bit of casual work—”
“Can’t we help you?” Winnie, who was putting away the supper things, looked across at him eagerly. “I’ve only two or three days left—I start work at Askworth’s shop, in Great Garsford next week, learning dressmaking—but if you want some potatoes lifted—”
“Potato lifting! Not on your life, Winnie! You’ve got to keep those hands of yours as soft as silk now.” He was smiling at her in that friendly, boyish way of his. “In any case, the job that’s haunting my dreams is one for a man—and a pretty tall one at that. It’s the painting of that greenhouse of mine in the lower field; the woodwork will be rotting away if I don’t do something about it before the winter. However, I don’t doubt I’ll get down to it one of these evenings. Needs must.” And with his cheerfulness unimpaired, and with a promise to Winnie to bring her an bag of apples occasionally, “If they’ll let anyone like me into that grand place!” he went off, humming the latest dance-hit.
When he had gone, Winnie turned to Catherine, her face very thoughtful.
“That particular greenhouse isn’t very big,” she said. “I know it quite well. Don’t you think if several of us went down, with some paint and brushes, we could make a job of it? As a surprise, you know.”
“Paint’s pretty expensive,” Catherine began dubiously.
“I know. But most of us have quite a bit of pocket-money saved up. Look at all the things Mr. Barbin gives us. We ought to do something for him in return, if we get the chance.”
Matron came bustling along just then, fresh from saying goodnight to the ten-year-olds, and had, of course, to hear all about Winnie’s great idea. And, characteristically, she was able to produce a solution to the main difficulty.
“We’ve quite enough paint stuffed away in the tool shed to give the outside woodwork of Mr. Barbin’s greenhouse one decent coat,” she declared. “The builders left it behind when they decorated the house, just before we moved in. It’s all odd scraps, cream and white and green, mostly—but if it’s mixed together with some turpentine, it will be quite good enough for a job of this sort. There are some old paint brushes in there, too, which will be quite serviceable if they’re cleaned up.”
Winnie, her eyes shining, looked appealingly at Catherine. “Do you think we could possibly go and have a hunt round now? I’m allowed to stay up longer now I’ve left school, and I’ve a good twenty minutes still.”
“Can we, Matron? I’ve finished all my jobs for the night.” Catherine, in her turn, looked at Matron.
Matron smiled. “So long as you don’t ask me to help you. Rooting about in a dusty tool shed by the light of a torch isn’t at all my idea of a comfortable evening.”
Winnie flew to the dresser and seized the torch that was always kept there for emergencies. “Come on, Miss Cat,” she exclaimed, grabbing Catherine by the hand. “We must get as much ready as possible tonight. It won’t be fair, perhaps, to actually mix the paint: the others will want to help with that. But if we fix on what we can use, and give the brushes a good clean, it will be something.” And then she added childishly: “I do love messing about with paint, don’t you!”
Catherine was able, fortuna
tely, to admit to sharing this very common predilection. But next morning it transpired—not quite so fortunately, perhaps—that the whole household, right down to the tinies, were of like mind. Each and every one was clamoring for a pot of paint and a brush, and the right to steal over to Mr. Barbin’s lower field and commence operations on his greenhouse.
Matron’s resource and buoyant good spirits, however, saved the situation. Only the four eldest girls were allowed to join Catherine in the painting sortie; but coloring jobs of sorts were found for all the stay-at-homes. Tins and boxes were produced, to be enamelled for Christmas presents, cards and crayons were hunted up for the smaller children, and the toddlers were given some sets of new bright bricks to play with, kept hitherto for Sundays and birthdays.
The first problem for Catherine’s little party was, of course, to slip across to Geoffrey’s lower field without attracting undue attention, and this was achieved on Catherine’s suggestion, by disguising themselves as a picnic party, concealing their tins of paint and their brushes in brown paper bags. Fortunately they ran into no one who mattered—had they met Geoffrey, all but Catherine and the sedate Winnie would certainly have collapsed in fits of giggles—and having reached their objective they set to work, so far as they knew, unobserved, the greenhouse being situated at some distance from the part of the holding in which Geoffrey was at present working, and being screened from two directions by a fairly high fence.
Once at work all tendency to giggles disappeared. To scrape off the peeling paint neatly was not so easy as it looked; and painting, they found, under Catherine’s fairly expert direction, was by no means a matter of slapping about joyously with a large brush. But they thoroughly enjoyed the self-imposed task, all the more because of Catherine’s insistence that they should do it well.
It seemed to some of them, towards the end, as though the job would never be finished, just at last it was done—even the door which, luckily, they had found standing open.
“I really don’t think it’s bad,” was Winnie’s quiet comment, as she surveyed their handiwork with satisfaction. “It was a very good thing we kept some of the white paint separate for the window frames.”
“But it’s wonderful!” Ruth protested. “None of Mr. Barbin’s other greenhouses look half so nice. He’ll want all of them painted that lovely pale green color now.”
“M’m. I’m feeling that I’d like some tea, to take away the taste of paint,” another child put in. “In fact, I—I think I shall be sick if I stay here much longer.”
Faced with this grim warning, Catherine delayed no longer, but collected her troop together and started back for Garsford House.
Once again they were lucky, and met no one who showed any particular interest in them or their activities. But when they reached the dusty high road, paint-stained and bedraggled, who should they run into but Andrew Playdle, accompanied this time, not by the ubiquitous Beryl, but by his sister.
There was no question of giving a brief greeting and passing on. Good manner dictated that Catherine should say something courteous to Cecily about the visit she had paid with Ruth and Maureen to the Manor that Sunday’ afternoon—that she should refer with polite regret, to the other girl’s unfortunate headache. And, having made the effort she was exceedingly glad she had done so.
Cecily was charming, in a completely sincere and unaffected way. She told Catherine that she had been “particularly disappointed” at being laid up on the day of the tea-party—though adding that it was all her own fault for having spent the previous afternoon out in the sun without either a hat or sun glasses.
“I do so want you to come again,” she declared frankly. “Couldn’t we settle on a day?”
And when Catherine explained that it sometimes proved easier in practice to get away at the last minute than to make arrangements far ahead—that foster-mothers, like ordinary mothers, were apt to be rather “tied”—she promised to ring up some evening in the near future and see if she were free.
While Catherine chatted away to Cecily, she was catching fragments of the conversation which Andrew was carrying on with the children. He was teasing Ruth, it seemed, about a splodge of green paint on her nose, and between them the children were letting out the whole secret of their mysterious expedition, generously handing all the credit for the operation to Catherine herself.
“It was Winnie’s idea,” she pointed out quickly, turning away from Cecily for a moment—for, without quite knowing why, she did not care to be thought so keenly solicitous on Geoffrey’s account.
“Oh, but you’ve always been saying how nice it would be if we could do Mr. Barbin a good turn,” Winnie countered ingenuously. “You put it into my head, really.”
Catherine, aware of Andrew’s thoughtful glance in her direction, felt herself flushing. What notions was he getting now? Couldn’t he realize that her feelings towards the various men she was meeting were quite impersonal: that her interests were concentrated on the children and their welfare?
Very dignified and proper reflections, no doubt; and if another question tapped at her brain—the question why she was so sharply concerned with Andrew’s thoughts about her—that was one which she had no intention of even trying to answer.
The little group broke up now—with Andrew and Cecily vowed to secrecy over the painting enterprise—and the Garsford House party made their way home, very late for tea, but comfortably certain that, in Hilda’s absence, there would be no frowns.
Their return was greeted with great excitement. Everyone wanted to know whether they had managed to avoid being seen by Geoffrey and his men, whether the paint had lasted out, and how long they thought it would be before Geoffrey discovered what had been done for him.
No one could answer this last point, and Sunday and Monday passed without any word from Geoffrey—a not surprising circumstance, since it was known that he had not been using that particular greenhouse for some time.
Tuesday brought Hilda back—a Hilda much refreshed by her brief holiday, and laden with an immense tin of toffee for the children. And seeing the pleasure with which she handed over the gift, paid for out of her modest salary, Catherine felt remorseful at not having missed her more.
“It’s partly my own fault I don’t work more smoothly with her,” she thought. “I allow myself to be fretted by her fidgety ways, instead of concentrating on her good qualities. Hilda’s type is the salt of the earth.”
But it was not long before her new resolution to get on more happily with her colleague was put to a severe test. Round about five o’clock, a bare half hour after Hilda’s return, Geoffrey came knocking at the back door, and striding into the big cosy kitchen where since it was raining, they had all gathered for tea demanded, with a delighted grin, whether anyone present knew anything about “a certain greenhouse” of his.
Shrieks of mirth from the children, and broad smiles from Matron and Catherine, greeted his query. Only Hilda looked bewildered, and Catherine found herself wishing then, with a sudden sinking of the heart, that she had told her of the episode immediately on her arrival. She had fully intended to do so; it had only been the bustle of getting the children in from the garden, and preparing tea, that had put the matter out of her head.
Geoffrey did not at once, however, pursue the subject. He looked across apologetically at Hilda, and said with real regret; “I’m very sorry I couldn’t meet you at Great Garsford and bring you out. I was miles away in the other direction this afternoon.
“Please don’t apologize.” Hilda spoke with something of an effort. “It would be ridiculous if we began to look upon you as our chauffeur. You do far too much for us already.”
“That’s what we thought, Miss Dewney,” Winnie exclaimed, her face radiant. And turning to Geoffrey she went on gaily: “Are you pleased with our handiwork? Miss Cat was terribly severe with us, insisting we put the paint on in nice even strokes, but I’m afraid there were a few splashes and splodges that weren’t intended.”
“Especiall
y on our faces,” Ruth giggled. “We met Mr. Playdle when we were creeping and crawling home, and when he saw a great blob of green paint right in the middle of my nose, he said—”
“Perhaps someone will tell me what you’re all talking about,” Hilda interrupted, patting the plump back of a toddler who had let a crumb go down the wrong way.
“Miss Cat took four of us down to paint one of Mr. Barbin’s greenhouses,” Ruth chanted, bobbing up and down, as though she had been eight, instead of a great girl of twelve.
“Nicola and I were crazy to go,” Maureen chimed in, “but we weren’t old enough. I do love surprises.”
“I loved this surprise all right,” Geoffrey observed heartily, his eyes twinkling. “I shouldn’t think anyone else in the country has a greenhouse done up in such a tasty color scheme.”
“It’s good paint, anyway,” Matron told him, smiling. “I can’t testify to the workmanship—though I gather Miss Emberley was a highly conscientious foreman. But the will was there, I know.”
Geoffrey continued to beam. “The job’s been done extraordinarily well,” he asserted. “I shan’t have to worry any more about rotting woodwork, however much rain we get. All I want now is a large cup of tea in which to quench my thirst and toast the kind fairies who came to my rescue.”
Tea was a hilarious meal. Shy and hesitant at times, with children Geoffrey was perfectly at ease. He knew most of them by name, and as he chatted away to them, and teased them, Catherine could not but reflect on the sharp difference between him and Andrew in this respect. Andrew liked children but he was not immediately at home with them. It required an effort on his part to get on easy terms with them, and to be pitchforked into a crowd like this would have been something of an ordeal.
Occupied with her manifold duties, and with thoughts of Andrew that refused to be banished—thoughts concerning, among other things, that childhood of which he had spoken with such pain—Catherine paid little heed to Hilda during the next few hours.
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