Matron frowned. “I shall mention this matter in the report which I’m sending off to the authorities today,” she said. “I shall suggest that they let you stay where you are until the New Year, and that when you go, Maureen accompanies you. They are very understanding people, and will do all they can to help you, I’m sure. It’s a very painful and difficult case, and can’t be handled simply in a routine way.”
A feeling of relief swept over Catherine; how could she have borne to tell Maureen that she was leaving her? But Matron said, rather sadly: “This problem is one that is always coming up in the course of our work. For one reason or another— very often because she very naturally wants to marry and have little ones of her own—a foster-mother leaves, and then the children have to start all over again. That’s why we try to plan things so that all the foster-mothers belong to all the children.”
Catherine looked anxious. “I never meant to monopolize Maureen’s affection,” she said quickly.
That familiar and kindly smile spread itself over Matron’s homely, weather-beaten features. “My dear, you’ve done well by Maureen,” she said. “The case, as I said just now, is quite out of the ordinary; I’ve no reproaches for you—nothing but praise.” She paused, and that troubled frown returned. “The child’s father has told us, more than once, that he intends going back to Belfast, where he originally came from; and he’s continually whining for us either to return Maureen to him, or take her off his hands altogether.”
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose if he once leaves this country, it will be no end of a job getting him to contribute towards Maureen’s keep.”
Matron gave a short laugh. “It’s no end of a job now, I gather! Of course,” and her face grew grave and thoughtful again, “the ideal solution would be to get her adopted into a nice family. But people naturally prefer small babies to leggy schoolgirls; and in any case, even to leave here would be too much of a wrench for her just at present. She’s too weedy to be transplanted into fresh surroundings yet.”
This characteristic gardening simile made Catherine smile, and Matron went on briskly: “Now we mustn’t, in all this fuss over Maureen, forget the other children. Miss Playdle and Miss Osworth were to go down to the school this afternoon to talk about the Nativity Play, and there will be great excitement when our little contingent comes back for tea.”
Catherine nodded, repressing firmly the sharp jealousy which clamored for admission at her heart at the thought that Beryl, secure in her position as Andrew’s future wife, was once again staying at the Manor. This morning, dependent on Andrew for help and advice, she had almost forgotten Beryl’s existence; it had been like having a wound temporarily numbed. Now all the feeling was returning.
“I’ll be as enthusiastic as you please,” she told Matron, with an effort at gaiety which would have passed muster with anyone less keen-eyed than Matron. “It would be a shame to let them down, poor kids.”
“Of course it would.” Matron’s tone was brisk. “They would be terribly flat and disappointed if we didn’t show the keenest interest. Besides,” she added soberly, “I’m only too glad for them to have a distraction. The less they think and talk, about this morning’s events, the better for everyone.”
And when the children came running home from school, their faces flushed by the keen air of the December afternoon, it was plain that the affair of Maureen’s stepmother—the knowledge of which it had been impossible to keep from them—had already taken a back place.
Vera Feldick, the eldest girl at the school, had been chosen to play the part of Mary, and a boy of about the same age was to be Joseph. Sturdy Ruth had been granted her wish, and was to figure among the shepherds—most of whom were boys—but Cecily had, it seemed, suggested that since Friday was rather young and might be scared by the bright lights and by all the people, a quiet old collie from the farm might appear on the stage instead. Several of the children from the Home, including Maureen, had been cast as angels, but a special part had been reserved for Nicola, whose voice was as sweet and true as a bird’s. She was to be Gabriel, and she, alone of the whole cast, had a solo to sing; an old carol with a sixteenth-century setting which, in its simplicity, exactly suited her light, effortless tones.
The chatter at the tea-table was almost deafening, and when the practical Hilda called for silence, and asked, a shade ruefully, how many costumes she was expected to make between now and Christmas Eve, it rose to a fresh climax. As the play was to be given for a charity, Askworth’s, the big drapers’ in Great Garsford, where Winnie and one or two other girls from the Home were apprenticed, had promised to make the costumes at cost price. Hilda, to whom most of the dressmaking at the Home fell, because of her talent in that direction, would be asked to supervise the designing, but would be freed from all the donkey-work.
Even Hilda could find nothing to grumble at over this arrangement, particularly since Ruth suddenly remembered to deliver a very polite and cordial personal message sent to her by Cecily, mentioning that she would be ringing up that evening to fix a time and place for a meeting with herself and other members of the committee.
And from that day onward “the play” was the main topic of conversation at Garsford House. All except the very tiniest were swept up into the excitement of singing practices and rehearsals, and when, as Christmas approached, the costumes began to arrive in batches from Great Garsford, the sense of thrill became even keener.
Behind the scenes, of course, more important matters had to be dealt with. Matron had to be interviewed by sundry official visitors in connection with Maureen’s alarming experience, and with her own strongly expressed request, sympathetically received, that the child should not, for some time to come, be separated from Catherine. And she had, moreover, to cope with the Christmas catering for her numerous family.
She was adept, however, in thrusting these preoccupations aside, when the children hung about her, eager to discuss what was to them the Great Event; and though her interests were always practical rather than aesthetic, her encouragement of the children’s efforts, and her praise when they did well, was unstinted.
Catherine, busy with extra chores—for Hilda was giving a considerable amount of time and energy to the designing of attractive costumes—tried hard to share the youngsters’ enthusiasm, and to shake off the unhappiness she felt over Andrew. The children, she soon discovered, liked Beryl no better for seeing more of her; their affection was all for Cecily. But this by no means comforted Catherine. She believed that Andrew, loving no one—certainly not herself!—had allowed himself to be rushed into an engagement with Beryl; and that even if he realized he was making a mistake, he would go through with it, and hope for the best.
The days, cold and wintry now, sped by with everything, so far as the play was concerned, going remarkably smoothly, when something happened which threatened to cast a gloom over the whole show, if not to spoil it entirely.
Askworth’s were late with the last of the costumes, so that the dress rehearsal was a patchy affair. And when, the very afternoon before the performance, after a minor blizzard, the final parcel turned up, it was found that Nicola’s costume, which had been designed in the style of a Botticelli angel, and which was one of the most important and beautiful of all, was missing.
“Nicola, for goodness’ sake, stop crying.” Hilda, as upset by the mischance as the child herself, and tired with her recent exertions, sounded thoroughly irritable. “Help Miss Emberley with the other children’s clothes—everything must be tried on carefully—and I’ll telephone and ask Askworth’s to put your dress in the post right away.”
But Fate was against her. When she returned to the playroom a few minutes later it was to tell Catherine shortly that it was impossible to get through to Great Garsford by telephone at all. The snow and the wind had played havoc with the service.
Catherine’s heart sank as she saw the dismayed expression on the children’s faces. Nicola’s solo was to be the star turn of the performance
; by it she was to bring shining honor to everyone at the Home. How could she perform without the lovely dress which had been specially made for her?
“It’s very tactless of Hilda to come out with the news in that abrupt fashion,” she thought; and then was ashamed of her unspoken criticism, for Hilda said, with that characteristic curtness of hers: “If you’ll get the children to bed on their own this evening—they’ll help you as much as they can, I’m sure—I’ll run over on my bicycle and fetch Nicola’s costume. The shop doesn’t shut until six, so there’ll be plenty of time.”
“But what about the snow?” Catherine exclaimed.
“It’s thawing already, and the wind seems to have dropped,” Hilda told her confidently. “Matron thinks I’m crazy; but I’ve explained to her that I’m used to cycling in all weathers, and that I’ve excellent lights.”
Catherine longed to ask: “Why don’t you tell Geoffrey Barbin what’s happened, and see if he’ll help?” But she refrained, for fear Hilda might flare up at her in front of the children, and the next instant her attention was distracted by Nicola who rushed, up to Hilda, her dark eyes still brimming with tears, and flung her arms round her neck.
“Miss Dewney, you’re an absolute angel. I’ll never’ forget this—never.”
“Nonsense!” Hilda tried, not very effectually, to conceal her pleasure at this spontaneous embrace. “It’s you that’s supposed to be the angel—and mind you behave like one while I’m gone!”
So busy was Catherine after this, helping the excited children try on their costumes and then, with Matron’s assistance, getting the whole family to bed, that she did not worry unduly when, by eight o’clock, Hilda had still not returned.
Matron, however, was showing distinct signs of anxiety and when, at half-past, eight, having been out in the road two or three times to look for her, she announced that the wind had veered east, and that it was beginning to freeze hard, Catherine, too, began to feel scared.
Nine o’clock came; and then Matron, unable to bear the suspense any longer, declared that she was going across to ask Geoffrey to get his car out and drive slowly in the Great Garsford direction. But she had hardly pulled on her coat and her thick shoes when there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the crackling surface of the ground, and the next minute the back door was flung open and Geoffrey himself staggered in.
“Here we are,” he exclaimed, with exaggerated nonchalance, and deposited very carefully on the kitchen table, not the usual sack of fruit or vegetables, but a snow-covered bundle which revealed itself an instant later as the flushed and embarrassed Hilda.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“My dear Hilda—what have you done to yourself?” Matron’s face, as she jumped up, and hurried across to the girl, was full of concern.
“Only given myself a bit of a shaking; but unfortunately I lost one of my shoes.” Hilda was certainly looking far more flustered than hurt. “I had a spill on the way home, and landed in a ditch full of snow.”
“She had picked herself and the bicycle out—more or less—and was hunting frantically for the missing shoe, when I happened along,” Geoffrey put in. “My car lights were slightly more effective than her bicycle-lamp, so we retrieved the shoe eventually. After that, as her bicycle was somewhat—crumpled!—she deigned to finish the journey by car.” He was smiling enigmatically at Hilda now. “But I believe she half repented not walking home on her two feet. She had to listen to a few well-chosen words from me on the subject of her foolishness in not asking me to run her in. I was going to Great Garsford anyway, and could easily have made it earlier.”
“I told him we could hardly look upon him in the light of our private chauffeur,” Hilda began, trying hard to look dignified.
His face lit up with delighted amusement. “And what did I say to that, Hilda?”
“You talked a lot of nonsense,” Hilda said quickly, refusing sedulously to meet his eyes. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get out of these dripping things, and into my nice warm bed. Here’s Nicola’s costume,” and she produced a flat parcel from inside her coat. “It will want pressing, but I contrived to keep it dry.”
“Very well; I’ll take your cycle home with me, and have a look at it. I’ll bring it back for sure, tomorrow or the next day.” To Catherine’s sunrise Geoffrey did not sound in the least chilled by Hilda’s curtness; but Matron, feeling perhaps that he had been insufficiently thanked, expressed her gratitude in no uncertain terms.
“We couldn’t have a better friend and neighbor,” she said, “and I only wish we could do more to show our appreciation. Now we can’t ask you in tomorrow—we shall be frantically busy over the play. But what about coming in for supper on Christmas Eve? All but the tinies are going to sit up until eight o’clock, and sing carols.”
“That will be grand,” he returned cheerfully. “You’ll be seeing me tomorrow all the same. I have to deliver that Christmas tree I promised you—and some good bunches of holly and mistletoe—unless, of course, Miss Dewney disapproves of mistletoe.”
“Disapprove? Of course I don’t.” Hilda’s chin went up in characteristic manner. “I think it’s rather unnecessary, that’s all.”
“Exactly my sentiments, Hilda,” Geoffrey concurred heartily. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” Then, as Hilda’s flush deepened ominously, he gave the three of them a hasty “Goodnight,” and went off, leaving a trail of melted snow behind him.
Whatever Matron thought of this rather odd little scene, she made no comment, but hustling Hilda off to have a speedy hot bath, set to work to make cocoa and cut sandwiches. As for Catherine,, she seized a pail of hot water and a floor cloth and, heedless of Matron’s remonstrances, went quickly over the tiled floor, mopping up the great pools of melted snow which Geoffrey and Hilda had left—well knowing that if she postponed the job she would find it done—by Matron—when she came down in the morning.
It was not only coltish Nicola who held up breakfast next day by hugging Hilda and smothering her with grateful kisses. Family feeling had grown so strong among the children that Nicola’s joy and relief were shared in full measure by them all. Even the babies, who had very little idea of what had been happening, clutched Hilda round the knees and clamored for a share in all this mysterious kissing and hugging.
Maureen alone was too shy to join in the uproar. She contented herself with smiling timidly at Hilda from a distance, and then took refuge with Catherine, helping her put round the plates of porridge, and tie the bibs round the toddlers, as they began to drift back to the low table assigned to them, and climb into their accustomed chairs.
Frost and sunshine had replaced the swirling snow and mist of the previous day, and the crispness in the air raised the children’s spirits to a high pitch. The long hours of rehearsal were over and done with; this afternoon, at last, the Nativity Play was to be given. And in two days’ time it would be Christmas.
The original notion had been to limit the audience to “members of the Women’s Institute and their friends,” but so eager was everyone in the village to see the play that this label became ludicrously elastic. Every member suddenly discovered that she had a host of friends, male and female, and an overflow performance had to be arranged for Boxing Day.
Hilda, who had been put in charge of the costumes, had, of course, to attend both performances; but Matron and Catherine were to take it in turns to see the show, Catherine going first.
Somewhat to her dismay Catherine found, on arriving at the hall with a bunch of excited youngsters, that she, too, was needed behind the scenes. Beryl had apparently decided that she had done enough: that having coached the shepherds in their simple ballet, she was now entitled to sit back and watch the results of her industry. And though Cecily made no complaint over her friend’s desertion, both she and Hilda looked so tired that Catherine felt bound to come to their assistance.
To Catherine fell the job of giving the angels the final “once-over,” and she was in the little passage behind the stage
, fixing Maureen’s silver halo more securely on the child’s dark curls, when Andrew came along.
“I’ve just been handing our old collie over to Ruth,” he said, pleasantly, but with a trace of embarrassment. “But, my goodness, Maureen, you are smart. Some angel!”
Maureen smiled at him happily. “I’m not nearly so grand as Nicola,” she told him, adding generously: “She has the nicest costume of all—blue shot with gold—and she deserves it. You’ve no idea how beautifully she sings, without a piano, or anything.”
“I think white and silver looks very nice,” Andrew assured her.
“Oh, but this dress of Nicola’s is heavenly” Maureen insisted. “And if it hadn’t been for Miss Dewney, she mightn’t have had it in time for today’s performance. Miss Dewney bicycled to Great Garsford yesterday evening specially to fetch it; and wasn’t it awful?’—she fell into a ditch full of snow on the way back, and Mr. Barbin had to pull her out.”
Catherine, aware of Andrew’s barely suppressed chuckle, tried to signal to Maureen that she had said enough; but she failed to catch her eye, and the child went on confidentially: “Not that Mr. Barbin would mind. We all think he wants to marry Miss Dewney, and take her off to live with him.”
“Good gracious!” Andrew looked startled now, as well as amused. But before he could speak, Maureen suddenly turned and looked up at Catherine with a sweet and utterly trustful expression in her blue eyes, and said adoringly: “If it was Miss Cat who was going away, it would be quite different. I think I’d die! But she isn’t going to. She said once she would never marry; and after all, why should she? She’s got plenty of children already.”
Cecily called then from the distance: “Maureen,” and the child ran off, leaving Andrew and Catherine standing there alone.
“I must be getting a move on,” Catherine said hastily, conscious, as always, of a quickening of her heartbeats, when Andrew was near.
I'll Never Marry! Page 16