by Betty Neels
Andrew nodded, not in the least abashed. ‘I thought you would have. Aunt Cassandra’s sorry for you, aren’t you, Aunt Cassandra?’ He added in the tiresome way of small children, ‘Why are you frowning, Aunt Cassandra? Are you cross?’
‘No!’ said his aunt explosively. ‘I’m going to help Jan with the washing up.’ She swept out of the room, considerably hampered by the dressing-gown.
Jan joined her in the kitchen and to her relief didn’t suggest that she return to the others. They washed up together and Jan carried on a rather sketchy conversation to which she paid little attention. She was looking around her as she dried the bowls and mugs, and she was astonished at what she saw. The old-fashioned dresser was neatly stacked with a variety of tinned food of a most expensive kind; on the kitchen table stood a large wooden box, its Fortnum and Mason label clearly to be seen; she glimpsed a half unwrapped York ham inside, and a Dundee cake wedged beside it. Already on the table, half unpacked, were a Fuller’s chocolate cake, several tins of coq-au-vin, some Stilton cheese and a pot of Gentleman’s Relish. She looked dumbly at Jan, who took no notice of the look at all, but thanked her nicely for her help and swept her back into the sitting-room.
Half an hour later, enveloped in a borrowed sweater and weighed down by a sheepskin jacket, she went down the path with Jan, leaving the children, who didn’t seem to mind her going in the least, in the care of their host while she went to fetch them some dry clothes.
Once home, she bade Jan make himself comfortable and ran upstairs and pulled on a sweater and slacks, folded the ogre’s sweater neatly, rammed it and clothes for the children into a hold-all and ran downstairs again. Five minutes later Jan was on his way back again.
Later, when he returned with the excited children, he told her that he would fetch her anorak and bring it to her the next day and she was shocked into exclaiming: ‘Indeed no, Jan. I’m perfectly able to fetch it myself.’
‘I enjoy the walk, miss,’ was what he said, and his tone was final.
She thought about it that night after they were all in bed and the house was quiet. He was such a nice man and though middle-aged, very wiry. True, he was a man of few words, but perhaps his life had made him so. She liked him and the children liked him too, just as they liked the ogre; she had been forced for the rest of the day to listen to their eulogies of him. She was, she told herself, heartily sick of Mr van Manfeld. She was very sorry that he was almost blind, but that was no reason for his deceit; allowing her to make cakes and pies and accepting them as though he had seen nothing better than bread and cheese for weeks. She recalled the well-stocked kitchen and the hamper of delicacies besides. He wasn’t poor at all; she would tell him what she thought of him when she saw him again. ‘And I hope I don’t,’ she said aloud, knowing as she said it that she didn’t believe her own words.
CHAPTER THREE
JAN ARRIVED WITH the anorak the next morning just as Cassandra and Mrs MacGill were sitting down to a cup of coffee in the bright warm kitchen. The weather had changed overnight; it was overcast, the wind was cold and he looked a little pinched, but when she invited him in to join them, he shook his head and refused in an austere manner.
‘Oh, do,’ she said coaxingly, and was repelled by the look he gave her. She had thought that what with the home-made cakes, the children’s visits and their frightening little adventure, there would have been the beginnings of a real friendship between them, yet now here was Jan demonstrating only too plainly that both he and Mr van Manfeld could do very nicely without her, for of course Mr van Manfeld was at the back of Jan’s reluctance. Probably they found her a great nuisance, the children as well. Indeed, casting her mind back, she was able to recall only too clearly the reception she had had on her first visit. She should have learnt a lesson from that; it was her own silly fault. To her intense shame she felt tears prick her eyelids and spill down her cheeks. Without speaking again, Jan turned and walked away down the path, leaving her to shut the door and go upstairs with the anorak, then to the bathroom to wash away the tear marks.
She went down to the village presently and made her modest purchases at the shop, then went back home. The weather hadn’t improved, she mooned around the house doing odd jobs which could have waited, then settled down on her hands and knees in the sitting-room, to cut out a dress for Penny. She had brought the material with her from London and Rachel had the last word in sewing machines; she might as well make use of it. She had just started to cut out the fine wool when the doorbell rang and she got to her feet, grumbling a little to herself because she hated to be interrupted when she was cutting out. She opened the door, the scissors in one hand, the tape measure dangling round her neck, and found Mr van Manfeld outside. He gave her no time to speak.
‘You cried,’ he began at once. ‘Jan told me you cried. Why? I really have to know.’
Cassandra opened her mouth, then closed it again, for she could think of nothing to say. When she remained silent, he asked: ‘May I come in? I daresay I’m unwelcome, but I’ve sent Jan on to the village and if you shut the door on me, I shall probably go the wrong way and fall in a ditch—think what shocking headlines that would make! ‘‘Cruel beauty abandons blind man to his fate’’—or...’
‘Come in, do,’ said Cassandra crossly even while she sternly suppressed laughter. ‘And how many times do I have to tell you that I’m no beauty?’
He had walked to the centre of the hall. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said softly, ‘I keep forgetting, don’t I? A slip of the tongue, shall we say—or an oversensitive imagination.’ He turned his face towards her and she saw that he was laughing silently. ‘May we stay for tea?’ he asked with a meekness which mocked her.
She didn’t answer that, but ‘Why have you come?’ she demanded. ‘Jan wouldn’t put his foot over the threshold this morning, and I daresay you told him not to.’
‘Indeed I did, my dear Cassandra Darling, though I shan’t tell you why. He came home mightily upset because you had wept, and told me that I must come and see you because he wouldn’t have you made sad. He is fond of you—once upon a time he had a daughter; if she had lived she would have cooked and kept house, just as you do so admirably. One day, when he knows you better, he will tell you about her, I think. It will do him good to talk about her to someone like you. But we digress—why did you cry?’
‘Come by the fire,’ she said with dignity, ‘and I have no intention of telling you, so don’t keep on so.’
He had followed her into the sitting-room, feeling around him with his stick as he went. Cassandra pushed a chair out of his way and warned him:
‘Keep a little to your left, I’m cutting out a dress for Penny, it’s all over the centre of the room.’
When he had settled in the armchair by the fire he continued, just as though he had never paused. ‘Much water wears away a stone, and you are no stone, and I am very persistent.’
She put the scissors down on top of the pattern and perched herself on the arm of the chair opposite him. ‘I don’t intend...’ she began.
‘Jan and I have been too long by ourselves,’ he stated. ‘We no longer know how to receive kindness with gratitude, rather we take refuge in bad temper and pride ourselves upon our independence.’
She spoke her thought aloud. ‘You told a lie to the children; you said that you were poor.’
‘Not quite a lie. I said there were degrees of poverty, did I not? and in the more important aspects of life I am poor. Don’t meddle with the context, dear girl, you will become confused. I spoke the truth; I am poor—in friends and affection and laughter and love.’
She went and stood in front of him. Her words tumbled out, one on top of the other. ‘It was so unkind—letting me make cakes! I thought you needed—I felt such a fool.’
‘That wasn’t why you cried.’ He got to his feet and put out a hand and touched her uncertainly on her arm. She fou
nd herself telling him against her will, ‘No, I wanted to be friends, even though you were quite beastly and—and you threw it back at me.’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘The first time I saw Ogre’s Relish I thought how lonely it looked and when the children told me about you—you couldn’t see, I wanted—it wasn’t curiosity, though I suppose it seemed like that to you.’
‘Perhaps, but only for a very short time. You see, you were—are—so refreshingly matter-of-fact about everything. Even in the loch—can you swim, by the way?’
‘Well, yes—not very well.’
He laughed and his hand tightened on her arm, then slackened as the door bell rang. ‘Jan,’ said Cassandra, feeling disappointed although she wasn’t sure why. ‘I’ll let him in.’
It wasn’t Jan, it was John Campbell, suitably wrapped against the wind and the soft fine rain which had been falling steadily. He smiled at her and said with ponderous playfulness. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Darling. I should be failing in my duties if I didn’t call to inquire what kept you from church yesterday. No illness, I trust?’
She had to ask him in. As they crossed the hall she explained in a few words and added, ‘Mr van Manfeld is here now, do come and join us.’
Mr Campbell stopped half way across the sitting-room floor. ‘I had no idea that you had a visitor,’ he protested. ‘I’ll come some other time, no doubt you wish to be alone...’
‘Why?’ asked Mr van Manfeld with interest, his face bland. ‘I came to see how Cassandra did after her ducking yesterday.’
Mr Campbell was prevailed upon to take a seat and turned his attention upon his fellow caller. ‘A pleasure to see you, Mr van Manfeld—we so seldom have an opportunity...’ he paused delicately. ‘I hope that no damage was done yesterday? Your eyes are in no way affected?’
So he knew all about it already—naturally, in a village as small as this. Cassandra shot a glance towards her other guest, who looked too good to be true with his bland face, only the dark glasses sparkling with hidden mirth; she hoped he would behave himself. She got to her feet and said brightly, ‘You’ll have a cup of tea? I was just about to put on the kettle.’
The pastor cast a doubtful glance at the ogre, who leaned back a little further in his chair and crossed his legs.
‘Do stay, Mr Campbell,’ he begged silkily, ‘then Cassandra will have to invite me too.’
On her way to the door, she turned sharply, and whatever it was explosive she was about to utter she bit back under Mr Campbell’s watchful eye. She addressed the dark glasses in her sweetest tones. ‘Oh, I took it for granted that you would stay, Mr van Manfeld. Surely you know me well enough to be certain that I would never send you out into the rain and wind to fall into a ditch?’
This speech was greeted by a bellow of laughter and, from the pastor, a look of pained surprise. Perhaps his sister had been right after all and Miss Darling was indeed one of these heartless modern girls with no pity for others less fortunate than themselves.
‘You’re old friends,’ he inquired cautiously, so that he could account for the laughter.
Mr van Manfeld thought deeply. ‘Not really,’ he said at length. ‘I’m thirty-five—I don’t know how old Cassandra is!’ He raised his voice to a roar and asked her and she shouted back from the kitchen: ‘Twenty-three, why?’
Mr Campbell looked at his companion through narrowed eyes. ‘That isn’t quite what I meant—no doubt, being a foreigner... Your English is excellent.’
‘Cambridge,’ said Mr van Manfeld briefly. ‘Do you think the weather has broken?’
When Cassandra came back into the room the two men were deep in various aspects of the weather. Mr van Manfeld appeared to be on his best behaviour and she sighed with relief.
They had scones for tea. She poured out, begged the pastor to help himself and explained that she would butter and jam a scone for her other guest.
‘One?’ his voice was positively plaintive.
She started on a second. ‘Two, then, and make them last.’ She put the plate on the small table she had set by his chair and guided his hand to it. ‘There’s the bell, that’s Jan. Good, he can have tea too.’
If Jan was surprised to see Mr Campbell he gave no sign, merely wished him a good day, put his packages on the table and sat down and addressed himself to his tea. Cassandra, pouring tea and passing scones, thought that three more ill-assorted guests it would be hard to find; it only needed the children to come in and say something awkward. The wish is father to the thought; it seemed in her case that fears were too; the children did come in, let out of school early for some reason or other. They wished everyone a good afternoon with a politeness which thinly disguised excitement and sat down at their aunt’s bidding to their tea. It was the ogre who sat the ball rolling.
‘Big with news,’ he pronounced. ‘I can feel it.’ He turned his handsome head in Mr Campbell’s direction and explained chattily, ‘A lack of sight makes one curiously perceptive to atmosphere. You should try it some time.’
The pastor looked taken aback; to forestall the sermon she could see trembling upon his lips, Cassandra said unwisely, ‘News? is there any news, my dears?’
They had been waiting for just such an opening. They spoke together and with a clarity no one could avoid hearing. ‘Maggie McLeod’s mum says Mr van Manfeld fancies you, Aunt Cassandra,’ and as though that wasn’t bad enough, ‘And Willy MacGregor’s dad says you spent the day at Ogre’s Relish, and...’
Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra could see the dark glasses dancing with unholy merriment. She ignored the first remark. ‘Of course I was at Ogre’s Relish yesterday—so were you—and where else should we have gone but to the nearest house after spending ten minutes in some of the coldest water I’ve ever been in?’ She glanced at the pastor. ‘It’s a wonder that Penny and I, let alone Mr van Manfeld, aren’t in bed with colds or worse.’
Mr van Manfeld remained silent, contenting himself with looking smugly acquiescent and as if to underline this, took out an enormous and spotless white handkerchief and blew his commanding nose.
Mr Campbell waited until the noise had subsided before he spoke.
‘I’m sure there was no other course open to you, Miss Darling. We must all be thankful that rescue was so close at hand. The water is indeed cold in Bru loch, possibly because it is reputed to be bottomless.’
Cassandra choked over her tea. ‘Then it was true! How lucky I didn’t panic. I should have sunk without trace, and how fortunate that Mr van Manfeld knew how to get us out—we should never have found the place on our own.’
Everyone looked at the ogre and the dark glasses beamed back at them in what Cassandra could only describe to herself as sickening modesty.
She asked, ‘Who’d like more tea? And there are heaps more scones in the kitchen. I’ll get some fresh tea and another plateful...’
‘Allow me,’ said Mr Campbell gallantly, and took the teapot from her as the children started off with the empty plate. They all went out of the door together and Jan got up at the same time and went to look out of the window. Cassandra nipped smartly to her feet, went across to Mr van Manfeld’s chair and put her face close to his, hissing. ‘You’re to behave yourself!’ and before she could withdraw it he had turned his head and kissed her on the corner of her mouth. There was no time to say all the things which bubbled on her tongue; Mr Campbell was on his way back, she could hear his measured tread in the hall. She cast a look at Jan’s back and retreated to her chair just as the foraging party returned.
‘So peaceful,’ declared Mr Campbell as he entered the room. ‘Is there anything better than tea round the fire on a dark afternoon?’
He addressed the room at large and for one awful moment Cassandra was afraid that Mr van Manfeld was going to dispute this opinion, for a wicked little smile hovered round his mouth. Doubtless he was going to make some outrage
ous remark. She burst into speech herself and saw to her annoyance that the smile had widened.
‘Oh, I quite agree,’ she said in the unnaturally high voice of a hostess at bay, ‘such a pleasant part of the day, but I’m sure the winter is long and dark here, Mr Campbell?’
She sighed with relief as the pastor embarked on a rambling account of winters he had experienced while living on the island, and what with asides about isobars and digressions concerning deep depressions, it took them through the demolition of the scones and the emptying of the teapot and shortly afterwards, as neither of his companions showed signs of going, Mr Campbell rose to his feet. ‘I’m glad,’ he told Cassandra ponderously, ‘that you have taken no harm from your little adventure yesterday. My sister will be delighted to hear of your lucky escape.’
‘I thought she already knew,’ remarked Cassandra forthrightly, so that he added quickly: ‘Oh, yes, but there were various tales—rumours. You know how it is in a small place where everyone knows everyone else.’
‘Rumours which I can rely upon you to—er—correct, Mr Campbell?’ Mr van Manfeld’s voice was soft and he was smiling. Cassandra would have given much to have seen his eyes.
The pastor looked at him a little uncertainly and assured him that he would. As she accompanied him to the door he said in a voice for her ears alone: ‘You don’t mind? That is, Miss Darling, you have no objection to being left alone with Mr van Manfeld and his servant?’
‘They are our friends,’ she corrected him gently. ‘The children love them dearly and we owe them a great deal, surely you agree with that? Rachel and Tom would wish me to offer them hospitality at the very least.’
He shook her hand. ‘Yes, yes, I daresay you’re right. I only wish I were in a position to offer you my protection...’
Cassandra withdrew her hand. ‘From what?’ she asked, ‘or should I say from whom? I never felt safer, I assure you, Mr Campbell. It was kind of you to call.’ She smiled at him kindly because he was so completely under his sister’s thumb. Even now he looked as though he would give anything in the world to recall what he had just said. Taking pity on him, she went on: ‘It’s very nice to know that you and your sister keep kindly eyes upon us while Tom and Rachel are away.’