The interview lasted for nearly an hour, and Sandy came out of the studio with pink cheeks and glowing eyes.
“He’s great, Sue,” declared Sandy.
Sue had known that before. “What have you decided?” she asked with her usual practical common sense.
“I’m to have supper with you,” said Sandy, “and then I’m to go straight home and speak to Father. Mr. Darnay says he’ll help me to get into a veterinary college—he knows a man who’s the head of one in England—but he says I must speak to Father myself.”
“That’s fine,” exclaimed Sue.
They sat down and had supper together. Sandy was full of excitement and optimism. Already he saw himself a vet tending sick horses and curing them of diseases that defied the efforts of every other vet in the country.
“Then you’ll speak to Father tonight,” Sue said as she saw him off at the door.
Sandy hesitated. “Maybe I’ll wait till Sunday,” he said doubtfully. “There’s more time on Sunday. It would be a pity to spoil everything by speaking too soon. There’s plenty of time. I’m not to leave school till Easter.”
“Speak to him tonight,” Sue told him. “Get it all settled.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Sandy vaguely, and he walked off slowly up the hill.
He had to wait for some minutes before the bus hove in sight, and during this cold wait his spirits sank. He began to visualize the interview with his father and to make up his mind what he would say. He knew quite well that the interview would be a very unpleasant one, and he hated unpleasantness. I can’t, thought Sandy miserably. I’ll have to wait a bit and get him in a good mood—perhaps Sunday—or next week sometime. I’ll wait.
When he got out of the bus at the Market Cross his spirits had risen again, for he had decided to put off the unpleasant interview indefinitely, and the mere fact that this unpleasantness had receded into the distance was a relief to his mind. He walked home up the High Street, and as he walked his pocket jingled in a most delightful way, for Mr. Darnay had given him five shillings to spend on something he wanted. What did he want?
He stopped dead outside the window of the saddler’s shop. The shop was closed, of course, but there in the window was the air rifle that he had wanted for months. “Yours for 5 shillings,” said the notice in large letters, and below, in smaller letters, was added, “and 1 shilling weekly.”
Sandy’s eyes gleamed. He could buy the air rifle now, or at any rate he could buy it tomorrow. It would be his very own. He had the five shillings in his pocket. The weekly payment of one shilling did not bother him much, for he would manage that somehow—he could save up his pocket money or borrow from Grace.
The next day was Saturday, and Sandy was off to the saddler’s directly after breakfast. He was much relieved to see that the rifle was still in the window, for his dreams had been haunted by the fear that somebody else might walk in and buy it before he could get there. Mr. Hogg, the saddler, was in the shop himself and received Sandy with a smile.
“Aye, it’s a nice wee gun,” he said. “I’ll get it out of the window for you.”
Sandy put down his five shillings and took the rifle in his hands; it was smooth and shiny. His heart was thumping with excitement.
“Ye’ll come pay me yer shilling every week, mind,” continued Mr. Hogg. “Any day that suits ye.”
“I’ll pay you on Saturdays,” Sandy said quickly. “Can I take the gun now?”
“Surely ye can,’” replied the saddler, smiling.
Sandy took it and departed, walking on air. He was meeting his crony, David Brown, and they had arranged to go for a bike run together, but the new acquisition changed their plans. They rode up to the moors and spent the day shooting at rabbits instead—it was a splendid day.
“We’ll do this every Saturday,” Sandy declared as they rode home in the falling dusk, “and when the days get lighter, we could come up here after school.”
David agreed enthusiastically.
Chapter Nine
Mr. and Mrs. Bulloch were sitting by the fire. Mrs. Bulloch was knitting a gray sock, and Mr. Bulloch was reading out tidbits from the evening paper. They were very happy and completely in harmony. The fire burned merrily in the grate and was reflected in dancing points of light in the lenses of Mrs. Bulloch’s spectacles and on the highly polished surface of her knitting needles. Outside the wind howled, and now and then the windows rattled, but this only served to accentuate the comfort of the cozy room.
Sue, who had taken an evening off, found her grandparents sitting there and felt a sudden surge of affection for them—like the affection felt by a traveler in foreign lands when he beholds the white cliffs of Dover looming out of the haze—here they were, and here they always would be, solid and reliable, and loyal. She had never realized before how much she loved them nor how much she depended upon their love.
The Bullochs were delighted to see their granddaughter and to see her looking so well and happy. They did not rise to greet her, for it was not their nature to be demonstrative, but their two heads turned toward her, and their kind eyes smiled.
“My, you’re a stranger!” Mrs. Bulloch declared.
“Granny and I were thinking you’d forgotten us,” added Mr. Bulloch.
“It’s my first outing,” Sue told them, “and I came straight here, so you don’t need to complain.”
“Ye’re liking it?”
Sue nodded. She had established herself on a footstool between them and the glow of the fire was on her face. Mr. Bulloch thought that there was an “alive” look about her that had been absent from her since her mother’s death, and he noticed that the small bitter lines around her mouth were smoothed away.
“It’s good to be useful,” Sue said frankly. “It’s worthwhile. Yes, I’m liking it.”
The Bullochs waited for a few moments, hoping for more information, but none was forthcoming.
“Is Mrs. Darnay kind?” asked Mrs. Bulloch at last.
Sue sighed. She had known that she would have some such question to answer. “Mrs. Darnay’s not there. She was called away—it was on business,” she added, hating the lie.
“And the Frenchwoman. What like is she?” inquired Mr. Bulloch with interest. “She’s been in the shop once or twice and I’ve never cared for the look of her—a sly boots if ever there was one. Don’t you trust yon Frenchwoman a yard, Sue.”
“She’s not there either,” Sue said.
“Ye’re there alone!”
“It’s nicer, really. Grandfather’s right; she was a funny sort of woman. She nearly had me deafened with her talk the first night—it’s much better now she’s gone and I can do things my own way.”
They looked at each other over Sue’s head and read a certain apprehension in each other’s eyes.
“I’m thinking ye’d best come home, Sue,” said Mr. Bulloch slowly. “It’s a queer sort of thing altogether.”
“It’s lonely for ye,” Mrs. Bulloch declared.
“I like it,” she told them, “and how could I come away and leave Mr. Darnay to do for himself? He paints all day and every day—who’s going to do for him if I come home?”
“It’s a queer sort of thing,” her grandfather repeated, frowning. “I’m not liking it at all for ye, Sue. I’m thinking ye should tell Mr. Darnay ye’re leaving and let him get some other body to do for him—an older person.”
Sue was surprised at the strength of her objection to this suggestion—she felt quite angry with her grandfather—and yet she had known that some such suggestion would be made. She was wise enough, however, to hide her feelings, for if they thought she was too anxious to remain at Tog’s Mill they would be all the more determined on tearing her away.
“We’ll see,” said Sue equably. “Maybe later on.”
The Bullochs were not deceived by this diplomatic reply, for they knew th
eir granddaughter pretty well, and nobody could know Sue without being aware of her stubbornness and independence, but they could do nothing more at the moment, so they held their peace.
“I’m worried about Sandy,” said Sue, after a moment’s silence.
“What’s Sandy been up to?” inquired his grandmother.
“I wish he had been up to something,” Sue declared. “He’s never up to anything. He just lets things slide.”
“Will tells me he’s to go into the bakery,” said Mr. Bulloch. “Is that right, Sue?”
“He doesn’t want to,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to say any more about it and finally decided on the latter course. She had discussed the matter very fully with Mr. Darnay, and he had pointed out that nobody could help Sandy unless he would help himself. It was Sandy’s own nature that was the real problem.
“He should tell his father what he wants to do,” declared Mrs. Bulloch sensibly, and so saying she rose and began her preparations for supper.
“Grandfather,” said Sue, “will you come down to the shop? I’m wanting some things to take back with me.”
Mr. Bulloch laughed. “Ye are, are ye? Maybe ye’ve forgotten the time. The shop’s been shut two hours, Miss Pringle, I’d have ye know.”
“It’ll be all the quieter for me, and I’ll see what I want all the better,” Sue told him with a twinkle in her eye. “If you’re feeling tired you can give me the key and I’ll take what I want myself.”
“Save us all!” cried her grandfather in mock alarm.
He heaved himself out of his chair and led the way down the narrow corkscrew stair that descended from the house to the warehouse, turning on the lights as he went, so that when they reached the ground floor the whole place was brilliantly illuminated. Sue was quite dazzled by the glare after the soft glow of lamps to which she had become accustomed.
“It’s bright,” she exclaimed, looking around her and blinking a little.
“Aye, it’s bright,” agreed Mr. Bulloch with pride. He loved his shop, and he loved to see it like this—swept and garnished, full of delectable goods from every country in the world. There was romance in this business of his (though he would never have admitted it, for he liked to pretend that he was a hardheaded businessman). All those cases, packed by white men and yellow men, brown men and black men, consigned to him from the uttermost parts of the earth, were unpacked by his own staff in his own warehouse and displayed to the good folk of Beilford on his ample shelves—was that not romance? The mere names of the goods he sold were like a song in his heart and made little colored pictures in his mind. Sugar, for instance, was no mere comestible, used to make puddings and cakes or to sweeten a man’s tea, for Mr. Bulloch knew the history of sugar and how, long before Christ was born, the sugarcane was known and valued in the East—in Persia and Egypt and Bengal. He knew how it had been introduced into southern Europe, and later, as an experiment, to South America and the Indies; he knew what the plant looked like growing in the fields—the tall straight cane, with its graceful fronds, and the flowering stem bearing its feathery flowers—and how it was tended by brown men and black, the juice extracted and prepared for use. He could see in his mind’s eye the packing sheds—long, low buildings, shaded by tropical trees—and the gaily colored clothing of the natives as they went about their work, packing the very cases that now stood in the storehouse behind his shop.
All this passed through Mr. Bulloch’s mind when Sue, in her soft low voice, remarked prosaically, “A quarter stone of granulated and a pound of the best cube.”
But sugar was not the only commodity that had history and tradition; tea and coffee, ginger and spices—in fact, everything in the place—possessed a history and was interesting in its own way. Even the comparatively recent “canning industry” had its own particular thrill, for how amazing and wonderful it was to think of men picking peaches in Africa or California and sealing them in tins so that folk in the bleak winter of Beilford could share the prodigality of their warmer clime!
The big tubs of golden butter, which stood in the corner by the window, brought Denmark with its tall, fair people and its green meadowlands before Mr. Bulloch’s eyes, and the round red cheeses evoked visions of the Netherlands, visions of canals, with slow-moving barges, of windmills and fields, of tulips and sleek, fat cows. Mr. Bulloch had seen most of these places with his own eyes when he was young, for he had had a passion for wandering over the world and his father had encouraged him to travel. He had combined business with pleasure and had built up useful connections for the firm with all sorts of strange people in all sorts of strange lands.
Sue, though less knowledgeable than her grandfather and less romantically minded, had a great affection for the shop and was extremely interested in its contents. She looked around the well-stocked shelves and felt a sudden surge of greed—what marvelous, what succulent dishes she could make for Mr. Darnay if she had the run of this place! The list of groceries with which she had armed herself seemed meager and inadequate indeed, but she pulled herself together and decided that necessities came first.
“This isn’t your best rice, Grandfather,” she said, taking up a handful and letting the pearly grains trickle through her fingers.
“It’s not,” he agreed, laughing delightedly at her cleverness. “Are ye wanting the best rice, Sue? Can he afford to pay for it?”
The question pulled her up short, and she hesitated a moment, for she had not the smallest idea of Darnay’s financial status. It was Mrs. Darnay who had the money—Ovette had told her so—and Mrs. Darnay had gone.
“I was only teasing,” Mr. Bulloch declared. “The bill’s always been paid—a bit late at times, but that’s carelessness and not the want of money. The Darnays are the kind of folk who have always had money to spare, and it’s that kind ye find being casual about their bills. Ye don’t need to worry, Sue.”
“No, I’m not worrying.”
“Does he get big money for his pictures?” Mr. Bulloch inquired, pausing in the act of weighing out two pounds of his best rice. “Some artists do, but maybe ye’ll not know what he gets.”
“He used to get big money,” Sue replied—she was wandering around the shelves now, selecting tins of peaches and pears and smaller ones of asparagus tips for the little savories that Darnay so enjoyed. “He used to get big money, but he’s given that up now. He’s started painting in a new way and he may not get so much.”
“That’s a queer setout,” declared her grandfather.
“What’s queer about it?”
“Supposing I was to give up this shop that pays me well, and start trying to run a different kind of business—would ye say that was not a queer thing to do?”
“It’s different altogether. You’re contented with the shop—it’s not only the money, is it?”
“No, it’s not only the money,” he agreed.
There was silence for a minute or two, and then Sue said, “Bacon, Grandfather,” and added defiantly, “The best Wiltshire, please,” for whether Darnay could pay for it or not he should have the very best.
“Pick it yerself, then,” Mr. Bulloch invited her with a twinkle in his eye.
Sue considered the sides of bacon with the utmost gravity. “I’ll take three pounds of this,” she said at last, “and I’ll slice it myself if you’ll put it on the machine for me—he likes it thin.”
“Never!” exclaimed Mr. Bulloch in mock surprise. “He likes the best Wiltshire, and he likes it cut thin! Ye’ll be telling me he likes a couple of the best new-laid eggs with it next.”
“I’m getting my eggs from a farm near,” she told him.
“Mine’ll not be fresh enough for him, I suppose!” said Mr. Bulloch humbly.
Sue had to laugh then—she couldn’t help it—and her grandfather joined in with such a lusty roar that Mrs. Bulloch heard it in the sitting room and came down to
ask what the joke was.
“Mr. Darnay likes the best Wiltshire, cut thin,” declared Mr. Bulloch, between his gusts of laughter.
“Well, and what of it?” said his wife, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “What’s to laugh at in that, Thomas? It’s the way ye like it yerself.”
By this time the pile of groceries on the counter had grown to considerable proportions—bags of cereals, tins of fruit, bacon, butter, sugar, and cheese were but a few of the treasures that Sue had culled from her grandfather’s stock.
“I’m thinking it’ll have to go in a crate,” he said, looking at the pile doubtfully, “or maybe Alec Anderson would take it out to ye for an obligement.”
“You’ll send it out early with your own van,” said Sue firmly. “The butcher doesn’t come till late. What’s the van for if you can’t send out an order in it—a big order like that.”
“Did ye ever hear the like!” cried Mr. Bulloch with feigned dismay. “I’ve to send the van four miles with one order, and gas at one and eight the gallon!!”
“It’s one and sevenpence halfpenny,” amended Sue, who happened to be in possession of this useful piece of information owing to a similar but far more heated argument with her father’s van man.
Supper was a cheerful meal, for Sue was in excellent spirits and kept her grandparents amused with lively accounts of her doings at the mill. She told them of her struggles with the kitchen range and how she was sure that it harbored an imp of darkness in its vast and gloomy interior, and she told them about her walks on the moors and how the birds sang in the early morning. In fact, the Bullochs had never heard her talk so much, and it was only afterward, when she had gone, that they discovered how little she had told them.
“It’s queer, her not going along to Number Three,” Mrs. Bulloch said thoughtfully. “Will and Grace’ll not be best pleased that she came here and never went to them.”
“She hadn’t time,” Mr. Bulloch replied as he took his beloved cello from its case and prepared to practice a tricky passage in Haydn’s concerto.
The Baker’s Daughter Page 6