“Well, I suppose you don’t mind if I go up through your skylight,” says Adam. “It would save a lot of bother.”
“Not at all,” says the other young man, cordially.
They both disappear and in a very few minutes reappear together at Pinkie’s door, and having done this little job of work together they are now the best of friends.
“Isn’t that lovely!” exclaims Pinkie, walking into her flat. “Isn’t it lovely, Hester! We shan’t have to spend the night in the streets. Do come in, everybody. I’m sure you want something to eat. I’m simply starving.”
We all go in. Pinkie throws off her coat and dashes into the kitchen to see what she can find. The two young men vie with each other in being helpful. Adam carries in a tray with plates and knives and a loaf of bread, Pinkie follows with a tinned tongue and a dish of butter. Four glasses arc produced and an assortment of bottles from a cupboard in the dining room. The other young man does yeoman service with a corkscrew.
“Cider for me,” says Pinkie as she lays the table. “I expect Hester would like cider—there’s beer and gin and vermouth—or whisky and soda. Guthrie can get any amount of it, so don’t worry.”
During these activities it has become known that the second young man’s name is Frank and the others call him Frank without hesitation.
“Another knife, Frank,” says Pinkie. “In the right hand drawer . . . oh, and a spoon for the jam while you’re about it.”
My job has been to blow up the fire, which was nearly out, and by the time I have got it blazing cheerfully the meal is prepared and we all sit down.
“This is a lovely party,” says Pinkie rapturously. “It’s the very nicest sort of party in the world, so unexpected and jolly. Half an hour ago we didn’t know each other and here we are—all friends.”
It is true, of course. As I sit back in my chair (for to tell the truth I am tired, not having the stamina of extreme youth to endure fatigue and excitement) I reflect that, although life today is less gracious and a good deal less comfortable than it used to be when I was Pinkie’s age, the young of today have something that we lacked. They are so eager and willing to help one another, they are so unself-conscious, so frank and easy and sincere. They are generous and open-handed, sharing what they have and never counting the cost.
“It was nothing,” Adam is saying. “I mean I liked doing it frightfully. I mean—well—to tell you the truth life is a bit dull nowadays. This time last year we were swanning along madly on tanks. It was tremendous sport—”
“I was at Südlohn with the Guards Armored,” says Frank. “Yes, just a year ago, today. We found an egg-packing factory, bung full of fresh eggs and they doled them out to practically everyone in the Division. It was a great day, I can tell you.”
“That’s the sort of thing people remember,” says Pinkie regretfully. “I mean people don’t tell you about battles, they tell you where they got fresh eggs.”
“Because they seemed more important,” explains Frank. “There were skirmishes all the time. We were moving up pretty fast and the centre line was so narrow that sometimes it scarcely existed at all—the fighting was an everyday job, but the eggs were a treat.”
Pinkie gives him up in despair and turning to Adam enquires about his roof-climbing affrays.
“Oh well,” says Adam, trying to play up. “Most of our roof-fighting was before we crossed the Rhine. There was one town we had to clear and we did it almost entirely by roof. We mopped it up good and proper taking it house by house. It was frightfully exciting because the Boches still had a lot of fight in them—or at least some of them had. You never knew whether they were going to throw up their hands or fight it out so you had to be pretty careful.”
“I was wounded at Visselhoevede,” says Frank, taking up the tale. “That was the eighteenth of April—a pretty big show, it was. We attacked the place from two directions. It was rather sickening to be wounded just at the end, like that. I should like to have seen it through.”
We eat and drink and talk, but by this time I am so sleepy that I can hardly keep my eyes open, and although it is all extremely interesting I am not sorry when our visitors depart and we can go to bed. Just as I am dropping off to sleep Pinkie calls out to me that she has found the key, it was in the drawer of her dressing table.
TUESDAY, 9TH APRIL
Pinkie and I have breakfast together. The little sitting room is flooded with sunshine and as spick-and-span and shining as a new pin—all traces of last night’s carousal have vanished. On being questioned Pinkie admits that she always gets up early and does most of her housework before breakfast, in this way she provides a nice long easy day for herself. It is obvious that whatever she does suits her admirably for she is in blooming health and full of vitality.
Betty’s train is due at twelve o’clock and as usual I find myself at the station far too early. Tim has tried for eighteen years to break me of the habit of being too soon for every appointment (a habit which he considers a positive vice and worse than the opposite extreme) but he has had no success and I still continue to waste my time in this reprehensible manner. As I wander up and down the platform I observe a number of people congregating—people of about my own age and very much my own type—and I realize that these must be “parents” like myself. Some of these people have met each other before and greet each other cordially, others walk past each other with elaborate disinterest. Nobody shows the slightest inclination to speak to me.
The train arrives at last. The doors are flung open and out pours a flood of girls, all arrayed alike in camel-hair coats and green berets, all carrying little suitcases and hockey sticks; they are all about the same size or so it seems to me—they are all plump and rosy and full of the joy of life. In fact they are so alike that I am assailed by the conviction that I shall not recognize my own child and am quite panic-stricken in consequence—quite forgetting that if the worst comes to the worst it is more than probable my own child will recognize me. I am still looking wildly up and down when I am almost knocked flat on my back by a very large child throwing itself into my arms and shouting “Mummy!”
“Betty!” I gasp. “Goodness, how you’ve grown!”
“I haven’t,” says Betty, hugging me. “Or at least not enough to notice—I couldn’t have in six weeks. Good-bye Sonia!” cries Betty disengaging herself and waving frantically to her friends. “Good-bye Jane—see you next term—good-bye Barbara—”
Somehow or other we extricate ourselves and Betty’s luggage from the crowd.
After the first excitement of seeing each other has died down Betty becomes rather silent and it is not until we are safely in the train bound for Ryddelton that I begin to hear about school. The train is full, so we are jammed up together in a corner of the compartment, and at first Betty is stiff and unresponsive, her body is like a piece of wood; but presently she relaxes and leans her head against me and all is well.
“This is lovely,” says Betty.
“Lovely. I’ve missed you frightfully.”
“So have I, though I didn’t really know I was missing you until now.”
“I’m glad you didn’t know.”
“I’m glad, too,” says Betty frankly. “Some of the girls are awfully miserable at first—but as a matter of fact there was such a lot to do at school that I didn’t have time to miss anybody. It’s very interesting—much more interesting than old Miss Clarke’s—and of course I’ve got heaps of friends. We acted a play—it was Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was Puck.”
“Puck!” I exclaim in surprise—for there is nothing very fairy-like about my daughter.
“Yes, it was tremendous fun scattering poppy dust on people’s eyes. Have you ever seen the play?” enquires Betty.
“Not for a long time, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll tell you about it,” says Betty eagerly.
The way is beguiled by Betty’s exposition of Midsummer Night’s Dream and presently we reach Ryddelton and are met by Todd and driven in
a competent manner to Tocher House.
It is late when we arrive and Erica has retired to her room, but Annie is waiting for us and she and Betty greet one another affectionately.
“I can hardly wait till tomorrow to see everything,” declares Betty. “It’s a marvellous place, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be a lovely house for hide-and-seek?”
I explain hastily that such a thing is impossible, she must be very quiet and good.
“Oh, I’ll be good,” says Betty nodding. “But I can’t promise to be quiet, it’s far too difficult. Some people are made that way so it’s easy for them, but I don’t seem to be able to move without making a noise.”
Although I am very tired after all my adventures I lie awake for a long time worrying about the difficulties which loom ahead. Betty is larger than ever and more than ever full of abounding energy and life. I would not change her if I could, of course, for it is natural and right that a child of her age should be full of high spirits—but how am I to keep her in the background and ensure that she shall not annoy my employer? There are two problems here: first I must see to it that Betty has plenty of scope, for it is her holiday and I want her to enjoy herself; second I must see that she keeps out of Erica’s way and does not upset the elderly guests with her chatter. I am too busy to look after Betty, and Annie has her own work—her days are full. There is Margaret McQueen, of course, but she cannot be saddled with Betty from morning to night.
I toss and turn. It is going to be very difficult. I decide that I shall have to leave Tocher House and take rooms elsewhere. Perhaps Betty and I could go back to Donford—Grace might find me some place to go. What a fool I was not to think of all this before and make arrangements for Betty’s holidays!
WEDNESDAY, 10TH APRIL
Various matters over which I have no control conspire to make me late for breakfast and when I reach the dining room and slide in between the screens I discover Erica and Betty seated at the table eating bacon and eggs. This discovery surprises me considerably for I told Betty last night that she was to have her meals in the other room and Betty seemed to understand the situation and accept it as a natural dispensation. I am about to remove my child with suitable apologies but am prevented from speech by the cordial nature of my reception. Betty leaps up and hugs me ecstatically and Erica says she’s thankful to see me and how was Edinburgh looking. Curry arrives with a plate of porridge and the next moment I have taken my seat at the table and said nothing.
It is obvious that I have interrupted a conversation and now that I am settled it continues amicably. The subject is hockey. Betty is a novice of course, but is tremendously keen on the game and when she discovers—by dint of questioning—that Erica when young was a member of the Scottish Ladies International team her eyes nearly fall out with surprise. They talk about bullies and shooting goals and other matters of importance and as I have never played hockey in my life I am obliged to hold my tongue.
Betty is finished first, she asks if she may go, and on receiving permission from her hostess goes with all speed to explore the domains. It is now time for me to tackle Erica.
“I’m sorry, Erica,” I tell her. “I’m afraid Betty can’t have understood the arrangement about meals.”
“She understood perfectly,” replies Erica, seizing the last roll and tearing it apart. “I saw Betty in the garden before breakfast and arranged for her to have her meals with us.”
“But Erica!” I cry. “Why on earth did you—”
“Be calm.”
“Listen, Erica. You said you didn’t like children, so it will be much better—”
“I do not like children,” says Erica firmly. “Pass the marmalade, please.”
“Well, then—”
“Betty is a person—an individual. Say no more.”
I disobey the injunction. “You may get bored with her chatter,” I declare.
“You do your daughter injustice, Hester. Betty is quite sensible enough to see if her chatter is boring me and desist. Parents are always unjust to their children,” continues Erica. “They are either foolishly fond or else they fly to the other extremes. A parent is biased by affection, prejudiced by familiarity which breeds contempt.”
“I think you’re talking nonsense, Erica.”
“Possibly,” say Erica calmly as she gathers up her letters and goes away.
My morning is so busy that I have no time to think about Betty, but she appears at lunch looking clean and tidy.
Erica enquires where she has been and what she has seen, to which Betty replies that she has been a long way and it was lovely.
“I don’t call that much of an answer,” says Erica drily.
Thus challenged Betty becomes rather pink and says she didn’t know Miss Clutterbuck wanted a full account of her morning’s rambles. Sometimes people ask you things and don’t really want to know.
Erica admits that this is true, but adds that she is not one of those people. If she asks a question she likes it answered thoroughly.
Betty looks a little thoughtful and then says it really was lovely; she went down the avenue and across the road and up through a field which was being ploughed by a man driving a red tractor, the earth which was newly turned looked good enough to eat—just like the chocolate truffles Mummy used to buy at Fortnum and Mason. There was a hawthorn hedge up the side of the field and it was covered with green buds which reminded Betty of the poem by Browning—“Oh, To Be in England Now That April’s There.” There were huge bushes of gorse—some of them in flower, all golden and lovely with the sun shining on the flowers. At the top of the field the earth was redder—not like chocolate—and there was a gate leading into a wood. The ploughman was sitting there having his dinner, he had cold tea in a tin can and some meat pies rolled up in a red cotton handkerchief. It was lucky he was there because there were doves in the wood—you could hear them cooing—and he was able to tell Betty that they were “cushat doos.” (Betty thinks they are called that because of the lovely sleepy sound they make). She talked to him for a bit and then went on, skirting the wood. Here and there she saw chestnut trees with sticky brown buds, and the larches had green button buds on them. It was high up, of course. She looked down into the valley and saw little farms, whitewashed, with slate roofs—and one of them had a pond, shaped like an eye. It was as blue as the sea in the middle of a very green field and there were geese near it. Far in the distance she saw the town of Ryddelton, hidden in the haze of its own smoke. The sky was as blue as blue, says Betty, and the sun was warm and golden. She thinks Tocher is the most beautiful place in the world.
Erica listens to all this quite patiently (she could do no less having asked for it) but obviously she has had enough. When Betty pauses for breath she says, “You seem to have used your eyes to good effect. Use your teeth now.”
Betty smiles and tucks into her dinner—nor does she utter another sound.
This episode pleases me and I address myself, silently, in the following words: My dear Hester, if you would cease worrying about things which have not happened you would spare yourself some grey hairs. You worried yourself silly about Erica and Betty—and you see how unnecessary it was. Erica and Betty understand one another very well (if you want to be quite honest they understand one another a deal better than you do). They are the same kind—in a way—or at least much more the same kind than you are. They will be very good for each other, that’s obvious. Erica will benefit from having somebody in the house who has no fear of her and will take her at her word without the slightest hesitation, and Betty will take no harm from being gently squashed. You can sit back quite comfortably and leave them to work it out.
After lunch I pursue Margaret McQueen to her bedroom (she spends most of her time there for she shuns the society of the other guests) and I find her sitting near the window with a book on her lap; but she is not reading the book, she is gazing out of the window at the trees; her face is very pale and wears an expression of hopeless misery. I knew that Margaret was un
happy, of course, but today I have caught her off her guard and I am quite horrified at her appearance. Something will have to be done about Margaret, she can’t be left alone.
“What do you want?” she asks looking round at me, her eyes vague, as if she had been far away and suddenly called back to earth by my entrance.
I hand over the eighty pounds in notes—and to tell the truth I am glad to get rid of them.
“Eighty!” exclaims Margaret incredulously.
“The diamonds were good.”
“You couldn’t have got all that for the ring!”
“Where do you think it came from?” I enquire jokingly.
This question is unanswerable, and Margaret does not attempt the impossible; she thanks me for my help and compliments me on my cleverness. It seems to me that the least she can do is to ask me to sit down for a few moments, but Margaret thinks otherwise; in fact she makes it plain that having been suitably thanked I should go away and leave her to be miserable in peace.
I hesitate for a moment and then sit down on the window seat.
“Did you enjoy yourself in Edinburgh?” enquires Margaret making the best of a bad job.
“Very much,” I reply. “But I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about your affairs, please.”
“I told you not to,” says Margaret fiercely.
“I know, but—”
“I can manage my own affairs perfectly well without interference from other people.”
This opening is unpromising—indeed Margaret looks so disagreeable that I feel inclined to give up the struggle and leave her alone—but there is nobody else to help her.
“I think it’s a good thing to talk to somebody about your affairs,” I tell her in reasoning tones.
“I can’t,” she replies. “I don’t want to. I wish I hadn’t told you anything.”
“I’m worried about you, Margaret.”
“Don’t worry, I shall get over it, I expect. People can’t go on being miserable forever—or can they?” says Margaret listlessly.
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