Mr. Shepperton sat down and watched her for a few moments without speaking; she was ironing handkerchiefs, he noticed.
“Tell me,” repeated Caroline. “I’m awfully vague about people.”
“In Denmark,” he said. He was remembering more and more clearly. It was all coming back. He had been staying in Hillerod and had gone to see the Castle at Elsinore. There were about a dozen people going round the castle, following the guide from room to room and listening intently to all he said. Robert Shepperton had noticed the English couple and had wondered if they were father and daughter or husband and wife. She was a lot younger … but no, she was not his daughter for she called him by his Christian name. “Are you sure it isn’t too tiring for you, Arnold?” she said. “Arnold” was behaving badly, behaving like a spoilt child. He commented unfavourably upon the exhibits, he wondered aloud what the devil that fellow was saying and why he couldn’t speak some civilised language. The young wife tried to pacify him, she was embarrassed and ashamed. They had come to a large chamber full of finely-carved cupboards and chests and she lingered behind the others. “You’re interested in carving?” he inquired. “Chests fascinate me,” she replied, looking up at him (her eyes were deep blue — almost dark-blue, Robert Shepperton noticed). “Chests are fascinating,” he agreed. “Almost frightening,” she said a little breathlessly. “Perhaps because of the Golden Bough,” he suggested. After that he had attached himself to the couple and had been able to translate some of the guide’s patter for their benefit … Robert Shepperton understood Danish, he was a born linguist and especially interested in Nordic languages.
That was all that had happened. He had forgotten the incident long ago, but he had remembered the girl’s face. She hadn’t changed much — not as much as he had, anyhow — and the carved oak chest in the hall had given him the necessary clue.
“In Denmark!” exclaimed Caroline. “But that was years ago. It must be twelve or thirteen years since Arnold and I went to Denmark.”
“It was at Elsinore. There was a huge oak chest; you said it frightened you.”
“But of course!” she cried, turning and looking at him. “You’re the young man who spoke Danish! How queer! Oh, dear, that was rather a dreadful afternoon. Poor Arnold was so — so annoyed because he couldn’t understand.”
“It is annoying,” said Mr. Shepperton hastily. He was almost sorry now that he had reminded her of something which was not a pleasant memory.
The iron went thump thump, for some moments before Caroline spoke again. She was remembering that wretched afternoon.
“Arnold was very clever,” she said at last. “He saw how unsettled the world was — everything slipping downhill. He was sure there was going to be another war. Sometimes I almost feel glad he didn’t live to see it. He said things were going from bad to worse and he was quite right, of course … but it doesn’t help to be miserable; it doesn’t make things right to keep on grieving over them. It clouds the sun, that’s all. When Arnold spoke to people they used to get more and more worried, and they went away looking as if the cares of the world were upon their shoulders; their shoulders drooped under the burden. They were less able to carry on and do what they had to do — there was no heart left in them. I used to be sorry about it.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Shepperton. “I can understand —”
“People can’t go on living without happiness — or at least without hope.”
Mr. Shepperton nodded. He said, “A merry heart goes all the way, a sad tires in a mile-O.”
“Here have I been talking and talking,” said Caroline, “and Shakespeare says it all in two lines!”
“He has a way of doing that.”
“I’ve thought a lot about happiness,” Caroline continued. “Perhaps because I saw what unhappiness did to Arnold. I’ve sometimes thought, supposing everybody — every single person — decided to do their level best to make one small corner of the world happier. Would that help?” She spread out a wrinkled pillow-slip as she spoke and smoothed it skilfully.
“Like that,” he said.
She smiled. “You mean ironing out the wrinkles. That’s easy.”
“If you know how.”
“I know how to iron out wrinkles,” she admitted, folding the linen carefully. “If everybody did what they could … made a little happiness here and there, just to start with … and then the circles would spread until they touched and merged.”
“Everything ironed out.”
She took Leda’s tennis shorts and spread them on the board. “It isn’t impossible,” she pleaded. “It isn’t impossible if we started to go about it in the right way. We’re going about it the wrong way … Passing laws and trying to make people happy and good … there’s only one way in which it can be done and that’s from inside outwards; starting with the individual and spreading outwards to others. Some people have power in them and could do a lot, others could just do a little, but everybody could do something … even if they just made one house a happy place.”
The thud of the iron as she pressed Leda’s tennis shorts punctuated her remarks and Robert Shepperton did not interrupt. She was talking to herself really — or so he thought. He found it restful sitting in the bright kitchen, watching and listening. He needed rest and peace.
Presently she folded the last garment and added it to the pile. “Let’s have tea,” she said. “The girls have gone over to Wandlebury so I’m alone, and you certainly deserve tea after listening to all that. Tea is set in the drawing-room.”
He rose at once and helped her with the preparations, lifting the shining aluminium kettle off the stove and pouring the boiling water into the teapot. Caroline went upstairs to tidy, and when she came down she found him in the drawing room tending the fire.
“I’ve saved it,” he said without looking up. “I haven’t known you for seven years unless we count from Elsinore, but the case was pretty desperate.”
“Let’s count from Elsinore,” she suggested. As a matter of fact, she was surprised to find him handy with kettles and fires. He looked so immaculate — as if he had never done a domestic chore in his life. “You clothes are marvellous,” she added with a sigh.
Robert Shepperton had no idea of the train of thought which had preceded Caroline’s remark. “I have no old clothes, that’s the trouble,” he said. “I suppose these will get old in time.”
“No old clothes?” she asked, sitting down and beginning to pour out tea.
He hesitated. She thought for a moment he was going to tell her why, and then she saw him change his mind. Well, if he doesn’t want to … she decided, and began to talk of something else.
They were still having tea when the young people got back from Wandlebury. The Derings had brought Joan Meldrum and Derek Ware — or rather Derek had brought them. He had seen the girls waiting for the bus and had given them a lift. Introductions were made, more cups were fetched and the quiet room was suddenly full of chatter. Caroline was used to her daughters’ friends and their conversation; she did not take much part in it. Usually she found it pleasant and amusing to sit back and listen. (Once she had been young and green, but she had known she was green and they didn’t. Therein lay the difference. She did not presume to criticise them, not even to herself. She was sorry for them; they had so much to learn.) But to-night Caroline found their conversation almost intolerable. It was because of Mr. Shepperton, of course. Mr. Shepperton was sitting back, drinking his tea, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the fire (it was a delightful fire by this time); he looked quite happy and peaceful — he looked rested. She recognised him now and wondered why she had been so stupid about it. He had interested her — all those years ago — and he interested her now. He had travelled widely and was full of interesting ideas, but there was no chance for him to talk, he was given no opportunity. Derek and Leda and Joan were doing all the talking, they were discussing their friends and their friends’ affairs. Bobbie laughed and giggled and ate largely of buns and jam.
Perhaps he sensed her discomfort, for all at once he pulled himself together and entered the fray. Derek was inveighing against the dullness of the country in general and of Ashbridge in particular.
“It is dull only to dull people,” Mr. Shepperton said.
Derek looked at him in surprise. “But country people are dull. That’s the point,” objected Derek. “Sometimes I go round the farms with Dad and it takes them about five minutes to answer a simple question.”
“They’re slow — not dull. It’s quite a different thing.”
“Oh, I agree with Derek!” cried Leda. “Country people are so dull that they don’t even appreciate the beauty of the country.”
“Are you sure of that, Miss Dering?”
“Good heavens, it’s obvious!” exclaimed Derek. “Where would you find a farmer or a ploughman with an eye for the beauties of Nature? They’re all as dull as ditch-water.”
“That’s rather sweeping,” said Mr. Shepperton, smiling. “I grant you countrymen seldom write poetry about the country. Their hearts don’t dance with the daffodils. They work in the earth so they know all about it — but in this case familiarity breeds respect. They don’t see magic in a field of waving corn but they feel satisfaction and pride. The fact is they love the earth as a child loves its mother, not as a man loves his mistress.” He hesitated and then added, “That’s why the countryman is slow and wise.”
“Oh well, you may be right,” said Derek casually. “I don’t pretend to know much about ploughmen except that they smell.”
The girls laughed.
Caroline was incensed — this was beyond all limits of rudeness! She looked at Derek with flashing eyes. “If you don’t pretend to know about ploughmen you’ve no right to say they’re dull,” she told him. “First you say one thing and then another; you can’t have it both ways. I’ve always thought law students were taught to argue logically,” added Caroline, ramming her point home.
There was an amazed silence.
“Come and see my garden, Mr. Shepperton,” said Caroline sweetly.
Mr. Shepperton rose at once. He had taken out his handkerchief and was blowing his nose with unnecessary vigour to hide an untimely smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAROLINE WAS SITTING at her desk doing accounts. It was a job she disliked intensely. She disliked it all the more because her income seemed to dwindle and her expenses seemed to rise, and she had an uncomfortable feeling that if this went on much longer she would find herself in a mess. Arnold had left all his money in trust, for he had no opinion of Caroline’s business capacity; he had left it in gilt-edged securities which were perfectly safe, of course, but which yielded very small returns. Arnold had foreseen the war but apparently he had not foreseen the increased income tax nor the rise in the cost of living. It was unfortunate that Caroline had no money of her own — unfortunate and somewhat unfair. Her parents had been well off; they owned a beautiful place in the South of Scotland, but they had four daughters, and when they managed to arrange an exceedingly good marriage for their eldest child they decided they had done all that was necessary for her. Caroline would be well cared for as the wife of Arnold Dering, so they could write off and divide their capital between the others. Arnold Dering agreed. He had plenty of money and preferred that his wife should have none of her own. He felt safer. Caroline knew nothing of these arrangements, she was barely eighteen when she was told that Mr. Dering had asked for her hand and that her parents had accepted the offer. “You like him, don’t you?” her mother had inquired. Caroline liked him. She was rather surprised that he wanted to marry her — he seemed older than her idea of a husband — but it was nice of him to like her so much. She was grateful to him. So Caroline had said “yes” to Arnold Dering and had done her level best to make him a good wife. She had sunk her whole personality to be Arnold’s wife, but even that was not enough, he was still unsatisfied … he took everything and still wanted more. Sometimes Caroline had felt that a woman of stronger, tougher fibre might have made a better wife for Arnold, a woman who could have stood up to him and remained a whole person.
The other three Armstrong girls had been less docile than their elder sister and had chosen their own paths. Jean had married an American and lived near Boston. Caroline had not seen her for years but they corresponded regularly, and sometimes parcels of dried fruit, sugar and rice and large tins of shortening and bars of milk chocolate and boxes of candy arrived at Vittoria Cottage to gladden the hearts of its inmates.
Mamie had married a farmer and lived in the Scottish Borders, she had no children and (perhaps on that account) she took a lively interest in the affairs of the young Derings. They were invited to Mureth in the summer holidays and enjoyed themselves immensely; on one occasion they had all gone to Mureth for Christmas and had come in for deep snow and winter sports. James had always been an especial favourite … and Jock Johnstone had hinted to Caroline that he was thinking of making James his heir. “I like your laddie,” he had said. “I’d like James to have Mureth when I’m gone. I like to think if Mamie had had a son he would have been just such another fine straightforward fellow.” This was high praise (especially from Jock Johnstone, who was not given to flattering speeches), but Caroline had not known what to say in return for James had not decided what he wanted to do … and, besides, Caroline had felt that Mureth should go to one of Jock’s own nephews, it had been in the Johnstone family for generations.
Harriet was the youngest of the Armstrong girls and the least docile. She had chosen her profession and pursued it in spite of all her parents could say or do, in spite of every obstacle they could put in her path. They broke with her completely at one time, but after a bit they “came round,” for Harriet was their youngest and their dearest and they could not bear to be on bad terms with her. She had made good and they had lived to be proud of her — which amused Harriet a lot — they had even suggested that she should drop the fictitious name, which she had assumed for the stage, and allow herself to be known as Harriet Armstrong; but it was too late for that, she had climbed out of the ruck as Harriet Fane and intended to stick to it.
Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong died within a few months of each other not long before the beginning of the Second World War, the place was sold up and the estate divided between Jean and Mamie and Harriet. It had all been arranged years ago, of course, and the Armstrongs had never thought of altering the arrangement. They had got it firmly fixed in their minds that Caroline was well off and did not need their money.
Caroline thought of all this as she added up her accounts. She did not blame her parents … but how nice it would have been to have a little money of her very own. What a difference it would have made! The only money she had which she considered her “very own” was the money she got for her honey. She kept it in a little box in a drawer in her desk. She could do what she liked with it, she could spend it on her own amusement, she could buy something she wanted — but did not really need. This year Caroline intended to go to London for a week and stay with Harriet. She had promised to go so often and always something had happened to prevent her. This year she would go — it was definite — and she would see Harriet in the new play, Eve’s Dilemma. Harriet had got her a seat for the first night and an invitation to the supper-party afterwards. It would be fun.
Caroline smiled to herself. She lifted her head from the horrible account-book and, looking out through the french window, saw Leda and Derek coming up the path together.
&n
bsp; They were engaged! Caroline was sure of it. She knew it as certainly as she knew her own name. Her heart gave an odd sort of flutter and seemed to turn over in her breast — it was not a pleasant feeling. Of course she had known it was coming … though now she became aware that she had not really known, for, if she had known, why should it be a shock? And why was it a definitely unpleasant shock? Derek was a nice lad in spite of the fact that he was a little too pleased with himself. He was good-looking and eligible and they were in love. I ought to be pleased, thought Caroline. Why am I not pleased? Will Sir Michael be pleased?
Caroline half rose and then sat down again. She would leave them alone. She would wait for them to come to her.
They came up the path, hand in hand, and paused at the window.
“Mummy,” said Leda. “Derek and I —”
“We’re engaged!” cried Derek. “Mrs. Dering, we’re engaged! Isn’t it wonderful!”
Caroline found herself speechless. She rose and put an arm round Leda and held out her other hand to Derek.
“It’s wonderful,” declared Derek. “I mean, we’ve always known each other but we never thought — did we, Leda? I mean, it’s quite different now.”
“You’re both so young,” murmured Caroline.
“Older than you were when you were married,” objected Leda. “And not only older in years, Mummy. Nowadays people know more, and go about more, and have more friends.”
“We want you to be pleased,” added Derek. “But even if you aren’t pleased … I mean, Leda and I know we’re absolutely made for each other.”
“But you are pleased, aren’t you, Mummy?” said Leda confidently.
“If you’re happy —”
“Of course we’re happy!”
“And if Sir Michael agrees.”
“Yes,” said Derek with less confidence. “Yes, well — of course Dad may be a bit surprised at first. I expect he’ll be like you and say we’re too young, but that’s nonsense, of course. We know our own minds. As Leda says, people are older nowadays; they aren’t sheltered and pampered as they were when Dad was a boy.”
Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1) Page 4