“I wish you’d leave me alone. I’m miserable,” Leda declared.
“I can see you’re miserable,” agreed Harriet. “The question is why are you miserable? You’re well rid of Derek, you’ve had a lucky escape.”
“Don’t you understand —”
“I understand perfectly,” said Harriet. “Your pride is hurt — that’s what’s the matter with you. Now just you listen to me,” said Harriet and with that she opened out and told Leda a few things which she thought Leda ought to know. Leda would not have listened if she could have avoided it, but there was no escape. She could not get out of the swiftly moving car and walk away.
*
Meanwhile, Caroline took Harriet’s advice. She blew her nose fiercely, put on her best hat and a little rouge and set off to the village to do the shopping.
She had not gone far when she was overtaken by James.
“I’m coming,” said James, taking the basket from her. “You must never go down to the end of the town unless you go down with me!”
Caroline smiled for the quotation was apt: she and James had always loved the little poems in When We were Very Young and especially the one about James Morrison Weatherby George Dupree who took care of his mother and insisted on accompanying her on her shopping expeditions.
“All right,” said Caroline. “I won’t say I’m sorry to have your company.”
“It would be extremely rude of you,” said James sternly.
They walked on.
“I hope we shan’t meet the Meldrums,” Caroline remarked.
“I hope we shall,” returned James. “We’ve got to meet them some time. This is the way to do it — the sooner the better. Aunt Harrie knows.”
“Eve’s Dilemma,” said Caroline thoughtfully.
“Yes, she took that on the chin, didn’t she? But I expect she’s had other knocks too.”
The village was full of people, as it always was on a Saturday morning, and Caroline had a feeling that everybody knew about Leda and Derek and was talking about them. Naturally people would talk, for Leda and Derek were so well known in the district; their engagement had been the subject of conversation for days and the new development might prove an even more interesting topic. Mrs. Meldrum certainly knew. Caroline met her face to face coming out of the post office and the good lady started as if she had been stung by a wasp.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Meldrum. “Oh, Caroline! I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
“Saturday morning?” said Caroline smiling. “Of course I had to come and do my shopping. I couldn’t let the family starve just because Derek and Leda have decided not to get married, you know.”
“Then it’s true!”
“Oh, yes, perfectly true,” nodded Caroline.
“What a pity! You must all be terribly upset.”
“It is unfortunate, of course,” Caroline replied. “But it isn’t a major disaster. These things happen every day … young people are apt to rush into things and then find out their mistake.”
“And I hear Derek is going to marry Valerie Bright!”
“I heard that too. As a matter of fact, Sir Michael told me himself. I wonder where you heard about it.”
“I heard — I mean — er”
“Perhaps from your char?” suggested Caroline, helpfully. “How are Joan and Margaret?” asked James who had been standing by and had decided that the time had come for him to interfere (it was strange that his dear mother, usually so sweet and amiable, could not speak to Mrs. Meldrum for two minutes without getting into a wax). “I hope they’re all right,” said James earnestly. “None the worse of the party. Everybody thought their duologue was awfully good.” Mrs. Meldrum could not refuse this bait and the remainder of the conversation was concerned with the charms of her daughters and their astonishing cleverness.
“That’s that,” said James as they walked on. “It wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“Thanks to you,” replied Caroline. “I should have been rude to her in another minute if you hadn’t chipped in.”
“You were rude to her, darling,” said James. “I merely chipped in before you could be insulting.”
Caroline had thought an encounter with Mrs. Meldrum would be the worst to endure but she found it was much harder to endure encounters with people she liked and respected — Mrs. Severn, for instance. Mrs. Severn was so kind and sympathetic, so upset by the news of the misfortune which had befallen her friends that she said all the wrong things one after another … and then, realising her faux pas, tried to retract and floundered deeper in the mire. Caroline felt quite shattered after her chat with Mrs. Severn and decided to go straight home without waiting for the fish, but she did not get home without further adventures. Old Mrs. Podbury waylaid her and said what a pity it was … “And it’s funny, too, them knowing each other so well,” said Old Mrs. Podbury. “I was just saying to Amos, you could ’ave understood it if they ’adn’t known each other all their lives, I said …”
They met Robert Shepperton next, he came out of the Cock and Bull, just as they were passing the door. Peter and Ted were with him, for this was Saturday morning and they had just had their first lesson in the Art of Navigation.
“I’m sorry,” said Robert, stopping and speaking in a low voice so that the boys should not hear. “Mrs. Herbert told me. I’m afraid Leda will be terribly upset. I’m very sorry, Caroline.”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “Yes, it is — unfortunate”
There was no time to say more, for Mrs. Smart bore down upon them and putting her arm through Caroline’s, drew her aside and inquired for Leda in hushed accents as if Leda had just undergone a serious operation and her life was still hanging by a thread. How was the dear girl? Had she managed to get any sleep? Was she able to take any food? Caroline found herself saying that Leda was as well as could be expected — which was not only foolish but untrue.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED. News was received of Leda’s safe arrival at Mureth. She was “bearing up wonderfully” wrote her sympathetic aunt. They were giving a little party to cheer her up and were taking her to Dumfries to see Oliver Twist.
“That ought to cheer her up like anything,” remarked her less sympathetic aunt on reading Mamie’s letter.
It was all very well for Harriet to treat the matter lightly, but Caroline could not do so. Caroline was still worried and unhappy about Leda. There are sorrows which add to a person’s stature, but this was not one of them and, unless Leda could learn to bear it in the right spirit, it might embitter her for life. Caroline felt responsible for Leda — Harriet was not responsible in any way — therein lay the difference. So Caroline reread Mamie’s letter and thought about it and wondered how to reply, and how to write to Leda … if she wrote to Leda cheerfully Leda would think her lacking in sympathy, if she wrote with sympathy she might undo all the good that Mamie’s attempts at “cheering up” had accomplished.
Mamie was quite different from her sisters; she was not clever and amusing, like Harriet, nor capable and forthright, like Jean. Mamie had always been the dunce of the family — but how sweet, how innocent and good! Perhaps Mamie would be able to do for Leda what Caroline could not do. Caroline hoped so with all her heart.
Nothing had been seen or heard of the Wares since the breaking of the engagement, but one evening Sir Michael rang up and asked if James would like to shoot with him the following morning; he asked in a tentative and somewhat embarrassed manner and it was obvious that he was not very sure how the olive branch would be accepted.
James accepted it with alacrity, not only because he would enjoy shooting with the Admiral but also because they had all agreed it would be most uncomfortable and quite ridiculous to be on anything except friendly terms with the Wares. The sins of the children were not to be visited upon the fathers, as Harriet put it.
“Fine!” said the Admiral. “There may not be much to shoot but we can’t help that. It will be good exercise, anyhow. Rhoda’
s here and says she’ll meet us for lunch.”
James got out his gun and cleaned it carefully … and then he found he had no cartridges. He could ask the Admiral for some but he didn’t want to do that. When you were asked to shoot you took your own cartridges, you didn’t sponge on your host. Silas Podbury would have cartridges, of course — James had got them from him before — but by this time it was after eight o’clock and James wanted them early to-morrow morning. The difficulty might have seemed insurmountable to any one who had not been brought up from infancy in the village of Ashbridge, but James had had this advantage and he was aware that practically no obstacle of this nature was insurmountable if you gave your mind to it. He thought deeply and then rang up the telephone exchange on the chance that one of the operators might be a Podbury … and in a few moments later he was speaking to Violet Podbury who was a second cousin of Silas.
Violet was intelligent and caught on at once. “I’ll send a message to Dad,” said Violet. “Dad’s sure to see Silas at the Cock and Bull. There’s a darts competition on.”
“Good!” said James. “The only thing is how shall I get them?”
“That’ll be all right, Mr. James,” replied Violet. “Uncle Amos is fetching a load of gravel for the vicar early to-morrow.”
“Grand!” cried James. “Couldn’t be better.” He chatted to Violet for a minute or two, exchanging some gentle badinage and inquiring after some of her numerous relations and especially after her brother Luke who had sung with him in the choir when they were both trebles … and eventually he laid down the receiver secure in the comfortable conviction that the cartridges would be delivered at Vittoria Cottage round about eight to-morrow morning.
It was a lovely day. There had been a little frost during the night but the white rime was disappearing rapidly in the rays of the sun. James borrowed Bobbie’s bike and armed with his gun and a good supply of ammunition he rode over to Ash House. Rhoda was not yet up, but Sir Michael was ready and waiting.
“I’m not late, am I, sir?” asked James, anxiously.
“You’re early, my boy,” replied Sir Michael. “It’s a habit of mine to be ready too soon. Stupid habit, but can’t break it, somehow. We’ll get going straight off. I’ve got to get home for lunch, but you needn’t. Rhoda is bringing lunch out; she’ll meet you at the top of Cock Hill at one-thirty. That suit you?”
James said it suited him admirably, he was as free as air.
“Nice feeling, isn’t it?” said Sir Michael. “Grand to be free after being at every one’s beck and call for years. I remember how much I enjoyed it when I left the Service.”
James smiled to himself for this was the first time he had heard of an Admiral being at every one’s beck and call … but he understood what Sir Michael meant all the same. It was the absence of responsibility that was so delightful, the feeling that nobody depended upon you, that you were no longer Time’s slave.
They set off together at a good pace, through the garden and up the hill.
“How’s Derek, sir?” inquired James, for he had made up his mind that the sooner he cleared this fence the better.
“Getting on,” replied the Admiral. “He’s up and about but still a bit lame. This has been a blow to me, James. Don’t know what to say.”
“Better not say anything, sir,” suggested James.
“Better not to say anything,” agreed the Admiral, but he was not used to bottling up his feelings so he went on to say a good deal. James heard exactly what the Admiral thought of his son’s behaviour and the behaviour of his son’s future in-laws; he learned that Derek was to be married shortly with great pomp and circumstance and as soon as he was fit he was to be given a post — with suitable emoluments — in the tooth-paste business.
“Tooth-paste!” exclaimed Sir Michael in disgust. “And his future wife’s picture on every hoarding in the country. I call it indecent. I told Rhoda nothing would induce me to go to the wedding, but she’s talked me round, so we’re going — she and I. We’re going to the wedding but not to the reception — I drew the line at that. Rhoda was asked to be a bridesmaid but she refused the honour and I don’t blame her. Rhoda sees things straight — ought to have been a boy, I always said so.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said James. “I mean —”
“Let’s try this turnip-field first,” said Sir Michael.
There was no more opportunity for conversation — or at any rate for conversation unconnected with the matter in hand — for the Admiral was a keen shot and there was room only for one idea in his head at a time. They tried the turnip field with moderate success and then swung on to the moor. James was enjoying himself immensely. He was not shooting well, but the day was fine and the air was fresh and bracing. It was odd to think of the last time he had had a gun in his hands … not a shot-gun of course … and the totally different feelings he had had in his heart.
Sir Michael was a pleasant companion; he was unselfish and sporting and exceedingly tough for his age. James had expected that he would have to slow down his pace to suit his host but he found this was unnecessary. His host was always there and often there before him … and although Sir Michael was a very good shot himself he did not look for miracles from his less experienced guest.
“All right,” said Sir Michael, when James apologised for missing a hare in the turnips. “Don’t worry, James, you’d have got him plumb if he’d been a bandit. A hare’s too small — eh?”
“An elephant would suit me best,” declared James, grinning.
Once or twice the Admiral barked at James but James didn’t mind. He was used to being barked at by superior officers and knew exactly how much barks were worth. There were barks and barks, thought James. These sort of barks had no threat of bite in them.
“It’s a damn’ nuisance I’ve got to go home,” said Sir Michael at last, taking out his watch and looking at it regretfully. “Fact is old Stobbs is coming down to lunch — wants to talk to me about stocks, the old blighter! Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this.”
“It doesn’t matter at all, sir,” James assured him.
“You go on, James. You may get a pheasant in the wood.”
They parted with expressions of goodwill. The Admiral stumped off across the moor … but after he had gone a few paces he turned …
“James!” he cried. “Hi, James — don’t forget you’re to meet Rhoda for lunch! She’ll be disappointed if you don’t turn up.”
James assured him that there was no chance of Rhoda being disappointed.
“‘Hair such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance — floods of it, too!
Gold, did I say? Nay, gold’s mere dross ...’”
said James softly.
Rhoda turned her head and looked at him. “I didn’t know you were a poet, James,” she said.
“I’m not, but I like other men’s poetry,” he told her. “It sometimes says things you can’t say yourself.”
They were sitting on the very top of Cock Hill, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee from a thermos flask. Beside them lay James’s gun and a bag which contained a hare and a pheasant and a brace of partridges. The fine morning had become a gorgeous day, the air was crisp and clear; there were a few — but only a very few — fleecy, white clouds floating serenely in the pale-blue sky.
“Browning likes golden hair almost as much as I do,” continued James thoughtfully. “Most of his stuff might be written in Sanscrit for all the good it is to me, but some of his poems are quite easy to understand. For instance:
‘If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pale gold’
I like that,” said James dreamily. “I’d like to see a bright gold head painted upon a pale gold background.”
“Is that the poem where the man strangles the girl with her hair?” inquired Rhoda with academic interest.
James laughed. “No, that’s another one … and anyhow I don’t want
to strangle you, just to kiss you.” He put an arm round her shoulders and kissed her, very tenderly. “There,” he said.
“Not again,” said Rhoda, pushing him away and smiling.
“But Rhoda —”
“Once is enough. Listen, James —”
“Rhoda, please! Let me talk first. I want to marry you. I love you, love you, love you.”
“You want to marry my hair.”
“All of you,” said James earnestly. “Your hair and your nose and your lovely neck and your eyes … and the you that lives inside your eyes. That most of all!”
“You’re a darling, but I don’t want to marry you,” Rhoda said. She put her arms round her knees and looked away over the country which was spread out before them like a coloured map, or like country seen from an aeroplane. “I don’t want to marry any one,” she added.
“Never?” he exclaimed.
“Well, hardly ever,” she replied with a little chuckle.
“I can wait,” James told her. “I know you’re tremendously keen on your painting and of course I must get settled in a job before we could be married, but you do like me, Rhoda?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda. “I do like you — I more than like you — but I couldn’t give up my painting.”
“Rhoda —”
“No, James, I know exactly what you’re going to say, but I couldn’t go on painting seriously if I were married; certainly not if I were married to you. Perhaps I might be able to if I married a man who was a painter himself, but the trouble with me is I don’t like painters — not to marry. They’re amusing as friends, of course.”
“If I got a job in London —”
She put out her hand to stop him. “You see, James, I’m a good painter,” said Rhoda gravely. “I really am … and I’m going to be very good. It means work and work and work, but I love it, James. I’m perfectly happy when I’m painting. It absorbs every bit of me.”
“There’s nobody else?”
“Just painting,” she told him. “I expect it sounds silly.”
“Not silly a bit,” declared James. “I understand exactly what you mean but lots of painters are married, aren’t they? All the ones I can think of are married.”
Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1) Page 20