The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

“What did she want?”

  “I asked her what she wanted and she replied, ‘We thought Mr. Sandford would come—or else send a proper lawyer.’ I ask you!” exclaimed Ronnie in disgust.

  “It’s just that you look young,” said Elfrida in soothing tones.

  “Don’t I know it! Your friend, Miss Martineau, was staggered when she saw me.”

  “You were staggered when you saw her,” Elfrida pointed out.

  “That was different. I mean that was because she was such an astonishing sight . . . so early in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  Ronnie sighed. “People expect a partner in Riggs, Sandford and Wilkins to be a grizzled dotard or, at the very least, a middle-aged gentleman with stooping shoulders and a bald patch. I’m not really young, you know. I’m nearly twenty-seven and—and I took a First at Cambridge.”

  “How clever of you, Ronnie!”

  “Not clever, just hard work. You see, Uncle Bob was paying all my expenses so I felt I had to swot.”

  Elfrida nodded. “That’s what you meant about generous uncles!”

  “He was annoyed, wasn’t he? I don’t often mention it but sometimes it comes over me and I feel I have to.”

  “He was only pretending to be annoyed.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” asked Ronnie, surprised. “That hadn’t occurred to me. Perhaps you’re right.”

  “I’m right,” she said with conviction. “I haven’t got your kind of cleverness but I’ve knocked about a good deal so I know human beings.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ronnie thoughtfully. “You were clever with Uncle Bob; you managed him beautifully. You put things right so that he wasn’t angry with me, and you’ve got your own way about Mountain Cross . . . but we’ve strayed from the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “The point is that if I’m going to stay at Mountain Cross you’ll have to explain to Mrs. Chowne that I’m a lot older than I look—a very staid and respected member of the firm. You must call me Mr. Leighton and pretend to be a little bit frightened of me.”

  Elfrida thought this would be difficult—and said so.

  “You’re an actress,” Ronnie pointed out. “So you ought to be able to do a little thing like that quite easily.”

  “But I’m not an actress any more; you said so yourself.”

  Ronnie was bending down to pick up his table-napkin which had fallen on the floor and when he straightened himself he had a flourishing brown moustache. He had put it on hastily and it was slightly crooked. “That makes me look older,” he said.

  “It makes you look like a little boy at a Christmas party.”

  “Oh, I say!”

  She was laughing so much that she could scarcely speak, but she managed to gasp, “Take it off quickly—the waiter is looking.”

  Ronnie removed it and put it away in his pocket. He said, “Perhaps if I tried to grow one——”

  “I don’t think it would suit you,” objected Elfrida. Besides lawyers don’t go in for moustaches. Don’t worry, you’ll get old soon enough.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to be old, I just want to look a bit older,” Ronnie explained. “Peter Riggs is only a year older than I am, but he’s dark with a long, bony sort of face and receding hair.”

  “He doesn’t sound attractive. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “He’s the son of Arnold Riggs and a partner in the firm,” explained Ronnie. “I’ve known him for years and years, of course. They live quite near us at Uxbridge. I say, don’t you like that pudding?”

  “It’s very nice but I can’t eat any more.”

  “You ought to eat more,” Ronnie declared, looking at her with a worried expression. “You haven’t eaten enough to nourish a mouse . . . and you’re much too thin.”

  After they had finished lunch they had coffee in the lounge and then went out for a walk in the garden. It was pleasant to stretch their legs after sitting in the car all morning and the garden was well worth seeing. There were daffodils, standing up like regiments of soldiers, and there were buds on the trees; everything was much further advanced here than in London.

  “I feel as if we were in a different country,” said Elfrida. “Even the air seems different.”

  “It’s ‘the West Countree’.” Ronnie sighed and added, “I do envy you spending spring at Mountain Cross.”

  Thus reminded of their destination Elfrida suggested that they should continue their journey.

  *

  6

  The car went like a bird. Ronnie adored driving “the Jag” (it was a very different machine from his own little second-hand Wisp) and if he had been by himself he would have sped on to Mountain Cross and would have arrived a great deal sooner, but he thought his companion was looking tired so he stopped at a small inn for tea. It was after five when they turned off the main road, snaked their way through narrow lanes with high banks on each side and presently arrived in a small village nestling cosily in a dell. There was a triangular green surrounded by cottages with daffodils in their gardens. The old church and the vicarage stood back from the road, half hidden in a grove of beech trees. On the right there was a post office and general store, on the left was an inn with a sign board depicting Three Jolly Men.

  “What a dear little village!” Elfrida exclaimed.

  “Mountain Cross,” said Ronnie. “And here is the entrance to your property, Elfrida Jane.”

  There were no gates, just a wide entrance with stone pillars on each side. Ronnie turned in and went slowly up the steep avenue which was more like a dry watercourse than a road.

  “It’s a bit rough,” he commented. “But it would cost the earth to mend it properly and it would be as bad as ever after one or two winter storms.”

  Elfrida was too excited to speak.

  The house was a long-shaped building of grey stone, with a closely-fitting slate roof. There were only two storeys. It was not a pretty house but it looked solid and permanent, as if it had been built to stand for ever and a day.

  Mrs. Chowne must have heard the car approaching for, as Ronnie drove up to the front door, it opened and she stood there, smiling shyly.

  “Here we are!” cried Ronnie. “This is Mrs. Chowne! I told you about her, didn’t I? Mrs. Chowne . . . Miss Ware.”

  Elfrida got out of the car and shook hands with her.

  “You must be tired,” said Mrs. Chowne. “It’s such a long way from London.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Leighton is a very good driver and the car went splendidly.”

  “Chowne had better come and help with the luggage,” said Ronnie.

  “He’s coming,” replied Mrs. Chowne. “I’ll take Miss Ware straight upstairs to her room. You know your way about, don’t you, Mr. Leighton?”

  Elfrida followed Mrs. Chowne up the wide shallow stairs, It was dark inside the house; the windows were small and the hall and staircase were panelled with oak, but when Mrs. Chowne opened the door of the bedroom it was very bright. There were two windows, facing south and west, so the room was filled with the golden rays of the declining sun.

  “Oh, what a lovely room!” Elfrida exclaimed.

  “Yes, it’s nice,” agreed Mrs. Chowne. “It was Miss Marjory’s room so I thought you’d like it. The furniture is nice and the bed is very comfortable and there’s a bathroom next door. The view is nice, too.”

  The view was magnificent; the windows looked straight out on to calm blue sea which stretched to the far horizon where it merged almost imperceptibly with the cloudless blue sky.

  “Lovely!” murmured Elfrida, standing entranced.

  “It isn’t always calm,” said Mrs. Chowne. “Sometimes the waves are furious, dashing over the rocks, but the house is very solid. Mr. Leighton called you Miss Ware, but you’re really Miss Thistlewood, aren’t you?”

  Elfrida nodded and explained the matter. “Perhaps you should use my Christian name,” she suggested.

  “That will be nice, Miss Elfrida,” said Mrs. Chowne, smiling happily.
“You’re Miss Marjory’s daughter—and very like her—so I don’t feel strange with you and I hope you don’t feel strange with me. I was quite excited when Mr. Sandford telephoned and said you were coming . . . so was Ernie.”

  “Ernie?” asked Elfrida.

  “Chowne,” explained Mrs. Chowne. “Ernest Chowne his name is. We’ve been married for twenty-seven years . . .”

  Mrs. Chowne certainly was a talker; she continued to chat while Elfrida washed her face and hands and unpacked some of her things. By this time Elfrida had had time to look at her properly; she was of medium height, not exactly stout but shapeless, with sandy hair scraped back from her forehead into a large “bun.” Her eyes were blue and her cheeks hard and red like russet apples; she looked amazingly healthy and strong.

  “You’ve been here for a long time, haven’t you?” asked Elfrida.

  “I came when I was fifteen—and that wasn’t yesterday. Mrs. Ware took me as under-housemaid. I loved Mrs. Ware—she was very good to me—but Mr. Ware was different. He was proud and selfish and he got more selfish when he got older. Very difficult he was at times. For instance, when Mrs. Ware wanted a new rug for the hall he said he couldn’t afford it but he always had money to buy stamps.”

  “Did he write a lot of letters?” asked Elfrida in surprise.

  “Oh, I don’t mean stamps for letters; it was stamps for his book. He spent hours, pottering with his book; he used to show his book to Ernie and tell him about it . . . You leave the rest of your things, Miss Elfrida. I’ll unpack them for you later. I’d better run and see to the dinner now. I’m giving you soup and fried sole and chips and lemon sponge. It’ll be ready at eight.”

  Elfrida was glad to be alone; she opened the window and lay down on the bed. She was very tired and her head was aching . . . but it was so quiet and peaceful, and the soft air drifting in through the window was so refreshing, that soon she began to feel better.

  Mountain Cross, thought Elfrida. Mother’s home . . . Mother’s room . . . Mother’s bed! If only Mother were here it would be perfect.

  *

  Ronnie and Elfrida were summoned to dinner at eight o’clock and sat down together in the large and somewhat gloomy dining-room. Mrs. Chowne had turned on the light which hung over the table but the rest of the room was in shadow, so it was not until they were half-way through their meal that Ronnie noticed the engravings hanging upon the panelled walls and got up to examine them.

  “They’re pictures of the Spanish Armada,” said Mrs. Chowne, who had come in with the lemon sponge. “Mr. Ware was very interested in history; there are lots of history books in the library. I’ll put on the big light so that you can see the pictures better.”

  The engravings were in heavy oak frames: one depicted Drake playing bowls with his entourage; the others were scenes of battle, with huge ships firing guns or tossing about in stormy seas.

  “It happened out there, of course,” said Elfrida, pointing to the window.

  “It began out there,” agreed Ronnie. “I’ve always been interested in the period; it must have been a terribly exciting time, especially for people living in this part of the world.”

  “Rather too exciting!”

  “Yes. They knew the Spaniards were building an enormous fleet to attack England but they didn’t know when the attack would come. There were beacons on every headland all along this coast to give the alarm. Probably there was a beacon here at Mountain Cross.”

  Ronnie sat down and helped himself to lemon sponge.

  “Tell me about it,” said Elfrida. “I learnt about it at school but I’ve forgotten most of it . . . and I’m going to live here which makes it much more interesting.”

  “All right! You can go to sleep if you get bored. To begin with the Spaniards called the expedition, ‘Enterprise England’; they looked upon it as a sort of crusade against the heretics. It took years to prepare but at last in 1588 it set sail—the biggest and most magnificent and best-equipped expedition the world had ever seen. The Spanish ships were enormous and carried thousands of troops; they sailed up the channel in perfect order—a terrifying sight! The Spaniards had renamed their fleet ‘The Invincible Armada’ and they weren’t far wrong for in a conventional sea-battle, which was what they expected, they could have smashed the English fleet and invaded England without much trouble . . . I don’t suppose England has ever had such a narrow escape.”

  “Not even from Napoleon or Hitler?”

  Ronnie shook his head and continued. “Fortunately Howard and Drake were fine sailors and their ships were smaller and easier to manage so they were able to outsail the Spaniards and harry them with gunfire, taking care not to come to close quarters. Their chief object was to prevent the Spanish admiral, Medina Sidonia, from capturing one of the English ports. As a matter of fact he could have taken Plymouth quite easily and landed his troops—and the whole of the West Country would have fallen into his hands like a ripe plum—but his orders were to land at Margate and he dared not disobey them.

  “After that everything began to go wrong for Medina Sidonia: the weather was against him; his stores of food and water were found to be badly packed and his ammunition was insufficient for this sort of battle. It was a new sort of battle; it continued off and on for days as the Armada sailed up the channel. By the time the Spanish fleet reached Margate the ammunition was exhausted, so it was hopeless for Medina Sidonia to stage an attack and the only thing to do was to anchor his fleet in the roads off Calais where he hoped to get more powder and shot and provisions from the Duke of Parma.

  “It was then that Drake got the idea of destroying the Spanish fleet with fireships—they were known as Hell Burners and were greatly dreaded by sailors—so he prepared seven, filling them with gunpowder and tar and other combustible material, and sent them down-wind into the middle of the Spanish fleet, where they created havoc. It was supposed to be rather an ‘ungentlemanly’ expedient,” said Ronnie smiling. “But the situation was pretty desperate.”

  Elfrida nodded, “It was lucky that the wind was in the right direction.”

  “Yes, the wind played a tremendous part in ‘battle long ago.’ The Hell Burners did a certain amount of damage to the Spanish fleet but more to the morale of the men . . . and the fleet was driven out of the harbour before Medina Sidonia could lay in the necessary stores. It was driven northwards up the Flemish coast and into the North Sea with Drake hard on its heels, harrying it and ‘plucking its feathers.’ By this time hope had given way to despair, so the great fleet disintegrated; it broke up into small groups which could easily be tackled by Drake. Many of the galleons were destroyed by storms as they struggled north round Cape Wrath, more were wrecked off the west coast of Ireland. Less than half the ships in ‘The Invincible Armada’ managed to limp home. It was a tremendous victory for England and a knock-out blow to the prestige of Spain.”

  “The weather helped us,” said Elfrida thoughtfully.

  “Of course it did! Nobody appreciated that more than Drake. The medals struck to commemorate the victory bore the inscription, ‘God breathed and they were scattered’.”

  “It was wonderful, wasn’t it? After that people in England could go about their daily work without being frightened, and sleep peacefully in bed.”

  “Not for long,” said Ronnie. “About seven years later Spain launched another expedition against England and actually managed to land some troops in Cornwall, where they burnt houses and looted villages and behaved in their usual cruel and ferocious fashion. Drake was dead by that time, and the English fleet was unprepared, but fortunately there was no need for a sea-battle . . . a frightful storm blew up suddenly and scattered the Spanish ships and finished them off. God isn’t always on the side of ‘the big battalions’.”

  “I never knew about that!” exclaimed Elfrida.

  “‘There are lots of history books in the library’,” quoted Ronnie laughing.

  “I shall read about it,” said Elfrida. “I shall have plenty of time to re
ad. How lovely that will be!”

  *

  7

  When they had finished their meal Ronnie and Elfrida moved into the little sitting-room next door where the curtains had been drawn and there was a cheerful fire.

  Mrs. Chowne brought a tray of coffee and put it on the table, “This is a nice room,” she said. “Mrs. Ware used it all the time after Mr. Ware died. She called it the parlour. It’s cosy and you can heat it up quickly with a good fire. Mrs. Ware liked the view from the window and Ernie made a bird table so that she could sit and watch the birds coming for the crumbs and pieces of fat. Ernie is clever with his hands but he can’t talk. I thought I’d better tell you, Miss Elfrida, in case you thought he was surly.”

  Elfrida looked at her in surprise.

  “It was the war,” explained Mrs. Chowne. “He was in tanks and got blown up by a mine. He wasn’t wounded except for cuts and bruises but he was unconscious for days and days . . . and when he came round he couldn’t talk—not properly, that is. I got to understand him all right and he’s improved a lot, but he’s shy about it. He talks a bit to people he knows, like Charlie Cobley and Alf Doubleday, but he won’t talk to strangers in case they can’t understand what he says. You’ll thank Mrs. Perrimont for the daffies, won’t you, Miss Elfrida? She’s the vicar’s wife. I thanked her this morning but you’d better thank her yourself. Nice and fresh, aren’t they?” added Mrs. Chowne, as she rearranged the bowl of flowers and put it on the table.

  “Yes, of course I must thank her,” said Elfrida. “It was awfully kind of her to think of me.”

  Mrs. Chowne finished arranging the daffodils and went away.

  “Did you know he couldn’t talk?” asked Elfrida in a low voice.

  “Not really,” Ronnie replied. “I just thought he was silent because she talked all the time. I mean, it’s difficult to get a word in edgeways, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I like her.”

  “Oh, so do I! Elfrida Jane, have you noticed that her legs go right down into her shoes? I mean, she hasn’t got ankles.”

  “No, I hadn’t noticed.”

  “She’s like Mrs. Noah. When I was a kid Uncle Bob gave me a Noah’s Ark; I loved it dearly and played with it for hours. All the animals and Mr. and Mrs. Noah and their family were carved in wood and painted. Mrs. Noah was just like Mrs. Chowne, sort of square with red checks and a white apron.”