At first it was fairly easy; the steps were rough but solid, the path wound between bushes. Then she came to a place where there had been a cliff-fall and the path had been swept away . . . but by grasping the roots of a stunted oak and letting herself down carefully she managed to pass. It was not until she was within about ten feet of the bottom that the path ended abruptly in a scree of gravel. Elfrida hesitated, clinging to a boulder which was imbedded in the cliff . . . it was maddening to have come so far and to be defeated! Then suddenly the ground beneath her feet gave way and the next moment she was lying on the beach amongst a small avalanche of loose stones.
She lay there, laughing. It had been an undignified performance but there was nobody to see . . . and she was not in the least hurt.
The little bay was sheltered from the wind; the sun was golden, the sea was deep blue. It was much too cold to bathe, but later, in May or June, it would be delightful.
There were several ships in view but Elfrida was too ignorant of nautical matters to identify them. One, which was nearer, was small and shabby.
“‘Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack
“‘Butting through the Channel in the mad March days . . .’”
Elfrida said it to herself and smiled. How strange that you learned a poem, but never envisaged the image it was intended to create until you saw it with your eyes! She could hear a curious noise, thud-thud-thud, and realised that this was the sound of its engine.
There were two fishing boats, lying off the point of the promontory, anchored and heaving to the swell of the waves, so she took out the field-glasses and tried to focus them on the boats . . . at first it was all a blur then suddenly her fingers found the trick and a bright clear picture sprang into view: the black boats with white letters on their sides; the men in yellow oilskins. What were they doing? Elfrida’s silent question was answered almost at once for while she watched one of the men began to haul in a line and there was a fish on the end of it . . . a wriggling fish, its scales glittering like silver in the bright sunshine!
I might have known! thought Elfrida.
How quiet and peaceful it was in the little bay! The dirty British coaster had passed and there was no sound except the swish of the waves as they broke on the beach and the rattle of pebbles as they retreated. Elfrida did not know whether the tide was coming in or going out; there was a great deal she did not know about the country and the sea . . . but she could learn, of course. She could use her eyes and ears, she could use her nose. The smell of seaweed drying in the sun was intriguing.
Glen had told her it would be dull—she would tire of it in a month—but how could you feel dull when there was so much to learn? Glen had said . . .
But it was a mistake to think of Glen; she had decided to take Miss Martineau’s excellent advice and to banish him from her thoughts. It was not easy, of course; every now and then something would remind her and the longing to see him and to hear his voice rose like a flood and threatened to swamp her. The flood was rising now but Elfrida refused to be swamped.
Although she looked younger than her age and had a gentle manner there was an inner strength in Elfrida. She had been brought up to fend for herself in the world of the theatre—a world full of intrigue and undercurrents—she had known the pinch of poverty. During her mother’s illness she had known agony of mind and had been obliged to hide her troubles—and appear gay—when her heart was breaking. She had learnt fortitude; she had learnt that sitting still and feeling sorry for yourself did you no good at all, it was better to pretend to be cheerful . . . so she jumped up and ran along the beach at the edge of the sea, dodging the waves, not always successfully, and poking about amongst the rocks and filling her pockets with little shells which she found in the gravel. Surprisingly soon the pretence of cheerfulness became reality.
Elfrida spent quite a long time playing about in this childish manner; she might have spent longer if she had not begun to feel rather queer. It was a slight faintness, accompanied by an emptiness in her inside. She had not experienced the pangs of hunger for so long that at first she did not recognise them . . . then she realised that she wanted her lunch! It had been arranged that she was to cook her own midday meal—there was a chop waiting for her in the larder.
Coming down the cliff had been difficult enough but going up was infinitely worse: first there was the scree of stones to negotiate; every yard she managed to climb she found herself slipping back with an avalanche of loose gravel. However she was young and agile and full of determination so she scrambled on and reached the boulder (from which she had fallen) with scratched hands and jagged rents in her stockings. She paused for a few moments to rest and then went on, climbing carefully—she had learnt to be careful—hauling herself up by the gnarled roots of the stunted oak, creeping past the dangerous places on her hands and knees, until at last she arrived at the top.
Mrs. Chowne was washing up dishes in the pantry when Elfrida went in.
“It’s two o’clock and you haven’t had your lunch——” began Mrs. Chowne reprovingly. Then she exclaimed, “Miss Elfrida, what on earth have you been doing! Look at your stockings!”
“I went down to the little bay.”
“You went down to the bay? But the path has gone—there was a cliff-fall last winter. How did you get back?”
“Climbed,” replied Elfrida, beginning to giggle hysterically. “It was more—difficult—than I expected. Don’t worry, Mrs. Chowne; I’m hungry, that’s what’s the—matter with me. I’ll cook that chop and——”
“Nothing of the kind!” cried Mrs. Chowne. “You’ll sit down on that chair and I’ll give you a nice slice of veal pie that’s left over from our dinner . . . and don’t you ever do such a silly thing again, it’s dangerous! If you want to go down to the bay Ernie will mend the path and make it safe. My goodness, you might have broken your leg!” declared Mrs. Chowne as she bustled round preparing the meal in her usual competent manner. “Ernie’ll have fits when I tell him . . . promise me you won’t do it again.”
Elfrida promised. She realised that Mrs. Chowne was right—it had been silly.
*
When Elfrida had finished her belated meal Mrs. Chowne sent her off to bed—it was a new and extremely pleasant experience to be cared for in this way—she lay there, dozing off and on until tea-time and was just thinking of getting up when Mrs. Chowne walked in with the tea-tray.
“You shouldn’t!” cried Elfrida. “You’re making me lazy!”
“It’s good for you to be lazy,” declared Mrs. Chowne. “I want to fatten you up a bit. You’ve had a bad time—anyone can see that. A bit of cosseting is what you need.”
Elfrida sat up and enjoyed her tea . . . and thought about Mrs. Chowne. At first she had thought Mrs. Chowne rather a foolish woman—one was apt to think that about a woman who talked so much—but Elfrida was beginning to see through the smoke-screen of chat and to discover the real Emma Chowne behind it. She was extremely intelligent. It seemed unfair that she had not received a satisfactory education. Nowadays the veriest chit, with no brain to speak of, was given the benefit of the best education the state could supply (free of charge with meals thrown in for good measure) but when Emma Chowne was a child things were different. She had told Elfrida that she was the eldest of a big family and her mother had often kept her at home to help. “They used to make a bit of a fuss,” Mrs. Chowne had said. “The school officer used to come . . . but what could Mother do? She needed me when the babies arrived; I was good with babies. It wasn’t that I didn’t like school, Miss Elfrida. If I could have been in two places at once I wouldn’t have missed a day. I’m not clever, you know, but I seem to be able to see as far through a brick wall as most people and I’ve learnt a lot on my own . . . a lot of useful things that you don’t learn at school.”
Elfrida had nodded. She too had learnt a lot on her own.
After tea Elfrida went out to do some more exploring. She let herself out of the side door and foun
d a path which led along the top of the cliff to a clump of trees, stunted and deformed by age and weather. She passed through them, picking her way over the gnarled roots and came out on the other side . . . and there, before her eyes, was a small round hillock crowned by a large stone cross. The sun was declining amongst rosy clouds and the cross was outlined boldly against the sky.
Mountain Cross! thought Elfrida. That’s the reason! Why did nobody tell me? It isn’t a mountain, of course, it’s a cliff . . . but Mountain Cross sounds better. Who put it here, and why?
When she looked at it for a while, and had watched the rosy clouds fade and the sun disappear behind a thick bank of darker cloud, she went forward up the little rise until she was standing beside the cross. The base was built of stones, firmly held together; the cross towered high above her head. She saw then that the monument—if such it was—had been here for a very long time. On the landward side it was covered with lichen. The cross-piece stretched out, facing the sea and on one end of the cross-piece was the remains of an iron basket, rusty and broken. Why? What was its purpose? She must ask someone.
Turning seawards she found she had a vast view of undulating waves stretching to the far horizon.
*
11
The next day was stormy; the wind had risen to gale force, blowing from the south-west and splashing rain against the windows as if it were being emptied out of buckets. Elfrida had always said that she “didn’t mind weather” so she sallied forth in rubber boots, a waterproof and a polythene cap . . . but she had never experienced the full force of a sou’-wester and it was too much! The wind battered her and took her breath away, the sheer weight of water was quite alarming, so she struggled home and came in at the back-door which was comparatively sheltered. Fortunately Mrs. Chowne was in her own premises, giving her sitting-room a thorough turn out—and humming “The Voice that Breathed O’er Eden,” slightly out of tune, which she always did when she was enjoying herself—so Elfrida was able to escape upstairs to the bathroom and divest herself of her soaking garments without being observed. She was aware that Mrs. Chowne would not approve of her expedition.
The wind and the rain continued all day without abatement; Elfrida went to bed with the roaring and the splashing in her ears and lay awake for some time thinking about to-morrow morning . . . for to-morrow was Saturday and she was trysted to meet Mr. Cobley in the copse. If this went on it would be quite impossible, of course. and it seemed to have been going on for such a long time that she could not believe it would ever stop.
She awoke to see brilliant sunshine streaming in at the window and realised that the storm was over.
*
“What a blow!” said Mrs. Chowne as she brought in Elfrida’s breakfast. “It’s over now but it has done a lot of damage, the postman says. Trees down and slates flying about and old Mr. Copp’s roof torn off—well, what did he expect? It’s a thatch and he grudges the money for mending it properly. It would take more than a sou’-wester to tear the roof off Mountain Cross,” declared Mrs. Chowne cheerfully. “And if you’re going up to the copse to meet Charlie Cobley you’d better put on your rubber boots. Everything will be as wet as water.”
Elfrida was early for her appointment with Mr. Cobley, she had intended to have a look round before he appeared, but when she approached the little wood she heard the sound of voices and realised that already he was there—and not alone. There was no sign of him, but she found what had once been a path; it was almost hidden by a tangle of brambles and obviously had not been used for years, but she pressed on through the trees and came to a clearing where an oak had been torn up by the roots and was lying full length upon the ground. Here she found Chowne, Mr. Cobley and another man—a burly individual whom she had not seen before. A large two-handed saw, gleaming like silver in the sunshine, was leaning against the fallen tree.
It was Chowne who saw her first; he touched Mr. Cobley’s arm and pointed.
“Oh, good morning, Miss Ware!” said Mr. Cobley. “’Ere’s another casualty—it’s come down in the night and no wonder! That was the biggest blow we’ve ’ad this year. There’ll be work for the slater, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m glad you’ve come this morning because we’ve got Tom Parkins and we’re starting right away.”
“But I didn’t mean you to start!”
“Soonest begun, soonest done,” said Mr. Cobley cheerfully. “We’ve got Tom Parkins, which is lucky. We’ll make a good job of it.”
Elfrida hesitated, wondering what to say. Evidently Mr. Cobley was under the impression that she had given permission for the work to be carried out and had engaged the burly Tom Parkins to come and help—truth to tell she had been so sleepy that she could not remember what she had said! Mr. Cobley had told her that it would cost nothing to have the copse tidied up but Elfrida was no fool and was aware that sometimes things turned out differently from what one was given to understand. At last she said tactfully, “Of course I should like the place tidied up—and I’m sure you would make a good job of it—but I must know exactly what it would cost.”
“Well, it’s difficult to say exactly in a job like this,” replied Mr. Cobley. “Some of the wood is good and some of it is rotten . . . but I’ll give you what’s right. Ernie will see I don’t cheat you, won’t you, Ernie?” He slapped “Ernie” on the back and laughed uproariously.
Apparently this was a joke—so Elfrida smiled.
“Look, Miss Ware,” said Mr. Cobley, suddenly serious. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I said it wouldn’t cost you nothing and I’ll stick to it. I might make a few pounds—over and above—or I might lose a few pounds. I’ll take the risk. What about it?”
Elfrida agreed to the bargain. She had no idea whether or not it was fair but she had become very anxious to have the little wood tidied up; it was a blot on the landscape of Mountain Cross.
“Right!” said Mr. Cobley. “Now we know where we are, so you two chaps can get on with it. I’ll take Miss Ware round the copse and mark the trees.”
He led the way and Elfrida followed as best she could; the undergrowth was thick and matted and soaking wet, so it was not easy and she was glad of her rubber boots. Mr. Cobley talked all the time: this tree was in good condition—he could give Miss Ware a fair price for it—that one was rotten at the core but would make nice logs for the fire; yet another would have to be taken down because its roots had been loosened and the first winter gale would uproot it . . .
There was a little grove of beeches at the west end of the wood—and here they paused.
“You aren’t going to cut down these trees, are you? They’re lovely,” said Elfrida.
“They’re lovely, but they’re cramped. A beech wants room to spread and grow into a ’andsome tree. See what I mean?”
“Yes, I see.”
“It’ll ’ave to be carefully done,” said Mr. Cobley, looking round and frowning thoughtfully. “Would you be willing to leave it to me?”
“Yes,” she replied. She had realised that Mr. Cobley knew his job. He knew his job inside out so perhaps he knew other things as well. Perhaps he knew the history and the meaning of the cross on the hillock (she had asked Mrs. Chowne and Mrs. Chowne had said, “Oh, it’s just an old monument or something”).
“Mountain Cross,” said Mr. Cobley nodding. “It’s funny that you should ask me about that. I don’t know who built that cross—it’s been there ’undreds of years—and I doubt if anyone could tell you. No, it isn’t a monument—not like a war memorial—it’s a landmark put there for sailors and fishermen and such-like. The iron basket is a cresset—at least it was in the old days. There was a chap lived in a little cottage nearby. You wouldn’t notice it, for it’s no more than a ’eap of stones covered over with nettles, but I dessay it was quite a nice little cottage at one time. The chap got the cottage free of rent but one of ’is duties was to put a light in the cresset at night.”
“An oil lamp?” asked Elfrida with interest.
“Well, I don�
�t know,” replied Mr. Cobley scratching his ear. “An oil lamp wouldn’t show up very well, would it? More likely to be a sort of torch—rags soaked in tar—but I wouldn’t ’ave a bet on it. You ask me something about wood,” suggested Mr. Cobley.
Thus reminded of the job in hand they continued their tour of the copse and presently returned to the clearing, where they discovered that Chowne and Tom Parkins had stopped work and were having “a breather.”
“It’s a pity when woods is neglected,” said Mr. Cobley in conversational tones. “They ought to be looked at regular.”
“That’s right,” said Tom Parkins in a voice so deep that it seemed to come out of his boots.
“It’s a funny thing,” continued Mr. Cobley. “Everyone knows that trees grow—it’s silly to say it, really—but in spite of that everyone plants them too close. Everyone forgets that when trees grow bigger they’ll need more space. This is a nice little copse and when we get it tidied up and the brambles cleared it’ll be a nice place to walk. You could ’ave a seat or two; you could bring your friends ’ere in the evening. That ’ud be nice, wouldn’t it?” His round pink face smiled at Elfrida so engagingly that she was obliged to agree.
“Seats would be easy,” he told her. “’Ere’s Ernie Chowne; ’e could knock up a few rustic seats as easy as pie. It wouldn’t take ’im long once ’e’s got the pens made. The pens is first, of course, we all know that.”
“Pens?” asked Elfrida.
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Cobley looked at Chowne . . . and Chowne looked at Mr. Cobley.
“One of the barns wants some work done to it,” Mr. Cobley said. “It’s a nice barn; you want to keep it nice, don’t you, Miss Ware?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s all,” said Mr. Cobley.
It was not “all.” Elfrida was sure there was a secret understanding between the two men . . . but Mr. Cobley and Tom Parkins had begun to saw with such tremendous vigour that she could not hear herself speak. She decided to leave it for the moment and ask Mrs. Chowne, who was sure to know what it was all about and was quite incapable of keeping a secret.
The House on the Cliff Page 8