The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  Elfrida stopped and looked back. “Are you tired?” she asked.

  “Awfully tired.”

  “Perhaps you had better not come up to the farm. Would you like to go to bed or would you rather sit here and wait for me?”

  “It’s inside tiredness.”

  “Because you’re disappointed?” she suggested.

  “Not disappointed; I knew he wasn’t going to take me. It’s because I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said Patrick in a low voice—so low that it was scarcely audible. “Before, when he went away, he left me—somewhere. I stayed with the nuns when I was a baby and then I stayed with some people in London . . . and then I stayed with Mrs. Landor. But this time he’s just—just gone away without—without bothering. If I was older I could work on a farm or—or something, but nobody wants a boy of eight.”

  Elfrida put her arm round him and they sat down on the bank. “You can stay here,” she said. “That was what he meant you to do. He knew you’d be all right with me.”

  Patrick shook his head. “It’s no good. Mrs. Chowne says you’re very poor.”

  “Not as poor as all that! It won’t cost much to feed you.”

  “There’s clothes, too. That’s what bothered Mrs. Landor. You see clothes wear out and get too small. That’s why I hadn’t any nice clothes to wear when we went to the hotel. Mrs. Landor did her best but she hadn’t got enough money to buy clothes for me . . .”

  Now that he had begun to talk he went on and on in a monotonous voice; he talked about Mrs. Landor and her troubles; sometimes she had not enough money to pay the rent and had to borrow from Mrs. Fulbright. Patrick had gone to school every day except when Mrs. Landor was “very miserable” and did not like being alone in the flat. Sometimes Mrs. Fulbright came in and cooked a chop for Patrick, but it was a nuisance for her because she had a baby and Mrs. Landor couldn’t pay her anything . . .

  Elfrida thought it was good for the child to talk so she listened until she could bear it no longer, then she said, “You’d like to stay here with me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, but you don’t want me.”

  “I do,” she declared, giving him a little squeeze. “Of course I want you, Patrick.”

  “I’d be a nuisance. I was a nuisance to Mrs. Landor.”

  “You won’t be a nuisance to me. We’ll have fun together. You can help Chowne with the pigs; you’ll be very, very useful.”

  “It’s no good pretending.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I expect you think Glen will send money for me. He promised Mrs. Landor to send money—but he never did. He just—just forgets or something. So you see it’s no good pretending. I’m not a baby, Miss Ware. I’d rather—have it—plain.”

  For a few minutes Elfrida hesitated (she had been thinking) then she took his hand and held it tightly. “All right, Patrick, we’ll have it plain. Your father has gone away and left you with me because he thinks you’ll be happy here . . . and you will be happy, won’t you? It will be much more fun than staying with Mrs. Landor. There’s lots to do here, isn’t there? Mr. Cobley has finished clearing up the wood and I’ve sent for some little plants which like growing under trees; I want you to help me to put them in.”

  “I’d like that!”

  “I was sure you’d help me.”

  “But Mrs. Chowne says you’re very poor, so you couldn’t——”

  “Listen,” she said. “Listen, Patrick. We’re having this plain, aren’t we? It’s quite true that I haven’t much money but Glen can easily afford to pay for your food and clothes.”

  “Yes, but he won’t!”

  “He will,” declared Elfrida with conviction. “It will be quite easy to get the money from Glen because I shall ask my lawyer to get it. There, that’s plain,” she added, smiling at him.

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Patrick in alarm. “Oh, no, you can’t do that. He doesn’t like lawyers—it would make him angry.”

  “My lawyer will write him a nice, polite letter and there will be no more trouble.”

  Patrick was frowning anxiously. “Why?” he asked. “Why will the lawyer be able to get the money without any trouble?”

  Elfrida had no intention of answering that question plainly, so she just said, “Oh, people have got to do what lawyers tell them. Now don’t you think it would be fun to go up to the hayfield and see if Joe is there?”

  Patrick’s face brightened. “Oh, yes!” he exclaimed, “But I thought you were going to the farm.”

  “I’ll go later,” she told him. “I want to talk to Mrs. Chowne about something . . . but you can go up to the hayfield by yourself.”

  “Can I really go by myself?” asked Patrick eagerly.

  “Yes, of course! You’re eight, aren’t you?”

  He jumped up, his troubles forgotten, and began to run up the hill.

  “Come home when Joe goes for his dinner!” shouted Elfrida.

  He turned and waved cheerfully.

  *

  Emma Chowne was in the spare bedroom; Elfrida traced her by the sound of the vacuum cleaner and opened the door.

  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Elfrida!” exclaimed Emma, turning off the machine.

  “Yes, I want to speak to you about something.”

  “I thought you’d gone up to the farm. I’m giving this room a thorough turn out because it smells of that scent he put on his hair; besides it’s good for me. I feel all upset, Miss Elfrida. I can’t help thinking about that poor little boy. What he’ll say when he hears his father has gone off to America, without so much as saying good-bye, I can’t imagine.”

  “Patrick is all right. He has gone up to the hayfield to find Joe.”

  “Joe Thorne,” said Emma, nodding. “He’s a very nice chap and he has children of his own . . . but Pat isn’t ‘all right.’ I’m miserable about him; he isn’t like a proper child at all. He hasn’t had a child’s life. That Mrs. Landor unloaded all her troubles on to Pat. It wasn’t right of the woman.”

  “I know,” agreed Elfrida. “And I don’t think she fed him properly either, so——”

  “She starved him; he’s as thin as a rake!”

  “Yes, terribly thin. Anyhow he can’t go back to the woman, so I thought it would be a good plan to——”

  “Pat worries about things,” interrupted Emma. “Children didn’t ought to worry; it isn’t natural. I can’t bear to see that anxious frown he puts on when he’s worried. He worries about everything; he even worries about his clothes. There was a hole in the elbow of his pullover and he was quite upset about it. He kept on saying he was sorry all the time I was mending it for him. I’d like to see Henry James bothering his head about a hole in his pullover! I’ve seen him come in for his dinner as dirty as a tinker, and nearly as ragged, and all Judy does is laugh and give him a hug.

  “Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Chowne. “Oh, dear, when I think of all the love and care Henry James has had ever since he was born I could sit down and cry! I could—really. It doesn’t seem fair that one child should have so much and another child nothing. He’s never had any love all his life——”

  “Listen, Emma!” said Elfrida loudly. “You needn’t sit down and cry; you’ll be able to give Patrick all the love and care he needs because he’s going to stay here, at Mountain Cross.”

  “We’re keeping Pat!” exclaimed Emma in delight. “Oh, Miss Elfrida, what a lovely idea!”

  “You’ll help me with him, won’t you? I don’t know much about children so——”

  “Of course I’ll help you—and so will Ernie—he won’t be a bit of bother. He’s such a good little boy; he’s far too good. We must try to make him naughty; it’s natural for children to be a little naughty sometimes. Now, let’s see,” continued Emma, screwing up her eyes in a thoughtful manner. “Pat had better go on sleeping in Judy’s bed so that we can keep an eye on him and give him his breakfast early. He’ll be going to school next term, of course—he can go with Henry James until he gets into the way of it. H
enry James is a bit of a pickle but he’s very kind-hearted. And I always take Henry James to the Children’s Service on Sunday afternoons so Pat can come with us. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Miss Elfrida, but Pat hasn’t learnt to say his prayers. That woman at Morchester must have been a heathen! But we can teach him, of course, and he’ll learn a lot from Mr. Perrimont, who is very good with children in spite of not having any himself. There’s another thing, Miss Elfrida; we shall have to do something about Pat’s clothes. His clothes are a disgrace. I don’t know what that woman was thinking of to let him go about looking like a—a refugee or something. Next time Ernie and I go over to Cherleigh we can take Pat with us; he can sit on the carrier on the back of Ernie’s bike. There’s a very good shop in Cherleigh where Judy gets things for Henry James. It isn’t an expensive shop—you don’t want expensive clothes for children because they outgrow them before they’re worn out. I always say to Judy it’s better to have . . .”

  Elfrida was laughing so heartily that she was obliged to sit down on the bed. Perhaps her laughter was a trifle hysterical; she had had a good deal to bear this morning, one way and another.

  “What’s the joke, Miss Elfrida?” asked Emma, pausing and looking at her in surprise.

  “Just that I was—worried—in case you—wouldn’t be—pleased,” gasped Elfrida.

  Emma smiled, “Of course, I’m pleased! It will be lovely to have a child in the house. We must give him lots to eat and fatten him up.”

  “You’re very good at fattening people up! I’ve had to let out all my waist-bands.”

  “Yes, but it suits you,” said Emma, nodding in approval. “You’ve improved a lot since you’ve been here; you’re very nearly as pretty as Miss Marjory was . . . but I’ve never been able to fatten up Ernie. I’ve tried for twenty-seven years.” She switched on the vacuum cleaner and proceeded with her work.

  As Elfrida went downstairs she heard, mingling with the hum of the cleaner, the loud humming of Emma Chowne. It was “The Voice that Breathed O’er Eden” and, as usual, slightly out of tune.

  Lucius Babbington was standing in the hall; he had rung the front-door bell three times and, on receiving no answer, had come in and was looking about him and frowning anxiously.

  “Hallo, Lucius!” said Elfrida. “I didn’t know you were here; I was upstairs talking to Emma Chowne. Would you like another book? I’ve just been reading——”

  “Elfrida!” he exclaimed, coming forward and taking her hand. “I came to inquire . . . I thought you would be in bed!”

  “You thought I would be in bed?” asked Elfrida in surprise.

  “Yes, of course! Are you all right? Mary and I were terribly worried.”

  She still looked surprised so he added, “We heard you had rescued a boy from drowning and had been swept out to sea by the current.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elfrida. “As a matter of fact such a lot has happened since the accident that I had forgotten about it for the moment.”

  “But it only happened last night!”

  “Was it only last night?” said Elfrida vaguely. “It seems like a week.”

  “My dear girl!” exclaimed Lucius in alarm. “Are you feeling all right? Perhaps you’ve got concussion or—or something. Why don’t you go to bed and send for the doctor?”

  She smiled. “I’m all right, Lucius. It feels a long time ago because so much has happened this morning. I’m sorry you and Mary were worried.”

  “Of course we were terribly worried!”

  “How on earth did you hear about it?”

  “The fish-boy told us.”

  “The fish-boy?”

  “Yes, he was full of it. I came over at once to see how you were and when I stopped at the garage for petrol the men were all talking about you.”

  “Talking about me?” asked Elfrida in astonishment.

  “Saying it was a very brave act,” explained Lucius. “So it was . . . very brave, indeed. You might have been drowned! It was very rough yesterday so the back-wash must have been fierce . . . and you aren’t a strong swimmer, are you? Elfrida, my dear,” said Lucius earnestly, “I do wish you wouldn’t bathe in that bay. It’s terribly dangerous.”

  “But, Lucius, I wasn’t bathing . . . and anyhow you seem to have heard a very exaggerated account of the accident.”

  “Who was the boy and why was he bathing in Mountain Cross Bay?” asked Lucius.

  “He wasn’t bathing; he was just—just paddling about at the edge of the sea when a wave knocked him over.”

  Lucius still looked worried so Elfrida added, “Come and sit down and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  As they went into the parlour and sat down Elfrida suddenly remembered Glen’s desire to meet her neighbours. It was the sight of Lucius that had reminded her, for now that he was before her eyes (clad as usual in his old tweed jacket) she felt more than ever certain that he would not like Glen . . . they would have nothing to say to each other, they did not speak the same language!

  Elfrida had been so busy this morning, comforting Patrick and talking to Emma, that she had not had time to realise the relief to herself of Glen’s departure. He has gone, she thought. I shan’t have to “throw a party to meet Glen Siddons.” I shan’t have to watch him acting a part; I shan’t have to put up with his “temperament.” He has gone!

  The relief was so great that Elfrida heaved a big sigh.

  “I’m sure you aren’t well, my dear,” said Lucius anxiously. “Don’t tell me what happened if you’d rather not.”

  “Oh, I want to tell you,” she replied.

  There was a good deal to explain, but the Babbingtons were her friends so Elfrida felt they had a right to know the story . . . or at least part of the story. She realised that she could not tell Lucius the whole story. She would have to water it down considerably if she did not want to set everyone in the neighbourhood talking about her.

  She began by telling Lucius that she had known Glen Siddons in London (she was somewhat surprised to discover that Lucius had never heard of him) and went on to say that he and his little son were staying with her for a few days and she had taken them down to the beach for a picnic-tea. She explained the accident by saying that Glen Siddons was a Londoner, a stranger in this part of the world, and could not be expected to know about the peculiarities of the bay at Mountain Cross, so he had allowed the boy to paddle. This explanation was not quite true—and it sounded thin to Elfrida—but she hoped Lucius would believe it.

  Unfortunately Lucius did not. He said, “Tom Parkins told me rather a different story.”

  “Tom Parkins wasn’t there . . . and I was,” Elfrida pointed out. “We had finished tea and I was sitting on the beach. I had just got up to go and warn Glen that it wasn’t safe when I saw the wave break over the child’s head and knock him down. I ran down the beach as quickly as I could and pulled him out of the water. He’s small and thin and very light which made it easier.”

  “That isn’t what I heard,” objected Lucius.

  “Well, it’s true—more or less—and I do hope that if you and Mary hear any garbled accounts of the accident you’ll deny them.”

  Lucius still looked doubtful; there were several details which he could not understand. For instance why hadn’t Elfrida warned Siddons that it was unsafe for his child to paddle? And if Siddons was there, on the spot, why hadn’t he pulled his child out of the water himself? Why leave it to Elfrida? It all seemed rather queer.

  Elfrida had been watching his face; she said earnestly, “You’ll deny any garbled accounts of the accident, won’t you, Lucius?”

  “Oh, yes, we’ll play it down—if that’s what you want—but I don’t think it will make much difference what we say; the story is all over the district by this time and you’re the heroine of the hour.”

  “What nonsense, Lucius!” exclaimed Elfrida, laughing.

  Part Four

  30

  Riggs, Sandford and Wilkins,

  22–23–24 Winter Street,<
br />
  Westminster

  My dear Elfrida Jane,

  Your letters are always welcome as the flowers in spring and always interesting. Your last was particularly interesting. First: I must apologise for the slight delay in answering (your problem required careful consideration). Second: let me say I am honoured by your request that I will “be your lawyer” and will do my best to carry out your instructions faithfully.

  You are right, of course. It would not be good publicity for the wonderful Glen Siddons if it became known that he had abandoned his child. Matinée idols are allowed a certain amount of latitude as regards women, but children are in a different category. The Great Warm-Hearted British Public would be dismayed to learn that its idol was in the habit of dumping his one and only son upon comparative strangers without so much as “by your leave” and omitting to pay for his board and lodging. You ask if we could take the case to court and “make him pay.” The answer is, yes, a father is responsible for the maintenance of his child. It would be a scrumptious case (think of the headlines in the Sunday Press) but as you have pointed out it is unlikely to come to court; the risk of adverse publicity would be too great. How much better and wiser to accede gracefully to your modest request for three pounds a week! He must be earning thousands by acting in that film, so you could ask a great deal more, but I gather you are averse to blackmail.

  You suggested I should consult the senior partner and I did so. He has a great deal of experience and often comes up with wily ideas . . . but your problem is somewhat unusual. As a matter of fact Glen Siddons has suddenly become news (everyone is talking about the million dollar film which is being shot in the Colorado Desert) so when I informed the senior partner that Mr. Glen Siddons had been staying at Mountain Cross he was considerably startled; his eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair when he learnt that the aforesaid Mr. G.S. had packed up during the night and departed to Colorado leaving you to hold the baby! His first reaction was that the baby should be returned to its parent forthwith—“because Elfrida cannot afford to add to her liabilities”—but after some argument I managed to convince him that you were extremely anxious to keep the baby and merely wanted a small weekly payment to cover expenses.