by Sara Seale
“Would that be Miss Sarah Riordan?” He sounded amused.
“No no, Sarah’s the second child. But of course you haven’t met Kathy yet. Quite a different cup of tea, Mr. Flint, gentle, feminine, and quite, quite lovely. The typical Irish beauty, you know.”
“Really?” He did not sound particularly interested.
“Even you, Mr. Flint, will have to admit that Kathy Riordan is what most young men dream about,” she said with faint acidity.
He recognized the thrust and said more gently:
“I can see that she has made one conquest in yourself, Miss Dearlove.”
“Kathy could conquer the world with that beauty,” she said and sighed. “But what chance does she get, buried alive here? Joe is a nice young man, but for Kathy—”
The sound of five-finger exercise came suddenly from the house behind them, and Adrian looked up quickly. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“One of Kathy’s, little pupils. They come from the farms and cottages, you know, more for their parents’ ideas of apeing their betters’ accomplishments than anything else, I imagine.”
“You mean she teaches the piano?”
“Oh, not in the broadest sense of the word, of course. It’s just a little gesture but it brings in a few shillings a week, that is, when they remember to pay. Are you fond of music, Mr. Flint? Oh, of course, you brought a gramophone with you. You must hear Kathy play. She has a very pretty, touch, a very pretty touch indeed.”
She thought he did not look pleased. Perhaps he was unmusical, but if so, why take a gramophone and cases of records about with one? Unless ... but no, he did not look the type for boogie-woogie.
“Here is Miss Emma,” she said, as Aunt Em came vaguely round a corner of the house carrying a basket. “I must introduce you. Miss Emma, this is Mr. Flint, our new guest—Miss O’Neill.”
Aunt Em peered up at him as they shook hands, and her mouth formed a round ‘O’ of surprise”.
“How do you do?” she said. “You are not at all what we expected.”
“Now, Miss Emma, you mustn’t give away secrets,” Miss Dearlove was her roguish self again.
Aunt Em sat down on the seat and placed the basket firmly on her knees. It contained tangled bundles of old string.
“What secrets?” she asked innocently. “Miss Dearlove, I think I heard Mary ask if she was to throw away the green weed in your room.”
Miss Dearlove gave a little scream.
“My shamrock! I’m pressing it for Miss Pringle,” she cried and hurried into the house. Adrian wondered if this was a chance remark or a master-stroke of elimination. Aunt Em looked up at him and smiled.
“It’s clover, you know, but she won’t believe us,” she said sadly.
He sat down beside her and watched her begin to unravel a length of string.
“The children won’t trouble to unknot string,” she said. “It’s quite extraordinary how much you can save if you do. Would you care to help me?”
For a moment he hesitated, glancing at his fingers in an odd, nervous fashion, then he took a bundle out of the basket and began picking at the knots.
“I hope you were comfortable last night, Mr. Flint,” Aunt Em continued placidly. “I’m afraid your arrival took us rather by surprise. The butcher brought your telegram this morning. Willie-the-Post had forgotten he didn’t call on Fridays.”
“Miss O’Neill,” he said. “Is it true your youngest niece is—how shall I put it—my landlady?”
She looked startled.
“How odd to be addressed as Miss O’Neill again. No one ever calls me that in these parts,” she said. “Yes, Sarah is your landlady. The house belongs to her, you know, and this idea of paying guests was hers. Really quite sensible as things are turning out, and of course it does mean that she needn’t sell Dun Rury. I don’t think the other two would mind, but Sarah has always had a special feeling for the place —because her father loved it, I think.”
I see. But I had expected to do business with someone older—someone more like yourself.”
“You will find Sarah quite competent. She does all the accounts, you know.”
“But she looks such a child!”
Aunt Em glanced up and smiled.
“I suppose she does, but she’s much more mature in her mind than Kathy is at twenty. If it will embarrass you to pay your bills to Sarah, Mr. Flint, you can always give the money to me. The only thing is, I’m apt to forget where I put things.”
He laughed.
Very well. I’ll do whatever is usual,” he said, and tugged impatiently at the string.
“That’s not the way,” Aunt Em said. “You must coax it.”
“I’m afraid my fingers are clumsy,” he observed. “I don’t seem to be getting on very fast.”
Aunt Em replied:
“Oh, no, your fingers couldn’t be clumsy. You have good hands.”
His hands trembled suddenly, and seemed for a moment uncertain of their movements. From the house came the strains of The Merry Peasant, played with a lusty disregard for the bass, and he winced.
“I think my room should be finished now. If you’ll excuse me, Miss O’Neill,” he said abruptly and got up and went into the house.
They discussed him over lunch. Sarah, who had taken up his tray, as it was Mary’s afternoon off, said crossly that she did not see why he should not come down to the kitchen and fetch it himself. Her aunt mildly reproved her with the reminder that he was paying extra for service, and Kathy said she would take up his tea for she had not yet met him.
“He doesn’t take tea,” Sarah said. “You’ll have to catch him in the morning like Miss Dearlove did.”
Miss Dearlove made a prim face. She was still smarting under Adrian’s snub.
“A man is seldom at his best in the morning, dear,” she observed. “Really, he was quite—well, almost rude, and I was only doing my tiny best to be friendly. Still, he’s been ill, so we must be charitable. But I fear”—she gave a knowing laugh—“I very much fear the gentleman is Flint by name and flint by nature.”
It became a saying in the family, and for days afterwards Miss Dearlove, delighted at the success of her little pun, would repeat it on every possible occasion, and Danny had to be restrained from shouting at the top of his voice in the hall: “How’s old Skinflint today?”
As the days went by, they got used to the several indications that he was in the house but not of it. The sound of the nursery bell ringing peremptorily in the kitchen, the clatter of a typewriter, and the frequent strains of the gramophone.
The sound of the gramophone came to them only faintly when they sat in the snug below, and Kathy was puzzled by the curious way in which Adrian played his records. During the day it was nothing but piano records; often he would stop the record after a few bars, sometimes he started it in the middle, and only very occasionally did he play a record straight through.
“Isn’t it queer?” said Kathy. “It’s as though he can’t make up his mind. I think I’ll ask him.”
“He’ll snub you very politely and tell you to mind your own business,” Sarah said, and Kathy laughed.
Oh, Sarah, you are silly! He’s quite human, really. You must rub him up the wrong way. I wish I could think who he reminds me of.”
Strangely, Kathy liked him. She had said after her first meeting with him that he reminded her of someone she had once met, and she thought that he was highly intelligent and only wanted drawing out.
Sarah regarded her sister with affection and remarked that if Kathy didn’t draw him out no one would, but she wished she had been present at their first meeting. Flint would scarcely have looked at Kathy as he had looked at her that first evening. She herself had seen little of him, except to take up his nightly supper tray, but he asked to see her when he had been at Dun Rury a week and she went up to the nursery just before lunch.
“Good morning, Miss Riordan,” he began gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye as if he considered such a f
ormal address an absurdity. “First, let me give you my weekly cheque, and now, there are one or two points I would like to discuss with you. Won’t you sit down?”
She perched on the arm of a chair, swinging her legs, and he regarded her with fresh interest. He had been in the house long enough to realize that she must be treated with seriousness, and indeed, observing her now, he thought she probably had courage and a sense of purpose far exceeding her sister’s. They were alike, and yet so unlike that they might be no relation. He had been prepared for Kathy, but even so he had to admit that her soft childish face had an exquisiteness that was rare. This child was all planes and angles, but he thought if he were an artist here was the face he would want to paint.
He had looked at her so long without speaking, that she moved her head impatiently and said:
“What did you want to see me about?”
He smiled. “I’m sorry, I was looking at you in relation to your sister. The comparison was interesting.”
“Kathy isn’t the sort of person you compare other people with,” she said with a simplicity which rather startled him. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” he agreed gravely. “Very lovely. Now, about this question of my room. I told the girl—Mary, isn’t it—that I would like it done at ten o’clock every morning. Yesterday it was eleven, the day before half-past, and today it was nearly twelve. Do you think a regular hour for cleaning is too much to ask?”
“The rooms are done any time,” she replied, just as Mary had done. “Does it matter?”
“To me it does,” he said a little sharply. “I like to work and also live to a certain extent to routine. If my room is not done it cuts up my morning, and when, as often happens, lunch is late that cuts up my afternoon.”
“We feed when we feel like it,” she said. “We always have. Nonie’s supposed to send up your tray at a quarter-past one.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s often nearer two. I don’t wish to be difficult, but after all you are charging me for these small attentions.”
“I’ll speak to Nonie.” she said stiffly. “And as far as your room is concerned, I’ll clean it myself before I go to the stables.”
“But I wouldn’t dream of letting you clean my room,” he protested, and she broke in quickly:
“Why not? As you pointed out, you pay for service. I daresay there are other things you don’t like about Dun Rury. The bath water isn’t always hot, the chimneys sometimes smoke, and I should imagine your meals are stone cold by the time they get up here.”
There was a hint of temper in his own eyes now.
“For a young woman professing to be running a guest house you don’t appear to think it necessary to study your visitors very much,” he said sharply.
A quick retort sprang to her lips, but she bit it back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was forgetting you weren’t Joe or somebody. I’ll see to those matters for you, Mr. Flint. How—how long do you think you’ll be stopping with us?”
From the snug below came the sound of the piano; Jimmy Mulligan, or was it the Sullivan child, finishing its lesson. She had not realized that you could hear so plainly in the nursery.
“That depends,” he replied evenly. “Since you clearly don’t like me it might be better if I went.”
She thought of the empty rooms, and Brian Kavanagh’s warning that there would be few visitors in the winter. Miss Dearlove was only with them for a month and it would not be easy to fill her room until the spring or summer. If Flint went they would be back where they were with unpaid bills and Kathy’s dream of Dublin as far away as ever.
“We don’t want you to go—any of us,” she said. “I—I hope you’ll give us a trial, Mr. Flint. I’ll try and see that you’re more comfortable. You see—we’ve none of us had strangers living in our house before.”
He suddenly liked her very much, the odd, prickly little creature, and he realized at the same moment that a feeling of liking for his fellows had been a stranger to him for a very long time. He had no right to resent the fact that she had no liking for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said more gently. “I was forgetting this is your home. Well, let’s see how we get along for another week or so, shall we?”
The familiar thumping on the piano started again and he exclaimed with exasperation:
“Why on earth do they always have to play The Merry Peasant?”
“Is that what it is?” said Sarah with interest. “I’ve often wondered. I think it’s the only piece they know.”
Upon thinking the matter over Sarah felt chastened. She had certainly not done very much to make the Englishman feel welcome since his arrival. Perhaps it would have been easier had he wanted to share their everyday pursuits as Miss Dearlove did, but it was difficult to get to know anyone who so clearly resented intrusion. Even had she any desire to approach him less formally, she felt that he would snub unmercifully all but the most superficial gestures of friendliness. Kathy said she did not feel this herself, but it would be difficult to snub Kathy, and Sarah was sure that their guest’s tongue was less sharp and his manner more gentle when dealing with her sister.
But they none of them saw much of them. He kept rigidly to the nursery except for his morning’s stroll round the garden while his room was being done, and last thing at night when he went out to get a breath of air, often after everyone had gone to bed.
Kathy asked him shyly if he would come down and join them after supper one evening when Joe was there. It was difficult to refuse and not appear churlish, but he accepted with the mental reservation that he was not going to allow himself to be drawn into this sort of thing. Before he knew where he was he would find himself swept into the Riordan’s erratic way of life, and the peace of mind he had so painfully acquired would be taken from him.
He was stiff with them at first, and felt himself to be an intruder on the laughter and voices which he had been able to hear from the nursery, but they made him welcome, pulling him to the fire, Danny proffering peppermints, Aunt Em continuing her darning after a nod of greeting, Kathy, flushed and pleased, introducing him to Joe with an innocent pride. Only Sarah, her green eyes troubled, whispered: “You didn’t need to come, you know. We would have understood.”
“Very kind of you and very good for me, no doubt,” he replied, warming to her for her perception.
“It was nice of you,” she said. “Kathy would have been hurt if you’d refused.”
He began to relax. Even Miss Dearlove, though her remarks were as arch as ever, seemed more subdued than usual, and when Kathy said in her soft voice: “Do tell us why you play your records in such a funny way, Mr. Flint—we’ve been dying of curiosity,” he felt no annoyance at this public intrusion into his affairs.
“I hadn’t thought it might sound odd,” he said. “But the explanation’s quite simple. I’m writing a book on music composed for the keyboard and I’m picking out examples of piano recordings to illustrate my points.”
“Oh!” said Kathy on a quick breath. “How—how exciting. You have some lovely records. I would love to hear them properly.”
“So you shall,” he replied. “You must borrow my gramophone sometime.”
She looked disappointed, and Sarah knew she had hoped to be asked to his room.
“Have you heard Kathy play, Mr. Flint?” Miss Dearlove asked impressively. “Dear child, do show Mr. Flint what you can do. For once you will have a really appreciative audience.”
“I don’t think—” Kathy began doubtfully, but Adrian said: “Please do, Miss Riordan,” and she went to the piano.
She played some Schumann and a light, trivial little drawing room piece which delighted Miss Dearlove’s sense of whimsy. Sarah, sitting a little behind Adrian, watched his profile in the shadows. His face held only polite attention, but she noticed he was at his old trick of rubbing his finger joints.
“Thank you,” he said, when Kathy had finished. She waited for something further, but it was Miss Dearlove, clapping he
r hands with rather foolish abandon, who gushed: “Charming, dear child! You would make a professional. Don’t you think she would make a professional, Mr. Flint?”
“You have a nice touch, Miss Riordan,” Adrian said politely, and Joe immediately asked for his favorite Londonderry Air.
“You really know about music, don’t you?” said Sarah softly under cover of the music.
Adrian turned his head and realized she had been watching him.
“A little,” he replied lightly. “Your sister plays very well.”
She smiled at him, and her smile hinted at things of which she could not possibly know.
“Do you have any hidden talents?” he asked quickly to avoid the odd little moment of intimacy.
She grinned, wrinkling her nose at him, and the impression passed.
“I? I’ve no talents, hidden or otherwise,” she told him carelessly. “I whistle—sometimes I even sing, but no one would want to listen to me.”
Kathy had stopped playing, and Aunt Em asked quietly from her corner by the fire:
“Do you suffer from rheumatism, Mr. Flint?”
“I don’t think so.” He looked puzzled.
“I only asked because I notice you have a little habit of massaging your fingers,” she said. “I do it myself in the wet weather.”
He looked at his hands with an expression of curious distaste, then thrust them suddenly into his pockets. Very soon after, he said goodnight and went back to his room.
“A little abrupt, isn’t he?” observed Miss Dearlove generally. “What do you make of our Mr. Flint, Mr. Kavanagh?”
“Seemed all right to me,” said Joe casually. “Probably a very good chap when you get to know him. Scarcely the paralytic old dodderer of your imagination, eh, Sarah?”
“I wish—” said Sarah slowly, twisting her hands together.
“What? That a fine romance would spring up, between you or Kathy? He’s quite nice-looking, you know.”
“Nothing,” said Sarah briefly. “I’m going to do my farm rounds.”
She was in the stables, which now housed nothing but a couple of farm horses and the donkey, when she heard Joe’s step, and looked round in surprise.