by Sara Seale
“But why do you leave them out?”
“It looks better, but of course the answer always comes wrong. I’ve got three different answers here already and I don’t think any of them are right.”
“You’d better let me have a look,” Adrian said, a suspicion of laughter in his voice, and he pulled up a wooden kitchen chair and sat down at the table beside her. “What a curious system of bookkeeping. What does ‘boiler urgent’ mean?”
“Oh, that’s only to remind me to stoke the boiler after Nolan’s gone. He never does it properly, as you may have noticed.”
“I see.” His lips twitched. “Heavens, child! You’ve added the things up twice over ... these halfpennies...! You’ve got oil down three times.”
“I know. Aunt Em forgot I’d ordered it, and ordered some more, and Casey sent a third lot for luck.”
“And bread—how can you eat all that amount of bread in a week?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah sounded tearful. “There are so many things I can’t account for.”
“Your spelling as well as your arithmetic seems to be somewhat at fault. Here, give the thing to me.”
She watched him in silence while he added up the figures in three neat columns and wrote the answer at the bottom. “It looks an awful lot, doesn’t it?” she said dubiously.
“Some items are quite inexplicable,” he replied, sounding severe. “But that’s the fault of your peculiar system. Don’t you pay your bills weekly and keep a check?”
“I try to, but some weeks there isn’t enough money and things have to run on. That’s why I decided on the lodge—paying guests.”
“But doesn’t your aunt—I mean do you always take such decisions and run the financial side of the house unaided?”
“Well, someone has to, and the others are so unpractical.”
“But, my dear child, you’re much too young!”
She looked at him without resentment.
“It’s only an optical illusion,” she said. “I’m older than any of them. I’ve run Dun Rury since my father died.”
“And how old were you then?”
“Sixteen.”
He sat back and looked at her, divided between the absurdity of the situation and a sense of compassion he had not expected to feel for this quick-tempered child. How did she ever expect to run a successful business, this tired little girl, shouldering grown-up responsibilities and leaving all the halfpennies out?
“I suppose,” she said, sounding very weary, “you will be leaving us, won’t you, Mr. Flint?”
The candlelight flickered on his impassive face, reducing it to a negative fairness.
“Suppose we leave that discussion till the morning,” he said.
“If’—the glance she gave him under her lashes was bright and troubled—”if I reduced the rent, would you consider—I mean, I do realize you haven’t had very much for your money.”
His face betrayed no expression.
“You know, I think it’s high time you went to bed. You’ve had a long day from all accounts.”
“I’ve walked miles and miles,” she said and sounded exhausted.
“Do you often do this?”
“When I want to think.”
He frowned.
“Doesn’t your aunt worry when you don’t come in till all hours? It’s very lonely round here.”
“Aunt Em’s used to me. No one ever worries. Why should they?”
“I could think of several reasons, however—Have you had anything to eat?”
She looked surprised. She was unaccustomed to this kind of solicitude.
“Now I come to think of it, I’m hungry,” she said. “I didn’t finish my supper.”
“And what about your lunch?”
“Oh, I took a couple of apples in my pocket.”
“No wonder you’re tired,” he remarked shortly and got to his feet. “Bring the candle, and show me where the larder is.”
She led the way obediently, and stood watching while he selected quickly from the slabs, only pausing to ask briefly: “Can this be spared—and this?”
He came back to the kitchen with a bowl of brown eggs and a plate of ham and told her to find him a frying pan.
“But are you going to cook it?” she asked with awe, to which he replied calmly:
“Certainly, unless you prefer your eggs raw. Some butter, please, and salt and pepper, and where do you keep the kitchen knives?”
“You seem very practised,” she said, peering over his shoulder and sniffling at the ham. “Aren’t you doing any for yourself?”
“I’ve had my supper.”
“Oh, but you couldn’t resist that luscious smell—nobody could.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles.
“Well, perhaps not. Cut some bread and fetch the plates. It’s nearly ready.”
“Now,” he said, setting a heaped plate before her, “a glass of milk to go with that and you should last till morning.”
They sat opposite each other, the candle between them, and Sarah looked across at him with a puzzled frown.
“You know,” she said, “if anyone had told me this could happen I wouldn’t have believed them.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“No? Did you think I was quite helpless because I required waiting on?”
“No, not helpless—just not human.”
He gave her a quick oblique glance.
“I often haven’t felt human in the past, but I didn’t think it showed now,” he said enigmatically.
“The past months have been bad, haven’t they?” she said gently.
“Pretty bad. How did you know?”
“I don’t think I did till tonight—or perhaps I had an inkling the evening you came down and Kathy played.”
“I’m still not good at social contacts, I’m afraid.”
“You know, when my father died, Nonie said to me: ‘You’re alone now; you’ll always be alone because that’s the way you’re made.’ Perhaps you’re like that, too.”
He looked at her with gentleness.
“You were very fond of your father, weren’t you?” he said.
“I loved him,” she replied simply. “He was always fondest of Kathy but I was the closest to him. He left me Dun Rury, you see.”
He had finished his ham and eggs and was smoking a cigarette, watching her quietly as she sipped her milk. “Did your sister mind that?”
“Kathy? Oh, no. Kathy would like me to sell the place as Uncle B. advised. We can’t really afford to keep it up, you see.”
“Wouldn’t that have been better than having your home invaded by strangers?”
“No,” she said, and her eyes grew bright. “I will never sell Dun Rury as long as there’s breath in my body. My father loved it.”
“You’re very single-minded, I see.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. Can’t you understand that?”
His eyes softened. Oh, yes, he could understand. Had it not been the cause of his own bitter defeat?
“Sometimes, Sarah,” he said unemotionally, “one can be too single-minded. It doesn’t always lead to happiness. One should never put all one’s eggs in one basket.”
“Did you do that?”
“In a sense. I allowed my career to push out all personal relationships. Now I’m left with nothing.”
She looked puzzled.
“But how can you be left with nothing when you have your career to go back to?” she asked.
He was silent for so long that she felt she had intruded, then he said quite quietly:
“I shall never play again.”
“Oh...” she said on a long sigh, then her shocked eyes went to his hands. He held them up in the light of the candle, flexing the fingers deliberately.
“They look all right, don’t they?” he said. “Not a scar, no disfigurement, yet the virtue has gone out of them.”
“But why?” she whispered.
“An accident. My hands were badly injured. Th
ey do marvels with plastic surgery these days, but they can’t replace the one thing that matters.”
“But surely massage—treatment—I don’t know about these things, but isn’t it just a matter of time?”
“I’ve had all the treatment that was possible in the last two years. It only resulted in a breakdown. When nerves have been affected nothing can be done. My hands are good enough now for everyday purposes but that’s not good enough for a pianist.”
She sat there, very quiet, staring at the candle flame and remembering the way he rubbed his fingers, and the trick he sometimes had of looking at his hands as if they did not belong to him.
“You came here to hide,” she said at last.
He looked surprised.
“Perhaps. More consciously to try and readjust myself, I think. Like you I find solitude helps.”
“And the book is a stop-gap as I said?”
His eyes rested on her for a moment.
“Yes, that was quick of you. The book was commissioned through my agent. I imagine he thought it would take my mind off other things.”
But Sarah was not so sure. How would it feel listening to your own records and knowing that those same hands were forever mute?
“You should go,” she said, “to St. Patrick’s Well, where I was today.”
His old harsh manner returned at once.
“What! Dip my hands in the water and expect a miracle?”
“Not that sort of miracle,” she said gently. “But there are others. St. Patrick’s a great boy for miracles. I’ll take you there myself one day.”
She had forgotten that he might be leaving them soon, and he smiled faintly on her dark head as she stooped and scrabbled for her shoes.
“A very odd evening,” he said. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to find me a candle, I’ll go to bed.”
She told Aunt Em and Kathy the next morning at breakfast how Adrian had so surprisingly cooked ham and eggs for her by the light of a candle, and they were dumb with astonishment.
“Well, fancy!” Aunt Em said at last. “You would never have thought he could even boil a kettle, would you? What an extraordinary thing to do when normally he never ventures out of his room and just rings bells. Did he say if he was stopping on, dear?”
“I did ask him, but he said he’d tell me this morning. It didn’t sound very hopeful,” Sarah replied.
Kathy leaned across the breakfast table, her eyes puzzled.
“How queer of him,” she said, “to cook you ham and eggs, I mean. I wish I had been there. You don’t even like him.”
“I’m not so sure,” Sarah said slowly. “I misjudged him, I think. Those letters put my back up before I ever saw him, but if I’d known—”
“Known what?” asked her sister.
“Aunt Em—Kathy—” Sarah regarded them both a little sternly, wondering whether she should tell them or not, and deciding it was better for them to know to avoid tactless remarks. “His hands were hurt in an accident two years ago. He can never play professionally again. That’s why he’s here.”
Kathy’s eyes filled with ready tears.
“Oh, Sarah, how awful!” she cried. “What that must mean to a man like that—you wouldn’t understand of course—but he was a wonderful pianist with a great future. Oh, poor Mr. Flint—and what a tragic loss to the world.”
Yes, thought Sarah with surprise, she supposed that was true, and she wondered what it felt like to be a loss to the world.
“What a dreadful thing,” said Aunt Em a little vaguely. “I always thought he must have rheumatism the way he rubbed his fingers. Dear me! Yes, that is a sad thing for him.”
Kathy was looking at her sister with puzzled eyes.
“But I can’t think why he told you, Sarah,” she said. “Why not me? I understand music, I know so well what he must feel.”
“Well, I expect it was just an impulse of the moment and I happened to be there,” Sarah answered carelessly. “And, Kathy, I shouldn’t mention it unless he does. I don t think he likes talking about himself much.”
Kathy’s eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. “Of course I wouldn’t mention it,” she said. “But I can show him in lots of little ways that I understand and sympathize. I—I think, I could even help him.”
Sarah smiled across at her.
“I’m sure you could, darling,” she said. “Your gentle ways would melt the most bitter heart. Try them on him when he goes for his morning stroll, for I’m very much afraid he’s leaving us.”
She took the boat after breakfast and rowed across the lough to fetch the oil and other things which Casey had forgotten to send. She found Miss Dearlove in the shop buying picture postcards, and was informed that the Miss Kellys’ guest house was delightful. Baths were extra, of course, but they were hot, and there was a telephone and the youngest Miss Kelly was interested in folk-dancing and made beautiful lampshades with leprechauns on them. She must certainly take one back for dear (Miss Pringle.
“And how is the flinty-hearted Mr. Flint?” she enquired roguishly. “Such a disagreeable man, but then of course one can’t pick and choose one’s guests at this time of year, can one?”
“We can,” said Sarah briefly. “Hi, Casey! You never sent that oil, you old divil, and the whole house in darkness last night. How do you think we’ll keep our guests, and how do you think you’ll sell your whisky?”
Miss Dearlove turned her back. A very abrupt young person and so familiar with the tradespeople. She listened to Sarah and Casey having a long altercation which sounded as if it would end any minute with high words, and was quite surprised when the argument finished with soft-spoken flattery, and tender enquiries after both families.
“I’ll just carry those oil cans to the boat for you, Miss Sarah,” Casey said, following her out and leaving Miss Dearlove alone in the shop. “Och, that wan with her leprechauns! All the ways round the lough yesterday she was askin’ about fairies till I thought she was not quite right in the head. Sure, all the English is touched!”
When Sarah got back, Kathy was watching for her from the snug window and she beckoned furiously, and pointed towards the ceiling.
“What is it?” Sarah shouted, but her sister shook her head and made still more urgent signs.
Sarah climbed in through the window, and Kathy said: “He’s ready to see you. I did as you told me, Sarah. I walked him round the garden, though I rather think he wanted to be alone, and I—I managed to convey what I felt, I think, because he said I was very sweet and would I care to borrow his gramophone one afternoon. Don’t you think that sounds as if he means to stay?”
“Well, if he does, my lamb, it will be thanks to your tender charms and not to mine. I’ll go up now.”
Adrian was standing by one of the windows, looking out over the lough. He turned as she entered, but she could not judge his mood by his face or the tone of his voice in which he said:
“Good morning. I hope you feel more rested.”
“Oh, perfectly,” she said, looking surprised. “I’m never tired.”
“H’m. You were pretty whacked last night, or was that principally from wrestling with those outlandish ‘half’ pennies? Come and sit down. I want to talk to you.”
She sat in the old rocker which had been Nonie’s sewing chair and clasped her hands nervously in her lap, but he continued to stand.
“You asked me last night if I was going to leave,” he said. “At that point I hadn’t quite made up my mind. My weekly cheque makes quite a considerable difference to you, doesn’t it, Sarah?”
She felt herself flushing.
“Well, yes it does,” she replied.
“Do you think you’d let my room easily at this time of year if I went?”
She shook her head dumbly, then said with a rush:
“I did offer to reduce the rent.”
He smiled faintly.
“So you did, and your sister offered to read to me. Well, I’ve decided to stay, but on my own terms. If the p
roposition doesn’t appeal to you you have only to say so and I’ll make other arrangements.”
She began to rock in the chair with increasing violence and her chin went up.
“What are your terms, Mr. Flint?” she asked.
“First of all, I must insist on being the only paying guest in the house while I’m here,” he said unexpectedly. “Second, the question of regular hours must be more strictly attended to, and third, the piano must be moved to another room; I cannot stand any more of The Merry Peasant. That’s all, think.”
Sarah stared at him speechlessly, and he turned back to the window and resumed his preoccupation with the lough.
“Naturally I expect to compensate you for such restrictions. I’m prepared to take on Miss Dearlove’s room and this at ten guineas a week. If I sleep in one and use the other as a sitting room that will obviate the inconveniences when Mary is erratic in her cleaning hours. I’m of course also prepared to continue paying the extra two guineas for meals served in my room—twelve guineas in all, and I buy my own whisky. How does that strike you?”
She did not answer, and he turned to look at her. She was sitting bolt upright in the rocking chair and tears were pouring down her face.
“My dear child!” he exclaimed impatiently. “There’s no need to get upset. If you don’t care for the idea you have only to say so.”
“It isn’t that I don’t care for it,” she said. “But it’s far too much for what we can give you.”
His eyebrows went up.
“Oh, I don’t think so. After all I get two rooms and no disturbance from outside sources.”
“It’s not that, either,” she wept.
“Well, what is it, then?”
“It’s the relief,” she said and wept anew.
He left the window and came and stood before her, his hands in his pockets, looking down at her.”
“What a strange creature you are,” he said. “Then I take it you aren’t averse to my proposal.”
She looked up at him, blinking back the tears.
“Did Kathy ask you to stay?” she said.
“Yes, I think she did in her tentative way—”
“I’m glad you will,” she said. “Not only because we need someone, but because—”
“Well?”
“I’m glad you’re staying, and Kathy will be, too, and Aunt Em, and you’re very welcome to our whisky.”