My Sister Celia

by Mary Burchell

  By then it was time for Freda to think about returning to town, and on his repeating his offer to drive her over to Dalling, she accepted gratefully.

  They returned to the cottage for a few minutes, where she left written instructions for Mr. Token and his men. Then Laurence drove her the few pleasant miles to Dalling and saw her off on the London train, as though he had been doing this for years.

  Atone in her compartment, Freda stared out of the window at the passing scene and thought how nice it was, after all, to be on good terms with the owner of Crowmain Court. She thought it would be some while before she could actually bring herself to address him as Larry. But she no longer thought of him as “that Laurence Clumber.”

  He’s a nice person, really, she reflected indulgently. Not so charming or so understanding as Brian Vanner. But rather fun. Now Brian would never have embarrassed me by repeating what Miss Clumber said. He has more imagination—finer feelings, I suppose—and would have known how I was bound to feel.

  At that point, she tried to decide just how she did feel about Miss Clumber’s verdict on her, and Laurence Clumber’s unfeeling repetition of her words.

  Faintly gratified, of course, that anyone—particularly anyone as discriminating as Miss Clumber—should have thought well of her. But amused— intrigued—put out by the idea that she should have been paired off, even in thought, with the owner of Crowmain Court.

  “She probably didn’t mean that I’d have been specially suitable for him,” Freda told herself. “She just meant that, in her view, I’d make a good wife for someone. Would I, I wonder?”

  And she pursued that interesting line of thought until she arrived at her destination, but without arriving at any valuable conclusions.

  The following week appeared to Freda to be quite astonishingly dull and uneventful. In point of fact, it was no different from dozens of weeks she had lived through quite happily in the past. But, so heady and insidious a drug is sensation that, once exciting things begin to happen, we want them to go on happening all the time.

  As it was, she had one affectionate telephone call from Celia on the Monday evening, ending with a promise to see her during the next few days—and then silence.

  Freda was not at all a demanding girl by nature, and she was sensible enough to know that anyone so gay and popular as Celia undoubtedly had a great many calls on her time. But she was disappointed not to hear from her. Particularly as a sort of anxious diffidence kept her from telephoning to the Vanners’ house herself.

  In addition, it was not possible to visit her beloved cottage that weekend, because it was her turn for Saturday morning duty at the office. Hitherto, Freda had never specially grudged that one-in-four arrangement. But now it seemed to her to be the greatest imposition.

  She scrambled rather resentfully through a very busy morning, and, at the end of it, felt too exhausted even to play with the idea of visiting Crowmain on the Sunday.

  “Sunday trains are sure to be crowded,” she told herself. “And there doesn’t seem to be any lift on offer this weekend. And, if I got down there, I wouldn’t be able to see Mr. Token and the workmen. It would be a wasted visit.”

  Besides, even in her new and modest affluence, she could not be perpetually paying the train fare to Crowmain, unless she were really going to be able to do something useful when she got there.

  Freda, therefore, was feeling both cross and dejected as she emerged from the offices of the International Import and Export Company, and so intent was she upon her own affairs that she actually jumped when someone said behind her,

  “Freda—aren’t we on speaking terms?”

  “Brian!” She turned to face Brian Vanner with such pleasure and delight in the unexpected meeting that her whole expression was irradiated with a welcoming smile.

  “Come, that’s better!” He laughed a little as he took her hand. But she thought suddenly that he looked tired and worried, and there were unmistakably anxious little lines round his handsome dark eyes. “I telephoned you once or twice, but was unlucky.”

  “Did you really?” She was unspeakably gratified. “And then, when I came past here on my way from our City office, I remembered your saying you worked here. I was just wondering if it were worth while to go in and enquire for you on a Saturday morning, when out you came, in a brown study.”

  “Oh, Brian, I’m so glad to see you. I was really just having a secret little grouse because nothing very exciting seemed to have happened for days. And—then you were there.”

  “Do I rank as something exciting?” He smiled, though his eyes still remained serious. “How flattering! Come and have lunch with me, Freda, if you’re free. I’ve rather a lot to tell you.”

  “H-have you?” For a moment, a sort of anxiety communicated itself to her. But then the pleasure of going to lunch with him superseded all else. She eagerly accepted his invitation. And, summoning a passing taxi, he handed her in.

  As they drove westward, she turned and glanced at him.

  “Is something—wrong, Brian?”

  “We’ve had rather an anxious week. That’s why you haven’t heard anything from us. I tried, as I said, to phone, but—”

  “It’s not—Celia?” Her hand went apprehensively to her lips and her eyes became enormous.

  “No, no. It’s my mother.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” She hoped she didn’t sound only academically sorry. But it was difficult not to revel in one’s relief over Celia rather than feel absolutely overwhelmed by anything which might have happened to the formal, slightly unfriendly woman who had not been pleased at the discovery that Celia had a sister. “Has she been ill?”

  “She was involved in a very serious motor accident.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” This time the tone was quite different. “Do you mean that she was badly hurt?”

  “Quite badly enough, even from the physical point of view—a broken arm and a nasty knock on the head—but much more seriously affected from the nervous shock. We’ve had a very worrying time.”

  “Is she in hospital?”

  “Oh, yes. She was taken there immediately after the accident, and there’s been no question of moving her.”

  “Wh-who was driving?” enquired Freda diffidently.

  “None of us, I’m glad to say. For, although it seems it was not the driver’s fault—just a very bad skid—one would feel awful, of course, if one were in any way responsible. The ironic thing is that she was coming home from a hospital committee, less than a mile from home, and she could just as well have come by bus. But someone else on the committee offered her a lift—and this had to happen. They were both back in the hospital within ten minutes of leaving it.”

  “Is she making a good recovery now?” Freda asked.

  Brian frowned and shook his head.

  “Not too good. The doctors seem worried about the after-affects, and talk about a long convalescence.”

  Freda murmured something sympathetic once more. And at that point they arrived at the restaurant Brian had chosen.

  It was a quiet, pleasant place, not overcrowded, and he was evidently quite well-known there. They were given a comer table, and an elderly waiter attended to their order with almost fatherly concern.

  “How has Celia taken it all?” Freda asked, when they were once more free to pursue their conversation.

  “Very well. She’s both practical and naturally resilient in spirit, you know. You must have wondered why you heard nothing from her, but she’s been a great deal at the hospital. My mother leans on her very much. Perhaps,” Brian said, half to himself, “a little too much.”

  “I’m sure she’s wonderful,” Freda exclaimed warmly. “And please tell her it’s quite all right. I did wonder a little why I didn’t hear, but I guessed she had some excellent reason.”

  Brian smiled slightly.

  “What did I say about your being undemanding?” He looked half teasing, half approving. “Quite a lot of girls would have been clamouring to know what m
y father meant to do for them, in view of the new situation.”

  “Oh, no!” Freda was shocked and showed it. “I don’t want your father to do anything for me. I’m quite all right as I am, I’ve no claim on him at all, and he has plenty to worry about at the moment without bothering about me.”

  “I think he wants to do something, just the same, Freda.”

  “Oh, but what?” She looked disturbed.

  “I’m not quite sure. He hadn’t got around to settling anything when this business hit us.”

  There was a slight silence, while the attentive waiter set their first course before them. When he had withdrawn, Brian asked,

  “How do you like your job, Freda?”

  “My job? As well as most people, I suppose,” she said with a philosophical shrug, for her one-in-four Saturday morning was now behind her and the weekend stretched before her, which makes a lot of difference to all of us.

  What do you mean by that, exactly?” He smiled across at her, with an air of undivided attention, which is much rarer than most people suppose and constitutes a great part of that quality we call charm.

  “Well—I’m not going to say that I rush off each morning with a song in my heart because I’m going to sit at my typewriter all day—when I’m not taking shorthand. But I do it pretty willingly, because it provides me with a reasonable living and the wherewithal to have a few extras too. That’s the case with ninety people out of a hundred, I daresay, so why shouldn’t I be satisfied?”

  “Yes—I see what you mean.” Brian laughed almost indulgently. “I believe my father was thinking about offering you a job in our firm.”

  “Was he? How—nice of him,” said Freda a little doubtfully. “What does ‘our firm’ do?”

  “Oh, we’re quite well-known solicitors. Didn’t you know?”

  Freda shook her head.

  “We employ a fair number of short-hand typists. If you’re reasonably good, I think my father intends to offer you the next vacancy.”

  “Oh.” Freda considered that. “Do you think it’s a very good idea?”

  “No,” said Brian frankly, and they both laughed. “Why not?” asked Freda curiously.

  “For the same reason as you,” he told her. “You would not be exactly part of the family firm. At the same time you would have a slightly privileged position which would probably make you less than popular with your immediate colleagues.”

  “I agree. I’d rather be independent in my own way,” Freda declared firmly.

  “That’s one of the things I like best about you,” he said slowly. “In a way, I wish you were coming into our firm. But no,” he shook his head, “it wouldn’t do. From any point of view,” he added, half to himself, and Freda could not help wondering just what he meant by that.

  But then they talked about Celia, and the possibility of her going abroad with Mrs. Vanner for a period of convalescence, and Freda tried not to feel selfishly depressed at the idea of having to lose her sister for an unspecified period, just as she had discovered her.

  “And how’s the feud over the cottage going?” enquired Brian, leaning back in his chair and relaxing over the coffee, and she noticed, for the first time, that his air of anxiety had almost disappeared. He looked a much happier person than the Brian who had hailed her outside the office.

  “Oh—I think it’s going to be all right.”

  “Settled so soon?” He looked both amused and surprised.

  “Well, you see, Larry feels—”

  “Larry?” He looked mystified.

  “Laurence Clumber,” Freda explained sedately.

  “I see.” Brian passed his hand over his mouth, perhaps to hide a smile. “Yes—that does look rather like a break in defences.”

  “What does?”

  “One doesn’t call a man Larry if one means to fight him tooth and nail,” Brian pointed out gravely.

  It isn’t my defences that have given way,” Freda insisted hastily. “He’s come round to my way of thinking.”

  “Good for Larry,” murmured Brian Vanner. “Then you’re sticking to the cottage?”

  “Most certainly. But we had a—friendly talk. I went to tea at Crowmain Court. And he’s going to lend me one of his gardeners to dig up my cottage garden.”

  “Mistrust them most when they come with gifts,” murmured her companion thoughtfully.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing relevant, I hope.” He smiled across at her. “It was a sort of quotation. But probably not applicable to this situation.”

  “You mean you think he’s getting round me in a nice way?” Freda paraphrased shrewdly. “And that when he has me eating out of his hand, he’ll demand the cottage?”

  “Except that I would never entertain the idea of your eating out of anybody’s hand, I suppose that was more or less what I did mean,” Brian agreed. “But I’m probably wrong.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Freda said. But she recalled one or two disturbing features of that charming teatime at Crowmain Court, and she wondered if she had not handled Laurence Clumber more cleverly when she was angry with him.

  They lingered pleasantly over their coffee for another quarter of an hour. Then Brian glanced at his watch and said he must go to visit his mother.

  “Celia will give you a ring to-morrow morning,” he promised her, as they said good-bye. “Unless you’re going down to the country to-morrow?”

  “No, no.” Freda hastily and finally decided against visiting the cottage next day. “I’ll be in all the morning. I’ll love to hear from her.”

  Then they parted, and Freda caught a home-going bus, no longer feeling that the week had nothing to offer in the way of excitement.

  The next morning she waited eagerly for Celia to telephone. But it was Laurence who rang first—quite early in the morning.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he said. “But I’m driving down to Crowmain unexpectedly—coming back late this evening. Would you care to come?”

  “Oh, I’d love—Oh, no, I can’t. I’m waiting for a telephone call.”

  “Good lord! It must be an important telephone call if it needs cancellation of everything else,” he protested.

  “It is important,” she retorted coolly, with the conviction that it was just as well not to tell Laurence Clumber all her business.

  “Who’s the lucky man?”

  “The—”? Oh, never you mind.” She was firm and composed about that, and rather pleased with her own tone. “Thank you very much for asking me. But I can’t manage it this time.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, with real regret in his voice, she thought. And then he rang off.

  She was sorry too. Much more sorry than she liked to admit to herself. It was a wonderful, sunny day, and she knew now, from experience, what a pleasant drive it was. But perhaps, she told herself, it was better to say “No” sometimes to him, and not be quite so eager to fall in with all his plans.

  All the same, she had time to regret her decision more than once before Celia telephoned about lunchtime. Then, however, there was no doubt in Freda’s mind that she was glad to have stayed.

  “Darling, how nice it is to talk to you again!” cried Celia’s warm, friendly voice. “I’ve missed you. But Brian saw you yesterday, I hear, and explained about everything.”

  “Yes, I’m so very sorry. How is Mrs. Vanner to-day?”

  “A little better. But it’s going to be a very long job, and we’re going to have to do quite a lot of rearranging for the future. Could you come along to tea this afternoon, Freda, so that we can talk things over?”

  “Do you mean so that I can help to talk things over?” enquired Freda, wondering what contribution she was expected to make to the future planning of the Vanner ménage.

  “Yes. Daddy wants to talk to you about something. And I’m longing to talk to you too.”

  “Well, of course, I’ll be very happy to come,” Freda said. But her heart sank a little. For she could not see that there was anything
much to discuss but the probable long absence of Celia abroad and, possibly, Mr. Vanner’s well-meant but unwelcome suggestion that she herself should come and work in his office. “What time would you like me to come?”

  “About five. It’s no good my suggesting anything earlier, because we shall be at the hospital.”

  Freda promised to be at the Vanners’ house at five, and Celia then rang off.

  It was all very unsettling. And, as Freda ate her solitary lunch and completed her weekend chores, she could not help feeling a trifle depressed. Only when she finally arrived at the charming St. John’s Wood house, and was rapturously greeted by Celia, did she feel that nothing really mattered, so long as she and her sister were so entirely one. How I would love to spend a really long time with her! thought Freda. But it’s enough that she exists.

  Celia hardly waited for her to take off her hat before she hurried her off to the pleasant garden-room, where Mr. Vanner—looking much older and rather strained—and Brian were obviously waiting for her.

  “Tell her now, Daddy, and then we can discuss it over tea,” begged Celia, to Freda’s profound embarrassment. “Daddy has the most wonderful plan for you, Freda!”

  She smiled at Mr. Vanner and tried not to look as though she had already heard the plan and mentally rejected it, and she tried to think of graceful phrases in which to explain that she really much preferred to live her own life and work at her own office.

  “I’m not sure that tea first and discussion after wouldn’t be a much better idea,” said Mr. Vanner, with a slight smile. “But, since Celia has left us no choice—sit down, my dear, and let me explain.” Freda sat down, but Celia wandered about the room, with an air of suppressed excitement which Freda thought excessive in the circumstances. However, her excitement, of course, was probably due to the plans being made on her own behalf.

  “You know about the unhappy accident to my wife,” Mr. Vanner began. “And, although she is beginning to make progress at last, it is imperative that she has a long period of convalescence. I’m therefore going to take her abroad, probably to Switzerland, for a couple of months or so—”