There Will Come A Stranger

by Dorothy Rivers

  She walked on to the corner of the block. There a pillar box stood sentinel, a cheerful note of scarlet. Many a time he must have posted letters here! thought Valerie, little dreaming that not so long ago he had gone out at night to post one with her own name on the envelope, while she, all hope abandoned of his coming, with an aching heart believed he had forgotten her.

  Crossing the street, she turned back in the direction she had come, this time on the same side as the house where Rory lived. Her heart beat faster. Supposing after all by some strange chance he hadn’t gone to business to-day—supposing that he was recovering from a cold, or flu, although somehow one couldn’t picture Rory being ill. Supposing he looked out, and saw her—!

  Panic seized her at the thought. She longed for it to happen, yet at the same time dreaded it. What should she say, if Rory did appear? For if he did, the sight of her would of course remind him of that broken date they’d made; he would be horrified that he’d forgotten, full of penitent apologies. Should she pretend it hadn’t mattered in the least, that she had passed a pleasant evening in some other way when it became evident that after all he wasn’t coming? But if she tried, she’d never keep it up; it wasn’t in her to dissemble. Yet if she let him see how much she’d minded, he might guess...

  But after all she had no need to worry. No face looked from any of the windows. Only, as she was passing by, the door was flung wide by a tall, fair young man. Their eyes met briefly and she saw that his were blue and pleasant, though at the moment they had a somewhat abstracted expression. He strode off vigorously up the street ahead of her.

  Valerie had no reason to suppose this was the friend with whom Rory shared the flat; for all she knew, a dozen young men might live in the same building, and this might be any one of them, or a casual visitor there. Yet somehow she was sure that this was Rory’s friend, who must only a few hours earlier have seen the sunburnt face and laughing mouth and keen bright eyes that haunted her, and heard the voice that echoed in her dreams. If only there had been some pretext for a word with him—if she had tripped, and he had caught her arm to save her from falling, or if she had dropped her bag and he had picked it up, just for a moment she would have felt nearer Rory...

  He turned a corner, and by the time that Valerie had reached it he was out of sight.

  The walk back to the flat seemed endless, for she felt suddenly exhausted. She had been a fool—a fool to make that senseless pilgrimage to Ebury Street! All she had done had been to hurt herself, and to no purpose. She vowed that from now on she would be sensible. If only she were going to start work soon: work was the best distraction in the world. But there were still some weeks to pass before the term began.

  Vivian came in soon after she got back to the flat.

  “Had a good time?” the elder sister asked, wishing that Valerie didn’t look so tired.

  “Lovely!” said Valerie, with head held high, and smiling lips.

  Valerie had been right. The fair young man she had encountered outside the house where Rory lived was Barry Hughes. He had been given a week off from the office to catch up on work for his forthcoming exams, and now, having worked all morning and for the first part of the afternoon, until his brain refused to function any longer, he was going to refresh himself by getting some fresh air and exercise in St. James’s Park before he settled down again to work till bedtime.

  As he walked he thought with some concern of Rory, who these days was behaving in a manner most unlike himself. His usual high spirits had given place to moods of silent gloom. From being cheerfully good humoured he had become morose, and for the last few days had got up earlier than usual to prowl restlessly about the flat, awaiting the arrival of the first post. On returning in the evening his first action was to run through any letters that had come for him later in the day, and if he found none, to mutter imprecations.

  This morning, when the post had brought him nothing more interesting than a couple of bills, he had burst out to Barry.

  “Surely there’s been ample time by now for me to have had an answer to that letter I sent to Switzerland to be forwarded!”

  “To that girl whose address you lost, you mean? Let’s see—how long ago was it, exactly?”

  “Eleven days. Three days to get there—three more to come back—perhaps another day to allow for a few hours’ delay in forwarding it on. That makes a week. And even if she didn’t answer it that same day, surely I should have heard by now!”

  “I shouldn’t worry,” Barry had begun consolingly, and Rory had interrupted irritably, “No—I daresay you wouldn’t! But I do. She must think it very rude of me to let her down like that!”

  “Is she the sort to take offence?” Barry had asked, and Rory had snapped back, “Not in the very least! No—Valerie’s far too sweet and understanding to be touchy!”

  “Possibly she’s away from home, and the letter is following her about,” Barry had suggested, but that also met with little favour.

  “Very unlikely. She’s only just got back after five weeks’ holiday.”

  Rory had left half his breakfast on his plate when he departed for the office. Not like him to lose his appetite—first time I’ve known it happen! Barry reflected, striding past the ducks with a preoccupied expression, instead of pausing as he usually did to watch them for a little, grinning at their comical antics. Looked as if Rory had got it really bad this time! In the past he’d sought and found the proverbial safety in numbers, so that the ups and downs of his lighthearted philanderings had left him cheerfully unscathed. Too bad that when, by all appearances, he’d met a girl at last who really mattered, this should have to happen.

  Barry hated seeing the hopeful look his cousin wore when he came in that evening change to one of grim unhappiness when he saw that not a single letter had come for him during the day. He lit a cigarette and flung himself down in a chair, but sprang up a few minutes later and began prowling restlessly about the room, staring at the details of the coloured prints that he had seen a hundred times before, taking up a book to lay it down a moment later, fidgeting with the ashtrays.

  Suddenly he said, “I can’t stand this! I’m going to telephone the Casque d’Or for Valerie’s home address. Then I can ring her up. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before!”

  “Good idea!” Barry said, though privately he doubted whether the hotel people would pass on the address of one guest to another. Not the kind of thing a good hotel would do in England. Still, they might have different ideas about that kind of thing in Switzerland. He would have left the room, as by common consent one of them always did when the other used the telephone, but Rory said, “No need to go—there’s nothing private about this call and it may take some time to get through.” Ten minutes later Rory was talking to Madame Jourdier herself. Starting in English, presently he broke into French, and then relapsed again into a kind of pidgin English. Barry, listening anxiously, could gather only a vague outline of what was taking place between them, but when at last Rory replaced the receiver he was thankful to see that he looked much relieved.

  “Phew! I don’t know which is worse—my French, or Madame’s English! And to make things worse, we had a rotten line. She wouldn’t give me Valerie’s address, seemed quite shocked that I should expect her to, said it was unheard of. But she did tell me that my letter had arrived, and that she’d sent it on to Valerie only yesterday.”

  “Not till yesterday?”

  “M’m. Apparently she’d been away for several days nursing her mother, who had taken suddenly ill, and though the staff could carry on with most things, they weren’t up to coping with the office work. So that accounts for the delay.” He grinned at Barry. “I don’t mind telling you, old boy, that’s taken a big load off my mind!”

  Then, as he thought of something else, he frowned. “All the same, this means that Valerie must still be thinking that I’m every sort of skunk.”

  Barry said consolingly, “At any rate, she won’t go on thinking so much longer.”r />
  Rory was calculating. “Let’s see—the letter ought to get to Darlingford the day after to-morrow at the latest. Thursday. If she answers by return I ought to hear from her on Saturday—with luck, on Friday. Three more days. Perhaps four. Oh, well—at any rate I do have more idea of where I stand. Better than watching every post! D’you feel like eating in the restaurant this evening? I seem to have an appetite!”

  Barry was pleased to notice that he ate a better meal that evening than for several days.

  Rory’s reckoning about the letter was correct. It was delivered at Hawthorn Lodge by the first post on Thursday morning. Harold, on his way to breakfast, heard the rattle of the letter box and found it there with several others. Taking them to the dining-room, he began to sort them out.

  An appeal for some charity or other for himself ... a letter to be forwarded to Valerie ... Something that looked like one of those offers of a detergent at half price, for Monica ... Another similar, for Janet ... Two square envelopes, identical, except that one was for himself and one for Robert.

  The others were already having breakfast. After doling round their letters, Harold poured out his coffee, frowning as he realized that tepid would have been a better adjective for the milk than hot. Boiled eggs again. How sick he was of boiled shop eggs! The daily housekeeper Janet had engaged after an uncomfortable three days’ interim when Valerie left, refused to start work before nine, so the two girls, grumbling, took it in turns to cook the breakfast, and as boiled eggs were less trouble than anything else, boiled eggs they had had every morning since Valerie went away. And though the grocer had seemed to provide Valerie with unlimited newlaid eggs, the ones they had these days invariably seemed to taste of musty straw.

  As he was sitting down, a startled exclamation made them all look in surprise at Robert, who was reading his letter with an expression of indignant horror.

  Wasting no time in questioning him, Harold opened his own identical letter so as to see at once what it was all about, and in a minute he, too, was uttering exclamations of indignation and dismay.

  Monica and Janet looked from one to the other, anxious and exasperated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “For goodness’ sake do tell us what’s the matter instead of muttering and moaning to yourselves!”

  Robert had finished reading. “It’s from a firm of London lawyers. It seems that Vivian and Valerie want to sell their share of the house and furniture—so by the terms of Father’s will, we’ve either got to buy them out at valuation, or sell our share as well!”

  There was stupefied silence for a moment. Then clamour broke out.

  “What—your own sisters want to turn us out?”

  “They know quite well that it takes months to find a house!”

  “Oh, how abominable of them!”

  “I never would have thought that Valerie would be so selfish—sly little thing!”

  Harold said slowly, “Wait a bit. Half this house does belong to the two girls, you know. It’s not unreasonable that they should want to have their share of the capital that’s locked up in it. And after all, Vivian has let us live rent free in her quarter of the house all this time, without a hint that we should pay rent.”

  “So she jolly well might!” cried Janet. “If she had any sense of decency, she would go on doing it, too—she can well afford to!”

  “Yes, but Valerie can’t,” Robert reminded her. He was beginning to calm down. “She’ll need the money for her training and expenses.”

  “Vivian could pay for her!” said Monica.

  Harold answered, “I’ve no doubt Vivian would be glad to. But probably she realizes that it isn’t very pleasant for Valerie to be in a position of complete dependence on her. The lawyer’s letter is quite reasonable. He says if we should be averse to selling this house, or buying their share of it, they would be prepared to accept rent, at a valuation, in lieu of interest on the capital.”

  “Furnished rent! Huh! A pretty penny that would come to!” said Monica bitterly.

  Harold had finished. Rising to leave the room, he paused a minute at the door. “Robert, you and I must think this over and decide what’s best to do. Five minutes more and then we must be off.” Robert followed him a moment later. Janet and Monica were left alone, staring at one another across the table. Janet said, “We’re going to lose on this, whichever way you look at it. Either we pay out capital, and lose our dividends, or we fork out rent!”

  Monica burst out. “Oh, it’s infuriating! They’re doing this from spite! There can’t be any other reason—Vivian has heaps of money!”

  “Anyway, there it is!” said Janet glumly. “Oh, well—time we were off!” She rose and left the room.

  Monica was following her, when her eye fell on a letter lying forgotten by Harold’s place. She saw it was for Valerie, and had been sent first to the hotel where she and Vivian had stayed in Switzerland, then re-addressed to Darlingford.

  She snatched it up and tore it viciously across, and then across again and again, venting her feelings against Valerie on Valerie’s property.

  The housekeeper, when she came to clear away the breakfast things, found the little heaps of scraps of paper lying on the table where Monica had tossed them. Presently she flung them in the dustbin with the tea leaves and grapefruit rinds.

  So the last remaining link between Valerie and Rory was destroyed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Although the tiny dining-room where Vivian and Valerie were having breakfast was gay with the pale sunshine of a line spring morning, neither felt particularly cheerful.

  Vivian was thinking that life seemed strangely flat and aimless when one had no particular occupation. She was going to take on a voluntary job for the Soldiers’, Sailors’, and Airmen’s Families’ Association, but her work at their office in Queen Anne’s Gate would not start until her predecessor there left to get married, about the same time that Valerie’s term began. Meanwhile there were several weeks to be filled in with nothing to do except amuse themselves.

  By ten o’clock, between them they would have done the housework. After that, they would go out, walk in the park, or perhaps do a little shopping. Later, they might see a film, or foregather with one or other of the friends with whom she had kept up a correspondence while she was in America, and with whom she had renewed acquaintance during the time they had been installed here. In theory that kind of life might sound very pleasant, but in fact seemed a useless and unsatisfying kind of existence.

  And if it’s bad for me, thought Vivian, it’s even worse for Valerie! Anyone unhappily in love needs occupation above all things. But what is there than I can do about it. I just don’t know! Oh well—the time will pass.

  At the sound of a faint click, followed by a tiny ‘muffled thud, they turned their heads. The post had come.

  “I’ll go,” said Valerie.

  Even now, hard as she tried to think no more of Rory, the arrival of the post, the ringing of the telephone, still pierced her with a pang of hope. To-day, as always, it was followed by the dull, flat ache of disappointment as she saw that the one letter lying on the mat was not for her.

  Indifferently Vivian took the letter Valerie handed her, then as she glanced at it the young sister saw her face light into animation. Square white envelope postmarked Muirkirk; clear, firm writing—John had written to her after all!

  Ripping the envelope, she began to read, while Valerie skimmed the headlines of The Times and drank her second cup of coffee, wondering whom Vivian had heard from, that she looked so pleased about it.

  When at last she looked up, she told Valerie, “It’s from John—John Ainslie! Listen: he asks if you and I will go and stay with him in Scotland for ten days or so. Harry and Susan and their children are going there the week-end after next. Harry has to go back to Edinburgh on the Monday, but Susan and the children will be staying on for another week or so. How d’you feel about it?”

  Valerie had mixed feelings. She had never been to S
cotland; she liked John Ainslie and the Prescotts; to go away for ten days would make a nice break in this time of idleness before the term began. And yet the faint unreasoning hope of meeting Rory, unlikely though it was, made her reluctant to leave London—even though she knew that it was better for her not to see him, better that the wound should have a chance to heal. But Vivian was obviously eager to accept John’s invitation, so Valerie said, “I think it sounds a wonderful idea!”

  “The second week-end we’ll be there it will be Easter. John suggests we should stay on until the Wednesday after, so that the trains won’t be so crowded. And the Monday after that you and I both start work, so it all fits in very well! I’ll write accepting when we’ve done the washing up.”

  “Do you know anything about his home?”

  “Only that it’s on the outskirts of a little Border town, and that the garden runs down to a river.”

  “Lovely!” said Valerie, with visions of sturdy Border keeps, and hills, and moors, and tumbling burns.

  “We shall need tweeds. Sturdy country tweeds, I mean. And good stout shoes for walking,” said Vivian practically.

  Valerie, more practical still, suggested that as Scotland made the best tweeds in the world they would be wise to make do with skirts and twin-sets and delay buying tweeds until they got there.

  “Shoes, anyway. Brogues, with low heels. And country Burberries. Our flimsy mackintoshes are much too townified—it would be shocking to arrive in Scotland looking as though pavement perambulations are all we’re fit for!” said Vivian, as she went off to write to John.

  Her heart was light as she sat down with pad and pen at the bureau by the window. When day after day had passed without a sign from John she had begun to think that though, when he asked Valerie for their address, he must have done so with the intention of keeping in touch with them, back in his own surroundings he must have thought better of it. Or it might be that he was so fully occupied with his life in Muirkirk, and his friends there, that he had never given another thought to Switzerland, nor those who had shared with him that lovely interlude among the silence of the snows. Evidently, she had thought, their friendship must have meant far less to him than to herself. Now, as she re-read his letter, Vivian wondered whether all along he had had this in mind. How strange, she mused, that a few lines written on a sheet of paper could so transform depression into pleasure!