Fantails

by Leonora Starr

  Jane asked, “What are you smiling about?”

  “Three sheets, six pillowcases—am I smiling? I’m so pleased about Logie and Sherry that my face is probably one ceaseless grin these days, like the Cheshire cat!—Three bath towels. One roller towel.”

  But it was not of Logie that she had been thinking, and she found it difficult to keep her mind fixed on the laundry. She was remembering something Hugh had said: “I admire your gift for making people happy.”

  It was, she thought, the most delightful and heartwarming compliment that anyone had ever paid her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The back of Sherry’s car was stacked with suitcases. One of his, in expensive-looking pigskin; two of Logie’s, that had been her father’s, and though shabby looked solid and good. The wireless as well as all the weather signs promised a hot day; she wore a frock of hyacinth-blue linen under her new camel-hair coat. With Alison’s help she had made the frock from a bedspread they had brought to Fantails when they left Swan House; Alison had meant to use it when the ones in use at present wore out, but they had lasted well, so it had seemed a good idea that the blue one should fill more pressing need.

  “All set?” Sherry asked her, getting in beside her.

  “All set!” She waved to Alison and Jane standing together by the coach-house door, and looking to Logie, in that moment of parting, particularly dear and reassuring. Sherry raised a hand in salutation. Then they were off.

  Any girl must have felt thrilled at the adventure of setting out to meet her future mother-in-law and see for the first time the house that would in the future be her home, but to untravelled Logie there was the added thrill of the unaccustomed motor run through unfamiliar country. They went by Norwich to King’s Lynn, thence across the flat Lincolnshire fields and fenland under great empty skies, and so to Grantham, where they were going to have lunch. “We might have gone by Lincoln,” Sherry said at a road junction, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’m all for hitting the Great North Road as soon as may be.”

  Logie marvelled silently at his matter-of-fact acceptance at the details of the journey that set her tingling with excitement: a signpost saying “To The North”; the moment when he told her, “Now we’re on the Great North Road.” Probably, she reflected, he would never realise that much he took for granted was to her a matter for delighted marvelling. “Not a bad pub,” he commented casually of the inn where they had lunch, while Logie was enchanted with the ancient beams, the great fireplaces with their ingle-seats, the lingering atmosphere of an old coaching inn, the friendly old flatfooted waiter who advised them to have the steak-and-kidney pie—“the salmon’s more in season, as you might say, but the chef makes suet crust a treat!”

  She saw a woman in the cloakroom glance with startled envy at her bag, Sherry had bought it for her in Asprey’s when they went to London. It was a superb affair of crocodile, gold-mounted, lined with suede, fitted with zip-fastened flapjack, gold lipstick case, mirror, and gold-and-tortoiseshell comb. As she opened it the fragrance, sweet and fresh, of Roman hyacinths rose from her handkerchief, one of the dozen he had given her because hers had blown from her hand in the car. It was of finest linen, lace-edged and hand-embroidered with an L. From Bond Street they had gone to Floris, where he had bought her scent, bath essence, talcum powder, friction sachets, all in Roman hyacinth. He had bought red rose scent for Alison and for Jane jasmine. “Not that she’ll use it,” Sherry had said, “but she can’t be left out.” The bag, the unaccustomed luxury of scent, her new coat, and the fact of wearing Andrew’s nylons made her feel deliciously opulent and sophisticated.

  When they had left the streets of Grantham behind and were once more speeding through open country, she spread out her left hand, turning it this way and that so that the two large diamonds flanking the great cornflower-blue sapphire of her engagement ring flashed and sparkled in the sun like frozen dewdrops.

  “Penny for ’em?” Sherry asked her, glancing sidelong.

  “I was thinking that it’s quite the loveliest ring I’ve ever seen, and that I’d no idea a bag could be as breathtaking as this one you’ve given me. And I was wondering if your mother will think that I’m—well—rather a gold-digger for letting you spend all that money on me!”

  “Lord-love-a-duck! If I hadn’t spent it on you she’d have thought me a proper skinflint. And quite right, too. Anyhow, darling, does it really matter to you what she thinks?”

  Logie was astonished. “Sherry! Why, of course it does! Surely you want your mother to like me?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I do.” They were a good five miles further on their way before he spoke again. “Logie, d’you realise all families aren’t like yours?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You and Jane and Andrew, Alison too, though she’s no nearer than a cousin, matter a lot to one another.”

  “Why, of course we do!”

  “You say ‘of course.’ It’s not ‘of course’ at all. To many people pleasure and possessions are of far more importance than their kith and kin. To some, appearances count before all else ... Even when I was at my prep school, I knew well enough that if I’d been unsightly in some way, or even undersized and pale and puny, my mother would never have bothered to come near me at half-term. As it was, I was presentable enough and well grown, and captain of the cricket eleven and the rugger team, and all that, so she came—because I was a credit to her. But because that’s her attitude, I don’t instinctively turn to her for sympathy when things go wrong, as you would turn to Alison and Andrew. Trouble and failure don’t appeal to her. She likes success.”

  A hazy cloud drifted across the clear skies of Logie’s happiness. In that case, she was thinking, Sherry’s mother certainly won’t like me! She must have wanted someone with a title, or a girl who’d made a name for herself on the centre court at Wimbledon, or flying round the world in record time, for him. She won’t be one scrap pleased with just an ordinary nobody, in spite of that charming letter she wrote me…

  As though he guessed what she was thinking, Sherry said, “No need for you to be nervous. She’ll like you, all right. You’re pretty in the right way.”

  Logie asked, laughing, “What do you mean, ‘the right way’?”

  “A patrician way. You’ve got the air of being thoroughbred. That’ll appeal to her. She’d infinitely rather have a lovely shrew as daughter-in-law than a plain jane with a heart of gold.”

  “A shrew!” Logie assumed an air of offended hauteur. “If that’s how you regard me, Major MacAirlie, we had better terminate our engagement here and now. Be good enough to stop the car. I would prefer to walk home.”

  “Certainly, Miss Selkirk!—No. On second thoughts we will continue our journey, in order that my maternal parent may see the termagant from whose clutches her son has had the good fortune to escape before it was too late.”

  “Idiot!—Oh, Sherry, I am enjoying myself.”

  “We might have had a motoring honeymoon abroad, as you enjoy it, but with currency restrictions one would be always torn between affording a drink or a bath—a sordid business. But the Highlands in October are usually at their best. Autumn colouring and all that sort of thing. How’s that for an idea?”

  “Perfect!” For the moment she was able to forget the ordeal lying immediately ahead, of meeting Sherry’s mother, in thinking of the golden autumn that would see the start of their new life together.

  Near Catterick Bridge they left the main road for a narrower cross-country turnpike. Logie was fascinated by the unfamiliar country, the stone farmhouses, many of them roofed with slabs of stone, the open views, the distant Cleveland hills, the rushing, brawling streams, so different from the slow-flowing waters of Suffolk. On either side of the wide, cobbled village street were sturdy stone-built cottages and small shops. Several of them had curved windows with a pane or two of bull’s-eye glass like Beatrix Potter illustrations. Facing them at the top of the street, where the road turned sharply to the left, was a
white gate, standing open. Sherry drove through it and along a short drive. On one side was a field where Highland cattle grazed and on the other a thick belt of spruces, giving out an aromatic tang of resin. Then between wide stretches of scythed grass, dotted with flowering shrubs—“This is a mass of daffodils in spring,” Sherry told her—and so between smooth lawns up to the pillared door and shallow steps of a Georgian house. In Logie’s eyes it was imposing. It had rows of twelve-paned windows that looked out across a sweep of gravel, and beyond that a lawn, to a wide view of harvest fields and pasture, with here and there farm buildings or a spinney or the dark mass of a wood breaking the patterns of the walls, and far away a range of hills that in the light of the late afternoon were blue as grapes against the turquoise sky.

  As Sherry switched off the engine the door opened and a pair of labradors pushed past a grey-haired parlourmaid. Indifferently they surveyed the car, then snuffed the air and plunged on Sherry in rapturous welcome. One, as he opened the door of the car to get out, stood on its hind legs, forepaws on Sherry’s shoulders, pinning him in his seat, trying to lick his face. The other, whining in a frenzy of excitement, tried to push past her companion; while Sherry, laughing and protesting, was unable to move. “Rajah! Down, old boy! Steady, Ranee—your turn in a minute, my old lady!”

  The parlourmaid, prim in her frilled cap, advanced upon them. “A fine opinion the young lady’ll have of us, welcoming her this way!” She seized Rajah by the collar and dragged him from the car, her wiry frame being apparently possessed of more strength than Logie would have credited her. ‘Tell those nasty brutes of dogs of yours to mind their manners, Mr. Sherry, and come away in. I have tea waiting on you in the library, for I don’t doubt you’ll be able for another cup if you have had any on the road. The mistress bade me tell you she was sorry she had to go to Cletterby to bridge. She had it all arranged this long while past, before she knew when you’d be coming. Rajah! For my sake be quiet or you’ll have my arm torn off me! Bide you a wee while, my bonnie lamb. Your master’ll be giving you a fine petting when he’s got himself unfolded.”

  Sherry laughed, stretching his long limbs. “ ‘Unfolded’ is the right word for it, Mary!—Logie, you must be half dead. This is Mary. I suppose she has another name, but though I’ve known her for about fifteen years—”

  “Sixteen come October!”

  “—I’ve never heard it. This is Miss Selkirk, Mary.” The parlourmaid had until now, from shyness or good manners, avoided looking directly at Logie. Now their eyes met. Logie saw high Scotch cheekbones, thin lips, a sharp nose, small light-blue eyes summing her up shrewdly. So this was the “character” of whom Sherry had told her, who ruled the household with a stern efficiency that hid a warm and kindly heart; one of those beloved and faithful old retainers that are so often met with in fiction and on the stage, so sadly seldom in real life.

  Smiling, she held out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mary!”

  Mary shook it awkwardly. “It’ll not do to believe the half of what Mr. Sherry’ll tell you!” But she was obviously pleased, for all the dourness of her manner, that Sherry should have spoken of her. “You’ll want to see your room. Elsie can be getting on with your unpacking while you get your tea—I’ll have Miss Logie in the library by the time you’ve had a wash, Mr. Sherry!—Come you this way, Miss Logie, if you please.”

  Giving one backward smiling glance at Sherry, Logie followed the parlourmaid obediently through a square, white-panelled hall where Persian rugs lay on the parquet floor and on a large refectory table stood a large copper jug filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias in a brilliant bouquet. Then up a curving staircase with wrought-iron banisters and smooth mahogany handrail, a few steps along a landing, into a large light room whose windows looked out on the view she had seen from the front door.

  Looking about her, Logie cried involuntarily, “What a lovely room!” For never in her wildest dreams had she imagined any room whose every detail had been so carefully planned and chosen; the rooms in her world had grown together, friendly and haphazard, in the course of time, and—no, she couldn’t think of one that wasn’t shabby in some detail or other.

  The walls of this room had been painted pale pearl grey; the woodwork was a slightly deeper grey; the plain pile carpet deeper still. The curtains hanging at the two tall windows were of Chinese yellow brocade; so were the cushions of the window-seats, the petticoat of the dressing-table that stood between the windows, the bedspread, and the covers of the chairs. Near one window was a chaise longue covered in the same brocade, and with two cushions, one covered in burnt-orange velvet, the other in rusty red. The bed was lacquer, in Chinese yellow on a rust-coloured background. Dressing-stool and triple mirror on the dressing-table were of the same lacquer. There were no pictures; three wall vases in pearl-grey pottery, shaped like large flat shells, hung on the walls, one by the door, a second near the bed, a third above the dressing-table. In them some skilled hand had exquisitely arranged flowers that picked up the colouring of the lacquer—sulphur and orange and tomato dahlias, saffron and lemon marigolds, topaz and gold and bronze chrysanthemums, every leaf removed, no colour but the brilliant petals visible. A book trough on a table by the bed was filled with books, all bound in gold or orange or rust-red.

  Mary was pleased by her approval. “Yes, it’s real nice. The mistress thought it out herself. You’ll need to see her own room. She took the colouring of that from her aubretia border. This is your bathroom.”

  Opening from the bedroom was the bathroom, all in pearl grey and silver. “Like an oyster-shell, the mistress says. I’ll leave you now, Miss Logie, and take in your tea; the kettle’s on the boil. The library is the big door on your right near the bottom of the stairs.”

  Logie, as she washed her hands, reflected that the downright manner of the parlourmaid was oddly out of keeping with this lovely, formal house, and was glad of it: a stately butler would have been more in the picture, but at the same time more intimidating.

  Sherry was waiting for her in the hall, a dog on either side. Their frenzy of delighted welcome had abated, and with wagging tails they came to sniff at Logie’s hand, accepted her, and returned to Sherry’s heels. “Mary commanded me to wait here for you.” He imitated Mary’s lilting Border accents. “ ‘She’ll likely be feeling just a wee bit strange’. Are you feeling strange, darling? You look quite normal to me! Come and have tea.”

  The library was bright with amber sunshine. Its chief features were the bookshelves lining every wall up to the ceiling, deep, comfortable leather chairs, and an enormous kneehole writing-table. Logie looked about her. “What a nice friendly room!”

  “D’you like it?” He looked pleased. “It’s all exactly as my father left it. Mother never sits here, but Mary knows I like it.”

  Tea waited their attention on a round table in the window. There was a square of honey, raspberry jam, shortbread, chocolate cake, and a fruit cake. Mary came in as they were sitting down with hot scones in a covered silver dish.

  ‘Tell Mrs. Mackintosh I’m glad to see she hasn’t lost her skill with a fruit cake!” Sherry told her.

  “No, nor yet with éclairs, as you’ll see come dinnertime!” Mary departed, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “She’s even nicer than you told me,” Logie said.

  “Yes, she’s a good old sort, is Mary. She and Mrs. Mackintosh still treat me like a small boy home for the holidays from his prep school. All through the war, every time I came on leave, my favourite dishes were produced at every meal. I’ll have to take you to be introduced to Mrs. Mackintosh. By the way, d’you realise you’ve made a smash hit with Mary? It’s the highest honour she could have paid you to accept you as ‘Miss Logie’!”

  “Instead of Miss Selkirk, you mean?”

  “Yes. Making you one of the family. She keeps most people at arm’s length for ages. She never called—” He broke off short. After a moment he said, “Have some honey?”

  “Thank you.
” She helped herself to honey, wondering idly what he had been going to say. Presently she sighed. “Sherry, I do hope I’ll make a ‘smash hit’ with your mother. It’d be too frightful if she didn’t like me.”

  “Getting stage fright? But she’s bound to like you, sweet! And even if— Listen! Isn’t that the car?” He turned his head, listening. Logie listened too, wondering if he could hear the frightened pounding of her heart, telling herself that the ordeal would be over in a moment.

  A voice, high-pitched and clear and astonishingly youthful, sounded in the hall. “They’ve come? Where are they? Having tea? The library? But why on earth—?”

  The door was flung wide by an impetuous hand. Sherry’s mother stood there, smiling at them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sherry had never given Logie any description of his mother, beyond saying once that she was “Very well turned out” and another time, “She has tremendous charm.” Yet she had unconsciously built up a picture in her mind, of a tall woman, generously built and carrying herself proudly, with an authoritative manner and handsome statuesque features.