Fantails

by Leonora Starr

  She thought: He’s said “we” twice. ... I never knew how lovely it could sound ... She said, “I wonder ... would you care for John to stay on here until Jenny’s well again?” Seeing his doubtful look, she added, “He seems to like being here. I don’t think he would come to any harm, and I would do my best to carry out our joint prescription for him. Jane would help when she comes back. She’s good with smaller children. Casual but careful. And he could have Andrew’s room.”

  Quickly he said, “Of course he wouldn’t come to any harm. It wasn’t that that made me hesitate. I only feel it would be such a frightful imposition. And your hands are full enough already, in all conscience.”

  “If I don’t feel like that about it, surely you needn’t!”

  “I don’t know how to thank you for suggesting it. It would certainly make all the difference to my peace of mind to know that you were looking after John.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “If you’re absolutely certain—”

  “Positive. I shall enjoy it.”

  “In that case, I shall tell Lucia after dinner what we have arranged.” He made a rueful grimace. “I’m afraid she isn’t going to like it.”

  “I’m afraid not, poor soul. If only she would lavish some of her superabundant affection on a peke!”

  Hugh laughed, then shook his head. “Not fair on the peke. I must go now and have a word with Jenny’s mother.”

  “Poor Jenny. Is she going to have it badly?”

  “Too soon to tell yet. She’s a healthy lass, though. I just hope John won’t get it.” Rising, he stood a moment looking down at Alison with an inscrutable expression. He said again, “I don’t know how to thank you—yet. Some day I’ll find a way. No, don’t get up. You’re tired. Go to bed early.” At the door he turned. “Forgive me for my most inadequate acceptance of what you’re doing for John. And me. Good night!”

  Alison lay quietly among her cushions, listening to Hugh’s footsteps crossing the yard, then going away along the garden path, purposeful and firm. Her face was tilted to the sky, but her eyes followed the swifts, whose sickle wings bore them on an unseen, unending pattern on its pale clear background, she was unaware of seeing them, nor was she conscious of their thin, high screaming.

  It was good to be alone. Now she could examine the momentous knowledge that had come to her earlier this evening, sudden and unexpected—reviewing it from all its lovely angles, awed and overwhelmed: the knowledge that she loved Hugh, loved him with tenderness and passion; the knowledge that between herself and him was growing up a mutual need and understanding that some day would come to flowering and fruition. She did not think nor analyse, but gave herself up to what was for her the unaccustomed luxury of feeling, unharried by necessity to cook or clean or make or mend. Shadows came clustering about her from the corners of the quiet room. The swifts had gone, and now it was the bats, instead, that wove their flickering patterns against skies deepened to indigo, and pricked by stars. And still she stayed there, utterly content.

  John said, “Aunt Lucia puts on my socks for me.”

  “Does she? I’ll do it for you if you like. But Andrew could dress himself when he was four, except for a few buttons.” John loved her to tell him stories about Andrew, who had for him the glamour of a legendary hero.

  “Could he? No, thank you, I can do it for myself.”

  “I’ll leave you, then.” She had supervised his washing, and if he got confused with buttons, no harm would be done.

  Surprisingly soon, he joined her in the kitchen, flushed but triumphant. “There was only one top button that I couldn’t do.” While Alison dealt with it and brushed his hair she asked, “Will you do something for me while I’m cooking breakfast, John? I’ve put the hens’ corn in a bowl at the bottom of the stairs. Would you please give it to them for me? You know how I scatter it about so that they all have a chance to get a share?”

  He nodded importantly. “I’ll do it for you.”

  “And you know the basin with their water? Would you empty that, and fill it from the jug, as I do?”

  Happily he bustled off. “That’s done. Any other jobs?” he asked when he came back.

  “Yes, after we’ve had breakfast.” While she tied his feeder round his neck John surveyed his plate. “Does Andrew like scrambled eggs?”

  “Yes. He eats up everything he’s given.”

  “So do I.”

  “That’s good. Fussy people are such a bother.”

  “Does Andrew think so?”

  “He thinks they’re a nuisance.” Smiling to herself, she thought the absent Andrew, all unconsciously, was going to be useful! When he had eaten every scrap of egg and half a slice of bread and honey, and drunk two cups of milk, John helped to clear the table. “I expect you’re glad to have me here to help you, aren’t you, now Jane’s gone away?”

  “Very glad!” she assured him. “Now could you put the forks and teaspoons in the drawer?” He pattered off, clutching the silver. From the next room she heard him shout excitedly “Daddy!" and Hugh’s answering “Hullo, snippet!” followed by John imparting the exciting news that “I can dress myself all except one button! And I fed the hens and gave them water. And I dried two teaspoons.”

  “Good. That’s the best of growing older. You’ll soon be doing all sorts of useful things ... Alison, I walked in—I knew you wouldn’t mind, as I’m in rather a hurry and I want a word with you before I go to Beccles hospital.” He glanced at John, now busily putting the silver in the drawer, carefully fitting forks with other forks and spoons with their companions.

  Alison said, “When you’ve done that, John, will you do another job for me? ... Could you take down this milk and give it to Miniver and the kittens in their dish? It’s only half full, so you won’t spill it if you go quite slowly, one step at a time.”

  He looked a trifle apprehensive. “What if I do spill it?”

  “Come and tell me and I’ll give you more. But you won’t spill it. If Miniver takes more than her share, will you hold her?”

  John went proudly off, clasping the jug in both hands. Hugh looked after him. “Our prescription seems to have begun its work already. Did he eat his breakfast?”

  “Every mouthful. I took it as a matter of course that he would, so he did. You know he loves hearing about Andrew? I told him, Andrew thinks people who are fussy about' their food are a nuisance. I think that’s going to be a useful line to take in all sorts of ways. And he was simply thrilled to be asked to feed the hens.”

  “Altogether a satisfactory beginning. More satisfactory than my talk with Lucia last night!”

  “Oh dear! What happened?”

  “I told her you were very kindly keeping John here till Jenny’s back at work. (I don’t think she is going to have measles at all badly, by the way.) I said that as having Jenny in bed will make a lot of extra work for the MacNeishes, it would be best for everyone concerned if Lucia went back to London. Thanked her very much for all she’s done to help, and so on and so forth! But it didn’t work. Lucia announced that as she had had no idea I didn’t want her to stay on indefinitely to ‘mother’ John, she’d let her flat!”

  “How very awkward for you!”

  “Yes. All very tricky. So I said that as the misunderstanding was my fault (it wasn’t, as a matter of fact. I only asked her to take John to Southwold while I moved in here, and then to come here for a week or two) I’d gladly pay for her to stay in a hotel in London until she can get back into her flat. After a good many evasions on her part I got her to admit she’d only let it for a month. However, she made short work of the idea by saying she’d rather stay on here at the Painted Anchor. She went off there and then to see Mrs. Tebbitts, and most unfortunately a room was vacant. So she’s moving there this morning.”

  “M’m. That means she’ll be dropping in to see John. I suppose she’ll want to take him out. It will undo so much of the good of what we’ve planned for him. Oh, what a pity!”

  �
�No. There I put my foot down well and truly. Talked a lot of nonsense about infection, said I wanted him to avoid the slightest contact with herself or the MacNeishes, and absolutely forbade her to come here on any pretext whatsoever. Scared her with her own notions about germs, in fact! She took it a lot better than one might have expected. But she’s sure to keep a sharp look-out for you if you go shopping, so I thought I’d better let you know how the land lies.”

  “I’m afraid it’s all very unpleasant and worrying for you,” Alison said sympathetically.

  “I brought it on my own head. Not that I ever think that’s any consolation.”

  “None at all. I think it makes it worse.”

  “I was a fool to ask her to look after John, even for a short time, knowing, as I did, what she was like with Melanie. But one was so desperately sorry for her and Melanie would have wanted me to be kind to her, and so I risked it. She was so upset that we were leaving London. She was perpetually dropping in in Harley Street, but Miss Heald, John’s nurse, was a most efficient barrier in those days.”

  “At John’s age, things don’t last long. He’ll very soon get back his confidence and forget all about germs and ‘carollies,’ ” she comforted him.

  “I hope you’re right. I’m sure you are.” Hugh sighed. “Poor scrap—he’s so heartbreakingly like Melanie. I must be off. Oh, by the way, if I can get finished in good time, shall we go up the river in a motor-boat about five?”

  “John would be thrilled!”

  “John would like it a great deal better, and so would I, if you’d come with us. Will you? Or would you rather have him taken off your hands?”

  “I’d love to come. How nice of you!”

  “I’ll arrange it, then, with Bumpus.”

  Soon after he had gone a friend of Jane’s came in, not knowing she was away. Her name was Barbara Randolph; she was a pleasant sturdy child of twelve, with a round freckled face and fair bobbed hair. She looked so disappointed on being told that Jane was away that Alison, having made sure she had had the measles, suggested she should stay and help to make a sponge sandwich. Barbara sat down companionably and presently was set to beating eggs, while John, who had reluctantly abandoned the kittens as both had gone to sleep, was put to greasing the sandwich tins, which he did with earnest satisfaction and infinite care. Barbara had brought a jam-jar. Presently Alison asked what it was for?

  “Well, you see, Frankie’s going to be three tomorrow—”

  “Who’s Frankie?” John demanded.

  “He’s my little brother. And Jane was going to show me where to get some minnows for him. It sounds a mean sort of a present, but it’s the only thing that Frankie says he wants!”

  “John knows where the minnow pool is. He would take you—wouldn’t you, John?” Alison suggested, thinking that it would be good for him to go off on his own with Barbara unaccompanied by any grown-up, and that he would enjoy the responsibility of being guide. So when the sandwich was safely in the oven the two went off together happily, each with a hot curranty scone. Barbara, used to the care of several small brothers and sisters, had no need of any warning to look after him. She was a sensible, matter-of-fact creature, the best companion possible for a nervous little boy.

  Barely had their cheerful voices died away when once more steps came up the stairs, and to Alison’s dismay and annoyance Lucia appeared, carrying a small suitcase and wearing an ingratiating smile. “I hear John’s going to pay you quite a visitation, so I brought along some things he’ll need. Clean underwear and so on.” She pushed past Alison, looking about her, evidently expecting to see John. “Johnny boy!” she called, “Aunt Lucia’s come to see you!”

  “John has gone out,” said Alison, hoping she would go soon.

  “Out?" This was evidently unexpected. She must have been counting on finding John here. “Who has he gone with?”

  “With a friend of Jane’s. Thank you so much for bringing the things. If he needs anything more, I can ask Hugh to bring it over.”

  “No need to bother him, poor man! I shall be popping in here every day to see how things are going.”

  “But I thought—I gathered,” Alison stammered, “that is Hugh told me he was anxious that John shouldn’t see anyone from Swan House at the moment?”

  “Oh, Hugh! My dear, if you knew as much about doctors as I do, you’d realise that they’re the biggest fusspots in creation. I had measles years ago. No chance of getting it again. And, anyhow, as Hugh comes here from Swan House, why shouldn’t I come from the Painted Anchor?”

  It was unanswerable. Not knowing what to say, Alison decided that she had better drop the subject until she had consulted Hugh. Lucia was unfastening the suitcase. She laid a heap of little shirts and vests and socks on the table, then from the folds of a pyjama jacket took out a small flat parcel. Unwrapping it she held the photograph it contained at arm’s length for a moment, gazing at it, then held it out to Alison. “I don’t believe you’ve seen a photograph of Melanie, have you? Hugh put away the ones we have about in Swan House when I told him you were coming. I don’t think he likes strangers to see them ... He feels her loss so terribly. It was a ghastly tragedy that she died so young. A tragedy for all of us.”

  A young, fair face smiled up at Alison, triangular in shape, like John’s, with fragile, faintly shadowed cheekbones and a questioning expression in the wide eyes. She knew now what Hugh had meant when he had said that John was heartbreakingly like Melanie. Every time he looked at his small son he must be poignantly reminded of his wife.

  Gently she said, “A charming face. How you must miss her ... I suppose this wasn’t a very recent photograph? She looks so young!”

  “It’s the last photograph I have of her, taken six months before she died. She was just thirty.”

  Alison thought she looked more like a girl in her early teens, untouched by trouble or responsibility. “She looks as though she had never known anything but happiness.”

  “She never did. I saw to that until she married. And after that there’s no denying that Hugh did his best for her. Though sometimes when I think that if she hadn’t married him she would have been alive now ...” Her dark face worked convulsively. “I did my best to stop it, heaven knows! ‘If you will only have the sense to stay with me’, I told her, ‘I’ll go on giving up my life to shielding you from every trouble, every responsibility, every worry that may come along.’ But Hugh persuaded her, and for once she wouldn’t do as I advised. And so she paid for it.”

  Alison cried pitifully, “Oh, but you mustn’t feel like that! Anything might have happened to her. She might have been run over, or killed in a railway accident, or—or died of infantile paralysis, without even knowing the happiness of loving and being loved and looking forward to her baby!”

  “I loved her. She was happy with me. No one could have protected her and sheltered her as I did.”

  Alison made no reply, unable to think of anything comforting to say to this unhappy woman who had such distorted views of life and human nature. Silently she laid the photograph of Melanie on the table by John’s clothes.

  “Put it beside John’s bed,” said Lucia. “I’ll come this afternoon when he’s had his rest and take him to have tea at the Copper Kettle.”

  Though her heart ached for Lucia, John’s welfare must come first. Alison said, “I’m sorry—I’ve arranged with Hugh to take John out this afternoon.” She looked away from Lucia as she spoke; already she had unwillingly intruded farther than she cared for into the older woman’s feelings. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. When at last she spoke, Lucia’s voice was no more than a hoarse, shaken whisper. “So you think you’re going to take Melanie’s place! Arranging this and that with Hugh. Taking possession of John—”

  Involuntarily Alison threw out her hand as though to shield herself. “Oh, please!”

  Lucia went on as though she had not heard her. “Let me tell you this. If Hugh asks you to marry him it won’t be because he wants you for yourself. I
t’ll be because he wants a housekeeper, someone to look after John. He won’t have me to live with them because he’s always hated me, always been jealous of the influence I had with Melanie. Now he’s beginning to be jealous over John, and so he’s driving me away. But though you may share his bed and board, there’s no room for you in his heart. There’s no room there for anyone but Melanie. Remember that!”

  “I—don’t want to talk to you. Will you please go?” said Alison quietly. Thrusting her hands deep in the pockets of her overall, so that Lucia should not see how they were trembling, she turned away and stood looking out of the window, while Lucia, after a moment’s indecision, went heavily away, down the stairs and out into the lane, banging the door in the wall behind her.

  When she was alone, she sank down on the window-seat, covering her face with her hands, sick and shaken by the ugly little scene. Lost in her dream of happiness she had failed to face reality, failed to realise that Melanie, who had shared his youth, who had been his love, his wife, the mother of his son, inevitably must come first in Hugh’s heart, now and always. It was impossible that he should feel more for herself than liking and affection and companionship. She had been crazy to imagine all that she had imagined last night!