The night before we were leaving they both washed their hair and as usual I set it for them. They both had beautiful hair, golden and silky. Helen’s was naturally curly but Rosalie was obliged to have an occasional perm. I liked doing their hair and as I pressed the waves into shape with my fingers and curled up the ends it occurred to me that there might be worse jobs than this. Perhaps in a small place like Ryddelton I might set up as a hair-dresser and make a little money to help with the housekeeping expenses. In spite of Mother’s optimism I realised it would be a tight squeeze to live on five hundred pounds a year.
“You’re very good at hair,” said Rosalie, taking up the mirror and turning her head to look at her curls. “Helen said I was silly, but I wasn’t silly at all. Why don’t we all stay in London and get jobs? If we had all three decided to stay in London Mother would never have thought of going to Ryddelton.”
“She would have gone herself,” I replied (but I said it without conviction, for I was not sure). “And at any rate,” I added, “I don’t think I want to go on living in London. I’d rather go to Ryddelton with Mother.”
“You’re mad,” declared Helen. “The cottage will be ghastly.”
“Why should it be ghastly?” I asked.
“It’s too cheap to be anything else,” said Helen promptly.
“And it’s got such a silly name,” added Rosalie.
“I don’t see that the name matters,” I said. “We could change the name if we wanted.”
“That’s not the point,” objected Helen. “The point is that a cottage with a name like that is bound to be ghastly.”
“I asked Mother about it,” said Rosalie. “I asked her why it had such an extraordinary name and she said it was built by an old sea-captain with one leg called Timble.”
“What was the other leg called?” asked Helen with bitter satire.
“You know what I mean,” said Rosalie crossly.
“Cousin Andrew has seen it,” I reminded them. “He said it had a pleasant little garden and an extensive view.”
“Yes,” agreed Helen. “And he said it was ‘not too bad and in reasonable condition.’ Sounds marvellous, doesn’t it?” Put like that it sounded anything but marvellous, and I felt a little chill of foreboding. But it was too late for chills of foreboding; we were leaving the very next day.
Chapter Four
I wakened slowly, coming up from the depths of sleep, and it seemed that my room was full of birds. They were little birds (cheeky robins and finches and tits) swinging upon branches, peeping between leaves — and twittering gaily. I rubbed my eyes and the illusion vanished. The birds were not real, they were wall-paper birds, the twittering came from the open window. This was my first awakening in Timble Cottage and it was delightful.
A few moments passed and then I remembered where I was and all that had happened; the journey was over, we had moved from the big grey house in the London square to the cottage on the hill.
What a journey it had been! How tired we were when we arrived at Ryddelton Station! What a queer little place it seemed!
There was an ancient taxi in the station-yard and in this dilapidated vehicle we had completed the journey, chugging along slowly through the town and even more slowly up the winding road to Timble Cottage.
“It will be empty of course,” said Mother as we approached. “The van may not have arrived — or anything — but we’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Mother had been making the best of it all day.
“Here’s Timble Cottage,” said the taxi-driver cheerfully. “And you’ll not want for company. There’s plenty of folks about the place.”
We had expected to arrive at a solitary cottage, deserted and silent, but Timble Cottage was neither. It was a hive of activity. Certainly there were ‘plenty of folks’ about the place. The van had arrived and the men were carrying in the furniture; three other men were entangled in telephone wires and an aged individual with a grizzled beard was busily engaged in clipping the hedge.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Mother in amazement.
One of the telephone men approached as we got out of the taxi. “We’ve nearly done,” he said. “We’ll be back in the morning to finish.”
“But I don’t think I want a telephone. I can’t afford —” began Mother.
“It’s a special order from Edinburgh,” said the man in surprise. “It’s usually weeks before we get round to a job like this — but it’s a special order — from Edinburgh. It’s a rush job. This place is kind of isolated and it’s not very suitable for leddies living alone.”
“Andrew!” said Mother under her breath.
“The leddies will be yourselves, no doubt,” added the telephone-man, looking at us with interest.
“Yes,” said Mother. “And of course it is — rather — isolated.”
“It’s nice, though,” said the man.
It was nice. The little house was solid and square with a snugly-fitting slate roof and, except that the garden was rather overgrown, it looked in excellent repair. It certainly was by no means the ruin which Cousin Andrew’s lukewarm recommendation had led us to expect.
Rosalie exclaimed, “It’s a dear little house!”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Mother. “Of course it’s a dear little house. Andrew would never have recommended it so highly if it hadn’t been nice.”
There were other evidences of Cousin Andrew’s forethought: a young man putting new cords in the window of the sitting-room and an elderly woman in the kitchen scrubbing the floor.
The woman was plump and cosy with a round face and pink cheeks. “I’m Mrs. Gow,” she said in answer to Mother’s question. “Yon’s my man, cutting the hedge. You’ll be wanting tea — and I’ll need to make tea for the men. Mebbe there’s cups in one of yon packing-cases …”
“What about milk —” began Mother.
“I got milk fro’ the fairm — an’ eggs forbye — an’ a few wee odds and ends fro’ the grocer’s. I thocht you’d be wantin’ them. Mr. Firth said I was tae order what I thocht.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mother. “It’s — awfully — kind.” Her voice was shaky and she was not far from tears.
There was much to be done in the way of unpacking (and arranging where the men were to put the furniture) but I found time to go upstairs and have a look at the bedrooms. There was a large room and two small rooms — which looked out on to the front garden — and there was a funny old-fashioned little bathroom. There was also a steep wooden stair. I ran up the stair and found the attic.
When I saw the attic I could hardly believe my eyes; it was almost too good to be true! This should be my room — my very own. The girls could have the two front rooms, and Mother the biggest one which looked on to the hill at the back.
The attic occupied half the house, so the floor-space was considerable. The roof was low and in places it sloped to within a few feet of the floor; there were two small windows which faced south and west with breath-taking views of hills and trees and meadows.
I was so enchanted with my find that I rushed downstairs to tell Mother about it.
“An attic!” said Mother vaguely. “Andrew didn’t say anything about an attic. He said there were three bedrooms —”
“Come and see!” I cried. “It’s a marvellous attic — and I want it for my very own room.”
They came upstairs — all three of them — and looked round.
“Oh Jane, you couldn’t sleep here —” began Mother.
“I could! I like it!”
“But it wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“I think you’re mad,” declared Helen; she had a habit of telling people that she thought they were mad.
“I’m not mad,” I said. “I could make it quite comfortable — and it would be my very own.”
“Comfortable!” cried Helen. “Look at that horrible sloping roof! Look at the wall-paper! Who on earth could have chosen such ghastly wall-paper, all covered with birds! I never saw anyth
ing so hideous in all my life. They would give me the jim-jams.”
“I think the room is attractive,” said Rosalie. “We could make it nice for Jane — and the birds are rather sweet.”
“You would think so!” said Helen laughing. “Of course you think it would be ‘nice for Jane’. If Jane sleeps here you can have a room to yourself!”
“It isn’t that at all!” cried Rosalie indignantly.
“I suppose you realise that there’s no electric light,” added Helen. “Jane will creep to bed with a candle.”
In my excitement I had not noticed this, but I did not care. “I shall have a lamp,” I told them. “I’ve always wanted a room with an oil-lamp. It will be fun. Mother, please — please say I can have this room!”
“Oh well —” said Mother doubtfully. “If you really want it — and if the men can get the bed up the stairs —”
By superhuman efforts the men had got the bed up the stairs and here I was, lying in it!
*
My watch had stopped — I had forgotten to wind it — so I had no idea of the time, but the sun was shining brilliantly and I felt rested and refreshed. I got up and went downstairs and found Mother in the kitchen. She was wearing a large blue overall which for some reason made her look younger, and her hair, which was usually in neat little curls, was a trifle untidy.
“Porridge!” cried Mother gaily, waving a large wooden spoon. “Real porridge, made with salt! Wait till you taste it, Jane! You can lay the table and find a tray for Helen; she was tired last night and she wants her breakfast in bed.”
Never before had I laid a table and prepared a tray so it was a new experience and rather a curious one … but I would soon get used to it of course. We should all have to help with household duties and I hoped Mother would see that it was fairly arranged. It annoyed me that Helen was having breakfast in bed. We had all been tired last night, Mother had been absolutely exhausted, but Helen was to have breakfast in bed.
Helen was supposed to be the delicate one of the family. Perhaps it was natural that Mother should worry about her for she was the only one who had ever been seriously ill. Long ago, when we were children, we had all had whooping-cough and in Helen’s case it had affected her lung. She had been sent to Switzerland for the winter to escape the fogs and had returned home plump and rosy (and prettier than ever). There had never been any recurrence of her illness but it had frightened Mother considerably. Helen made good use of this and sometimes if there happened to be anything disagreeable to do she would complain of a little pain in her side. “Oh it’s nothing much,” she would say, smiling like an early Christian Martyr. “Of course I can go to the library and change your book. I thought of having a little rest this afternoon but it doesn’t matter a bit.” Then Mother would make her rest and someone else would change the book — or whatever it happened to be.
Perhaps I was unfair to Helen — perhaps she really did get tired and have a little pain — but no doctor had been able to find the cause and it certainly never prevented her from going to a party.
It struck me, as I carried the tray upstairs, that we had heard nothing about the little pain for months but perhaps now at Timble Cottage we might be hearing about the little pain quite often.
Our first few days at Timble Cottage were full of surprises and not the least of these surprises was Mother. With her foot upon her native heath she suddenly became years younger: there was a sparkle in her eyes which we had never seen before and even her voice seemed different. I saw what she had meant when she said she was ‘not really a London sort of person’. Instead of her smart coats and silk frocks, nylon stockings and high-heeled shoes, Mother appeared in tweeds and brogues — and looked right in these garments. She had said she could cook, and her cooking was more than adequate. There were no fal-laws about our food, for we had to economise, but Mother’s soup was fit for a royal table and plain dishes like stews were served in thick brown gravy with a savoury tang. She had said she had friends — and she had. The portly butcher greeted her like a long lost cousin, the baker’s wife remembered her as a child.
“Well, Miss Anna!” exclaimed the baker’s wife. “Fancy you coming back to Ryddelton after all these years! You could have knocked me doon with a feather when I heard you’d bought Timble Cottage. It’s a funny wee place compared to Mount Charles, but it’ll be easily run — and that’s the main thing nowadays. And is this your daughter? She’s not like you, Miss Anna, but she’s got a look of Master Robert. Do you not think so, yourself?” Then, leaning her ample bosom upon the counter, Mrs. Fletcher proceeded to discuss her own family and to give Mother a detailed account of what they were doing and whom they had married and how many children they had, while Mother listened entranced and the shop filled up with impatiently waiting customers.
Mother had other friends as well and although she had not seen them for years they had not forgotten her. We had not been in Timble Cottage two days when Mrs. Hunter called. She was a tall slender woman in lovat tweed with eyes to match. I had answered the door and we were still in such a muddle that I was doubtful about letting her in — the sitting-room was cluttered with crates, half unpacked, and the dining room was worse — but Mother heard us talking and emerged from the kitchen in her overall, crying, “Elspeth, my lamb, how marvellous!” and Mrs. Hunter’s greeting was no less enthusiastic.
“The kitchen is the only place,” declared Mother and they retired to the kitchen arm-in-arm.
It was nearly half-past four and soon we were all called to come and be introduced to Mrs. Hunter and have tea. She had brought a large cherry-cake with her and explained that it was a ‘moving-in present’. It was home-made and absolutely delicious and I wondered if she had made it herself. She did not look like a woman who could turn out delicious cakes but only a week ago I should have said that Mother was incapable of cooking an appetising meal and I should have been wrong.
Mother and Mrs. Hunter were too busy talking to pay much attention to us, and quite soon Helen and Rosalie mumbled excuses and drifted away, but I stayed and listened for it was obvious that they did not care whether anyone listened or not. Of course I did not know any of the people they were talking about, but I realised that I soon would know them, and if you are going to live in a place the sooner you learn all about it the better.
“What’s happened to the Clutterbucks?” asked Mother.
“The two old Clutterbucks are dead, but Erica is still at Tocher House. She runs the place as a hotel.”
“A hotel! Erica!”
“I know,” agreed Mrs. Hunter smiling. “But it’s a very comfortable hotel and always full. She has a good staff and an assistant to help her to keep things running smoothly. It isn’t a job I should like. She’s still as rude as ever.”
“Rude — but — interesting,” said Mother thoughtfully.
“Exactly. Erica is definitely a person.”
“Is Celia still at Dunnian?”
“Oh yes, it’s Celia’s house of course. She married an American — a distant cousin called Courtney Dale. He took the name of Dunne so that there would still be Dunnes at Dunnian.”
“It was in old Miss Dunne’s will,” nodded Mother. She added, “I saw the notice about Admiral Dunne’s death in The Times.”
They talked about Admiral Dunne for a few minutes and then Mrs. Hunter said, “You know Tonia, don’t you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She must have come to Ryddelton after you left. Tonia Melville. She married Bay Coates and they live in that attractive little house in the High Street, next door to the old Smilies. They’re dears — both of them — and they’ve got two amusing children — very naughty but most diverting. Bay lost a leg in the war, he was Bomber pilot, so he isn’t able to do very much. All the same he’s a useful man in the town — Boy Scouts and Town Council and all that sort of thing. We’re lucky to have him.”
“What about the Raeworths?” asked Mother.
Presently Mrs. Hunter rose and sai
d she must fly or her husband would get no supper. “You’re lucky to have daughters,” she declared as she said good-bye. “Daughters can cook and help in the house; sons go away and build bridges in Africa or somewhere — at least mine do. No, Anna, I really must go, but I’ll see you again. You must come over to lunch.”
Cousin Andrew was our next visitor and I was very interested to see him. He was tall and rather thin with bright brown eyes which twinkled when they saw something that amused him. His hair was dark with a sprinkle of grey above the ears.
“Well Anna, so you’ve come back!” he exclaimed. “People always come back to Ryddelton sooner or later.”
“Oh Andrew, how good you’ve been!” said Mother, taking his hand.
He brushed her thanks aside and said it was nothing. “You look a bit older,” he added, “but you’ve not really changed. You’re still the same Anna.”
I thought Mother might be a little damped by his frankness (in London her friends often exclaimed, “My dear, you never look a day older! How do you do it?”) but Mother was undisturbed. She laughed quite happily and said, “We’re both getting on. I was forty last birthday — and you’re forty-three. It seems odd, doesn’t it?”
“Very odd indeed.”
“Why on earth aren’t you married?”
“Couldn’t get anybody to have me,” declared Cousin Andrew with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Away!” cried Mother. “A fine upstanding man like yourself!”
All this was so unlike Mother — or at least it was so unlike the Mother I had known for seventeen years — that I was quite dumbfounded. I had seen her play hostess — polite and gracious. I had watched her talking to people and wondered how she always managed to say the right thing. She was usually the centre of a little group. People gathered round her to be amused and were not disappointed. Mother had seemed quite happy in London — but here she was gay.
The first time Cousin Andrew came to Timble Cottage he was alone but he came again quite soon and brought Cousin Margaret; she was his sister and they lived together in a comfortable house in Murrayfield Gardens. It was from Cousin Margaret that I learned what Writer to the Signet meant. She explained that Writers to the Signet were lawyers — or solicitors — with special duties and privileges. Long ago they had received this peculiar title because they prepared warrants and charters to be signed with the King’s Seal.
Anna and Her Daughters Page 3