Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “No, not now,” I said … and then I hesitated for I had surprised myself.

  “You’ve changed your mind?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know I had changed my mind until you asked me. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” said Cousin Margaret thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’ve found something else — something that suits you better. Have you any idea what you want to do?”

  It was difficult to answer that. I said vaguely, “I think I want to learn more about the world.”

  When I had said it I thought it sounded priggish and I wished the words unsaid.

  “Oh, so do I!” cried Cousin Margaret. “I used to think that when Andrew got married I would go round the world and see all the places I’ve read about: Greece! New Zealand — the hot springs of Rotorua! Colorado! The South Sea Islands!”

  “What a wonderful idea!” I said, looking at her in surprise. It seemed incredible that this middle-aged lady should have dreams of travel. She looked so comfortable and contented and set in her ways.

  “I think I would go alone,” she continued thoughtfully. “In some ways it would be nice to have a companion, but it would have to be somebody who liked the same things — somebody young and adventurous. I mean I should hate to rush round on a prearranged route like a tourist. I should want to wander about from place to place with lots of time to take things in.” She laughed and added, “But what’s the use of thinking about it!”

  “You mean you won’t be able to go?”

  “It’s only a dream. I could never leave Andrew unless he got married — and he’s not likely to get married now. He’s forty-three, and I’m fifty,” added Cousin Margaret.

  “You don’t seem as old as that,” I said quickly.

  “I’m glad,” she said, smiling. “Fifty sounds stodgy. It sounds like an overcooked rice-pudding, don’t you think so, Jane?”

  I knew what she meant, but there was nothing stodgy about Cousin Margaret, whatever her age; indeed I found her so interesting to talk to that I almost forgot the young man with the brown hair … almost but not quite. Every now and then my eyes strayed to the other end of the room and I saw he was still there. We had finished lunch, and were about to rise when I noticed that he and his aunt were on their way to the door.

  It was now or never! In another moment they would have vanished and I would never know their names! I had to ask.

  “Oh, it’s Edith Mackintosh!” exclaimed Cousin Margaret. “I want to speak to her about the bazaar. What a good thing you saw her! Do you think you could run after her and tell her?”

  The mission was not as easy as it sounded for by this time several other people had finished their meal and were rising from their tables and blocking the way. I made what haste I could but when I had squeezed past two fat ladies and emerged into the hall Miss Mackintosh and her nephew had passed through the revolving door and were disappearing down the steps. I pursued them and managed to catch them in the road.

  “Miss Mackintosh!” I exclaimed breathlessly.

  She looked at me in surprise.

  “My cousin is there,” I said. “My cousin, Miss Firth. She wants to talk to you about a bazaar. She sent me to tell you —”

  “Oh yes,” said Miss Mackintosh. “Margaret and I are sharing a stall. I must talk to her about it.” She added, “You don’t mind waiting, do you Ronnie?” and without more ado she turned and went back into the club.

  It seemed natural for me to follow her and I was half-way up the steps when I found the young man at my elbow.

  “Couldn’t you wait a minute?” he suggested.

  “Wait a minute?” I repeated in surprise.

  “Yes. You’ve got to wait for your cousin and I’ve got to wait for my aunt, so we might as well wait together — if you see what I mean.”

  Put like that it seemed the sensible thing to do.

  “We could go in and sit down, couldn’t we?” he added.

  I hesitated and glanced at my watch. It was twenty minutes past two so I had half an hour before meeting Mr. Gow at the bus. There was no need to hurry.

  By this time we were in the hall and the young man had opened the door of the lounge and was waiting for me to go in.

  “Over there near the window,” he said. “It’s a good place. We can keep an eye on the steps in case our relations forget about us and go off together.”

  “Forget about us!” I echoed.

  “I don’t know about yours but mine is a bit vague.”

  “Cousin Margaret might forget the time,” I admitted.

  We sat down together on the window-seat.

  “That’s what I meant,” agreed my companion. “If they start talking about a bazaar …”

  “Yes,” I said doubtfully. “But I can’t wait very long.”

  “Please wait,” he said. “We could talk about shoes or ships or sealing-wax. It would pass the time.”

  I did not want to talk about shoes or ships or sealing-wax. I wanted to ask him what his name was (his aunt had called him Ronnie, so perhaps his name was Ronnie Mackintosh); I wanted to know about ‘the interview’ and what sort of post he had got. Helen would have asked straight out, of course, but Helen was not shy and gauche. Helen was poised and beautiful. Helen knew how to talk to young men.

  “Perhaps it would interest you to hear the history of the little brass knob,” suggested Ronnie. “I asked Aunt Edith and she told me. It came off the end of her bed. It fell off this morning when she was turning the mattress and she hadn’t time to screw it on, so she popped it into her bag for safety — so that she wouldn’t lose it.” His eyes were twinkling but his mouth was perfectly serious.

  “Oh, that was it,” I said. “I wondered …”

  “Quite a simple explanation.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s often the way,” declared Ronnie. “I mean things that seem mysterious often have quite a simple explanation — when you know. Have you noticed that?”

  “Yes, I have,” I said.

  “The button is still a mystery,” continued Ronnie. “As a matter of fact I didn’t like to ask about the button. You see Aunt Edith is a spinster — and rather proper —”

  We were talking nonsense. We were wasting time. The clock in the corner of the room said it was half-past two and I knew I must go. Mr. Gow would be frantic if I were not at the bus to meet him at ten minutes to three.

  “I ought to go,” I said feebly.

  “Go!” exclaimed Ronnie in dismay. “Oh no, you can’t possibly go away and leave me alone amongst all these ladies. Please don’t go.”

  “I ought to — really.”

  “Why ought you?”

  “I’ve got to meet somebody at ten minutes to three. He’ll be waiting for me.”

  “Let him wait,” suggested Ronnie cheerfully.

  “But I can’t,” I said desperately. “He’ll be frightfully worried if I’m not there.”

  “ Does it matter? Is he terribly important?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I mean he isn’t important in himself — but I promised to be there. Promises are important, aren’t they?”

  Ronnie had been teasing me but now, suddenly, his face changed and he was quite serious. “Yes, promises are important,” he agreed.

  I hesitated for a moment and then I rose and held out my hand. “Good-bye,” I said. “You understand, don’t you? I really must go.”

  “If you must, you must,” said Ronnie. “I shall hide behind a shiny magazine until Aunt Edith appears.”

  He rose and we shook hands.

  A few minutes later I was running down the street to meet Mr. Gow and catch the bus.

  Chapter Six

  The morning after my expedition to Edinburgh I was awakened early by a loud gurgling sound and the splash of water. It was rain-water pouring off the steeply-sloping gable and running down the pipes. The roof was just over my head so it sounded very loud and the first time I heard it I had imagined that something queer had
happened to the cistern and that the water was pouring into my room … but now I knew what it was so I did not worry. I lay and listened to it — gurgle, gurgle, splash, splash — and thought about all that had happened.

  I thought about Ronnie. If I shut my eyes I could see Ronnie quite clearly; I could see his tall figure and his broad shoulders and his long legs. I could see his brown hair (which would have been wavy if he had not brushed it down so sternly) and his strong white teeth and twinkling eyes. Ronnie had wanted to be friendly — he had asked me to sit down and talk to him — but instead of meeting him half-way I had been gauche and stupid and tongue-tied. How differently Helen would have behaved!

  I thought of all I might have said — it was easy to reconstruct the conversation. Instead of talking about brass knobs and buttons I should have said, ‘You know I was sitting next you in the lounge before lunch and I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying to your aunt about your new post. Do tell me about it.’ Then he would have told me. He would have been glad to tell me. It would have been something worthwhile to talk about. Then I could have told him who I was and why it was so important for me to meet Mr. Gow. I could have explained it all in a few words and made a joke of it. I imagined myself saying, ‘Oh yes, Mr. Gow is terribly important. He’s our gardener. He came with me to Edinburgh in the bus. If I don’t meet him at ten minutes to three he’ll think I’ve got lost or been run over. He’ll be simply frantic!’ I imagined myself laughing — and Ronnie laughing.

  It was too late now, of course. I had been an absolute idiot. The only thing to do was to put it out of my mind … but somehow I knew that it was going to be difficult.

  *

  It was surprising how quickly we had settled down to our new life; Helen and Rosalie swept and dusted and polished the furniture, and I helped Mother in the kitchen — or at least I tried to help her. Unfortunately I was clumsy and awkward; dishes slipped out of my hands and crashed on to the floor in the most astonishing manner and I took so long over the simplest task that Mother lost patience.

  “Away with you!” she would cry. “Go out and dig the garden! You’re all Angers and no thumbs! I can do it myself in half the time.”

  She could, too, for she was methodical and neat in everything she put her hand to. She cooked and cleaned and washed up dishes and scrubbed the kitchen floor … and actually she seemed to enjoy it and thrive upon it.

  Soon after our arrival at Ryddelton Mother went to a sale and bought a second-hand bicycle. It was in very bad condition but she got it cheap and Mr. Gow cleaned it up and put it right. The bicycle was a strange-looking contraption with very high handle-bars and an upright seat; Helen refused to ride it but Rosalie and I were not so proud … indeed I found it extremely useful for going down to Ryddelton and doing the shopping.

  As I was not much use in the kitchen the shopping became one of my duties and before long I got to know the little town well and made friends with some of its inhabitants. The people in the shops found time to chat and to ask how we were liking the cottage. They often added, “It’ll be quiet after London. You’ll notice the difference?”

  Although I had become used to the habit of understatement and could take it in my stride this beat me completely. It meant something — I knew that — for several people said it and waited for an answer.

  “Oh yes,” I said solemnly. “I notice the difference,” What else could I say?

  One morning when I had done the shopping and was on my way home an old lady stepped off the path just in front of me. I swerved quickly but not quickly enough. The handlebars caught her arm and she spun round, lost her balance and fell on the road. I fell off the bicycle and everything in the basket was scattered. It had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that I was quite dazed but I scrambled to my feet and ran to the old lady.

  “Oh goodness!” I cried. “I’m terribly sorry! Are you badly hurt?”

  “It’s my arm,” she said.

  I helped her to get up. She was very small and light, and if need be I could have carried her quite easily, but except for her arm she did not seem to be much the worse. Fortunately the accident had happened just outside her house; she had been crossing the road to go into her house when I knocked her over.

  I helped her across the road and into her house and made her lie down upon the sofa. Her face was quite grey by this time and her wrist was swelling visibly, but although she was in pain she was perfectly calm and composed.

  “You had better call Solda,” she said. “Solda must ring up the doctor. It looks as if I had sprained my wrist.”

  Solda proved to be a tall angular Frenchwoman, dark and sallow, with a most unfriendly air. She was even less amiable when I told her what had happened. Thrusting me aside she rushed to the telephone and explaining that “Madame” had been knocked down in the road and nearly killed by a careless girl on a bicycle.

  Meantime I returned to my victim. “I’m awfully sorry,” I declared. “It’s frightful! I don’t know what to say”

  “You’ve said you’re sorry,” she pointed out.

  “I know, but — but I wish I could do something.”

  “You’ll find a bottle of whisky in the dining-room cupboard. Bring two glasses,” she added.

  I found the whisky and the glasses and brought them to her. The second glass was for me. I had never tasted whisky before and I thought it extremely nasty. It burnt my throat when I swallowed it. We were both drinking whisky when the doctor arrived.

  “Your maid said you were nearly killed!” he exclaimed.

  “Solda exaggerates,” said the old lady tartly. “I’ve hurt my wrist, that’s all. It was my own fault. I stepped off the path without looking.”

  This was true, of course, but it was decent of her to say it to the doctor. The accident had happened so suddenly that I had been wondering if she realised it was not my fault.

  Dr. Ferguson glanced at me and said, “You’re Miss Harcourt, aren’t you? I’ve seen you in church.”

  I had never seen him before but I was so used to everybody knowing me that I was not surprised.

  “Let’s see the wrist,” he added. “H’m. Looks to me like a fracture. We had better have it X-rayed.”

  “Couldn’t you tie it up with a bandage?”

  “I could, but I won’t,” he replied smiling. “I’ll take you straight to the hospital. Can you walk to the car?”

  “Walk to the car!” cried the old lady scornfully. “It isn’t my leg that’s broken! What’s to prevent me walking to the car?”

  There was plenty of courage in her but I noticed that when she stood up she was very tottery and was glad to lean on the doctor’s arm.

  It was not until they had driven away that I remembered the bicycle and the groceries which had been scattered all over the road, but I need not have worried. Somebody had picked up everything; had packed all the parcels into the basket and parked the bicycle against the fence. There was nobody in sight and I never knew who did it. Ryddelton is full of good neighbours.

  *

  I felt rather queer as I toiled up the hill. My eyes were blurred and there was a strange sort of rushing in my ears. Mother was waiting at the gate and the moment I saw her I began to cry like a baby. It was extraordinary — for I scarcely ever cried — and it was completely unexpected. I had not felt the least like crying until I saw her.

  “Oh Jane!” exclaimed Mother. “I knew there was something the matter! I felt it in my bones! You fell off that horrible bicycle! I wish I had never bought it! Oh Jane, your poor knees!”

  “That’s nothing,” I sobbed. As a matter of fact I had not even noticed that my knees were grazed. “That’s nothing — my knees don’t matter — I knocked her down.”

  Mother had the same idea as the old lady. She seized my arm, dragged me into the house and brought me a glass.

  “Drink that,” said Mother firmly. “It will do you good.”

  I looked at it and hesitated. “I think I’ve had enough whisky,” I said.r />
  “It’s brandy,” declared Mother. “But if you’ve had whisky already —” and she snatched it away.

  “I’ll — try — it — if you like.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Mother, gazing at me. “You’re half tight already. What you need is blotting-paper.”

  “Blotting paper!” I echoed. It seemed so funny that I began to laugh. Did Mother think I had been drinking ink?

  She brought me two dry biscuits and made me eat them and they seemed to do me good. I stopped laughing and dried my eyes.

  “Now, tell me,” said Mother.

  “I knocked her down,” I said. “She stepped off the pavement — without looking. I couldn’t help it. She said it wasn’t my fault — and it wasn’t — but her wrist is broken. The doctor took her to the hospital.”

  “Who is she?” demanded Mother. “Where does she live?”

  I did not know who she was, but I described where she lived.

  “The Corner House,” nodded Mother. “I don’t know who lives there now but I’ll ring up Elspeth. Elspeth is sure to know all about her.”

  It was discovered that my victim was a Mrs. Millard who had come to Ryddelton two years ago and bought The Corner House.

  “She’s not really old,” declared Mother. “Elspeth thinks she’s about sixty-five.”

  Sixty-five seemed ‘really old’ to me.

  “Does Mrs. Hunter know her?” Helen inquired.

  “Not at all well,” replied Mother. “Nobody in Ryddelton seems to know much about her. She’s not a friendly sort of person, she keeps herself to herself. She brought an old servant with her — a Frenchwoman — so she doesn’t need a daily.”

  Helen smiled rather nastily and said, “That’s why nobody knows much about her.”

  It was true, in a way, for if you had a daily woman to help in the house Ryddelton soon heard all about you, but there was no need for Helen to sneer. What did it matter who knew about you unless you had something to hide?