“Is she writing another book?”
There was no end to the questions — some of them I could have answered and others I could not — but I refused to answer any of them.
It was quite by chance that I saw Mrs. Millard again. Margaret and I had gone to Venice for a holiday and were in the Piazza of St Mark watching some children feeding the pigeons. Suddenly I saw her … and after a moment’s hesitation I went over and spoke to her. She was just the same — she did not look a day older — and obviously she was pleased to see me. We chatted for a few minutes and I told her how much I had enjoyed her book.
“Esmeralda was fun, wasn’t she?” said Mrs. Millard. “I’m doing another biography now: a Venetian lady who was as naughty as Esmeralda, but in a somewhat different way.”
“You’re staying in Venice?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I’ve taken a flat in an old palace. I shall be here for six months, until I have polished off my Venetian harpy, and then I shall move on somewhere else.”
“And Solda? Is she here?”
“Oh yes, Solda and I have taken each other for better for worse,” replied Mrs. Millard, laughing.
She asked after The Mulberry Coach and I told her about it. I told her also that I was writing another story of the same genre.
“I’m a little worried about it,” I said. “I haven’t got you to vet it for me.”
She looked at me piercingly and I thought she was going to offer — I think the idea crossed her mind but if so she rejected it — “Caroline Smith would do it,” she said. “If you like I can give you her address. She’s a funny little dried-up stick but she lives and moves and has her being in the seventeenth century.”
I took down the address in my notebook.
“What’s the new book called?” asked Mrs. Millard.
“Highwayman’s Halt,” I told her.
“I shall have to buy it, I suppose,” complained Mrs. Millard. “I bought The Mulberry Coach. Really, Jane, the amount of time and money I’ve wasted on your book is phenomenal!”
“I should like to send you the new one,” I said meekly.
“That will be delightful and it will save me twelve and six — or is it fifteen shillings? I shall expect it to be suitably inscribed: ‘To Augusta Millard without whose help and encouragement this book would not have been written’,” suggested Mrs. Millard with her wicked smile.
“I can say that — and more,” I replied seriously.
“Let us avoid redundancy,” said Mrs. Millard.
She did not ask me to visit her flat, and when I asked if she would come and have lunch at our hotel she refused the invitation promptly. Perhaps she saw I was disappointed, for she added quite kindly, “You should know me better, child. I hate going out to lunch and meeting strangers — and your cousin would dislike me intensely. I’ve enjoyed seeing you, but I don’t want to see you again.”
Coming from any other person this would have sounded rude, but I understood Mrs. Millard and was not offended.
We shook hands — for the first and last time — and said good-bye, and I went back to Margaret who had been waiting for me.
“That was Mrs. Millard,” I told her.
“Mrs. Millard! How extraordinary!” exclaimed Margaret.
It was only afterwards that I remembered I had not said a word about the pearls; of course she must have seen them round my neck but it was like her not to have mentioned them.
Later, when I sent her my new novel I inscribed it ‘A.M. from J.H.’ for she had said, ‘Let us avoid redundancy’ and she liked to be obeyed.
Chapter Twenty
The next few years were uneventful; the diary (which I still kept, more from habit than for any other reason) is concerned with matters which were of interest to ourselves but to nobody else. Some of the entries read:
We went to Edinburgh and had lunch with Mother and Andrew.
Mistral had a litter of six. The puppies are adorable and Margaret is delighted with them. She has promised one to the Gows.
Highwayman’s Halt published to-day. Sent off a copy to Mrs. Millard — through her publishers.
Walked over to Mount Charles and saw the new baby. She is a dear little doll. No doubt she will be thoroughly spoilt by her half-brothers and sister and the adoration of her fond Papa.
Mrs. Gow returned from her holiday — at Dunoon. What a joy to have her back! The first thing she did was to scrub the kitchen floor. It needed scrubbing!
During these years I continued to write regularly and published three novels all in the same period as The Mulberry Coach and written in much the same manner. The stories gave me a great deal of pleasure and a great many people seemed to enjoy reading them. My books did not have quite the rampaging success that Mrs. Millard had predicted, but they produced an amazing amount of money. I was able to have Timble Cottage done up and painted; I bought a car and built a garage, and every spring Margaret and I took a holiday and spent it in France or Italy or Spain. In addition I was able to send an occasional cheque to Helen, for although Ronnie was making quite a good income Helen was often in difficulties over money. Adruna seemed to be more expensive than they had expected.
These years were extraordinarily peaceful. Our families were comfortably settled; we were comfortably settled ourselves and we looked forward to a comfortably settled future … and then quite suddenly everything was changed and our peace was shattered.
*
It was Margaret’s birthday. She was fifty-nine, but she certainly did not look it as she sat at the breakfast-table opening presents and birthday cards, and exclaiming in rapturous surprise at the kindness of her friends. The postman had brought an enormous budget of mail to Timble Cottage and it was all for Margaret which did not surprise me at all.
“Oh, look Jane!” exclaimed Margaret. “Here’s a letter for you. It had slipped inside one of my cards. It’s from Kenya.”
The letter was from Ronnie and as I took it and held it in my hand I had a horrible feeling of foreboding; something had happened; some terrible disaster. The feeling was so real and strong that my hand was shaking as I opened the airmail envelope.
Adruna
Kenya
Dear Jane,
Helen has left me. I don’t know whether you will be surprised or not. Things have been very difficult lately. Perhaps she told you when she wrote to you that she had begun to hate this place. I have been very busy helping Dr. Orton with an experiment in the laboratory so I could not be with Helen as much as I should have liked. Of course I knew she was friendly with Dick Lancaster — he came over from Nairobi quite often — but I never realised how far things had gone. I am explaining this very badly but I fed a bit shattered as you can imagine. Val is here with me of course but I cannot keep him here. I am out all day and sometimes I have to go over to the hospital at night and it is impossible to leave him here alone with the servants. Dr. and Mrs. Orton are very kind and I can leave Val with Mrs. Orton, but that is only a temporary arrangement. It would not be fair to Mrs. Orton to expect her to go on with it for long. I shall have to find some way of sending Val home. He is seven now so he would have had to go home to school soon even if this had not happened. Perhaps you would tell your mother about it. I simply cannot write to her. It is too dreadful. When I found they had gone I went after them to Nairobi but they had only stayed one night and flown on to Rome so I was too late. I don’t know what to do, Jane. I will write again when I have thought it all out properly but I felt I must write to you at once. I really don’t know what to do. Perhaps in a day or two I shall be able to sort things out and find some way. I don’t seem to be able to think things out. I shall have to send Val home. He cannot be left in the bungalow alone with the servants when I am over at the hospital. I seem to be writing the same thing over and over again so I had better stop.
Yours affectionately,
RONNIE
“Jane, what’s the matter! You look like a ghost!” cried Margaret.
I felt li
ke a ghost. I handed her the letter without speaking and went out into the garden and through the gate on to the hill. I went up the path to the little spring which bubbled out of the ground between two large boulders. I did not know where I was. Coming up to this place was instinctive. My legs had brought me here and now my legs could take me no farther, so I sat down.
It was a damp misty morning; there were no definite clouds; the skies were grey all over. Whichever way I looked the skies were grey.
I had to think what to do to help Ronnie, but I could not think at all. My mind refused to think. All sorts of things strayed through my mind — things that had been forgotten for years. I remembered Rosalie saying, ‘She’ll take him — and break his heart — and throw him away.’ The words went over and over in my head, ‘She’ll take him — and break his heart — and throw him away’.
Rosalie had found solace for her misery, but I could find none for mine.
I have no idea how long I sat there, it may have been a few minutes or it may have been an hour, but presently I saw Margaret coming up the hill towards me.
“I thought you’d be here,” she said. “If you don’t want me just say so and I’ll go away. I could start your packing; that would save time, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “That would — save time.”
“Which suitcase will you take? Would you like my grey one? It’s nice and light for travelling by air.”
“Yes your grey one will be splendid.”
“I think you’d better come,” she said, looking at me doubtfully. “You can put out what you want to take and I’ll pack it for you.”
“Yes, I’d better come,” I said.
As we went down the hill together I saw that the mist was thinning and there was a faint glimmer in the air which had been dead and grey.
*
Now that I saw what to do (and of course it was the obvious thing) I was impatient of delay, but however urgent one’s business it is impossible to step into the first plane and fly to one’s objective. I was obliged to spend two days in Edinburgh while Andrew fixed things up — and it was only because Andrew was particularly good at fixing things up that it did not take longer.
Mother and Andrew were not as surprised as I had expected; they had received a letter from Helen quite recently (“An odd sort of letter,” said Mother. “Nothing definite but just — odd”). They agreed that someone must fly to Adruna, and that I was the best person to go.
“You can bring the child home,” said Andrew. “We can have him here and he can go to school. That will be the best plan.”
Margaret and I had thought of having Val at Timble Cottage, but I let it pass. None of us had any idea what Val was like. None of us had seen him since he was an infant. There would be time enough when we saw him to decide what was best.
When all had been arranged Mother and Andrew drove me over to Turnhouse to see me into the London plane, and it was only then that Mother began to fuss.
“Such a long way to go alone!” said Mother anxiously. “You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you? You must cable when you arrive.”
“It will all be quite easy,” said Andrew soothingly. “She’s got her passport and her travellers’ cheques and her tickets and her seat reserved on the plane. She has to change planes at London Airport, that’s all — and Ronnie will meet her at Nairobi. She can’t go wrong.”
Put like that is sounded foolproof and even Mother was pacified.
“I know,” said Mother. “And of course Ronnie will be delighted to see her.” She hesitated and then added, “But you won’t stay with Ronnie, will you Jane? I mean there will be a hotel or something. You won’t stay at the bungalow.”
“I’ll see when I get there,” I said. “It all depends whether —”
“I wouldn’t stay with Ronnie if I were you,” said Mother with a worried frown. “I mean — it would be better not to.”
I could not help smiling. Here we were in the middle of this horrible mess and Mother was worrying about ‘the conventions’.
“Your Mother is right,” declared Andrew. “It would be most unwise for you to stay at Ronnie’s bungalow in case of future complications.”
He pursed up his mouth when he had spoken, pursed it into a thin line as he always did when he was giving ‘lawyers’ advice’. I had never thought of ‘future complications’ and I did not know what on earth he meant.
I might have asked him, and got the matter clarified, but the plane was ready to start. There was just time to say good-bye and get in.
*
Andrew had cabled to Ronnie that I was on my way, so he was there to meet me at the airport. He was standing amongst a little crowd of people but he was so tall that I saw him at once as the plane taxied in. He looked tired and haggard and a little untidy — as if he had not bothered about his appearance for days — but when he saw me his expression brightened and he came towards me with outstretched hands.
“Oh Jane, how good of you! When I heard you were coming it seemed too good to be true!” For a moment he clung to my hands like a drowning man, and then he turned away.
If it had been a different kind of arrival I would have been interested in the strange medley of people, white and black and brown, who were meeting and greeting each other all round us, but I was too anxious about Ronnie to be interested in anyone else. He looked distraught. His eyes were sunk in his head and glittered as if he had fever. He scarcely seemed to know what he was doing and I had to ask him twice to carry my suitcase before he understood what I meant.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a bit — stupid, as if I had been knocked on the head. I haven’t been sleeping — very much lately. It’s awful, isn’t it?” he added. “Is your mother very angry with me, Jane?”
“Angry with you? No, of course not.”
“It’s my fault. Helen was bored, you see. If she hadn’t been bored she wouldn’t have — gone.”
We were sitting in the car by this time. He turned to me and asked, “Are you tired, Jane? Would you like to spend the night at the hotel? It’s two hours’ drive to Adruna — so if you’re tired — but I must go back. I must go straight back now because of Val. Mrs. Orton is sitting with him, but he won’t go to sleep unless I’m there. He’s afraid that I’ll go away and leave him, that’s why. I’ve tried to explain, but he’s only seven so he doesn’t — quite — understand. If you’re tired — and of course you must be tired —”
“Ronnie, don’t worry; I’m not a bit tired. We’ll go straight back to Val.”
“But you’d like some dinner, wouldn’t you. It’s nearly eight now, so we wouldn’t be back at Adruna till ten.” He looked at me anxiously.
“We’ll go straight back to Val,” I repeated.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I’d much rather go back.”
“You ought to have a meal —”
“I had a meal on the plane,” I said firmly.
“Oh, well then …” said Ronnie with a sigh of relief.
Perhaps if I had known what was in store I would not have been quite so anxious to embark upon the drive to Adruna. It was a nightmare drive. The sky was dark, there was no moon, and the road was hilly and winding. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Ronnie was in no fit condition to drive a car; he had said himself that he felt as if something had hit him on the head. Sometimes he put on speed and drove like a madman … and then he would remember his passenger and slow down. We rushed up hill and down with the headlights piercing the darkness. I kept on reminding myself that he knew the road. But knowing the road would not help if we met an animal, and we met several animals; one of them looked like a sheep and Ronnie avoided it only by a hairs-breadth.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he said, slowing down a little. “It’s just thinking about Val. Mrs. Orton is sitting with him but he won’t go to sleep until I come. The Ortons have been terribly kind, but I can’t go on taking advantage of their kindness. It will be all right now that you�
��re here.”
“I can’t stay long, Ronnie.”
“No, but you can stay for a bit, can’t you? Then we’ll see. It’s quite a nice bungalow. Helen liked it at first until she got bored. You see the work we’re doing now — Orton and I — means that you’ve got to stick into it pretty closely. You can’t keep regular hours at all. Sometimes Orton and I work most of the night, and there’s the hospital work in addition. That was why Helen got bored. Helen had no use for any of the other women at Adruna — she couldn’t stand Mrs. Orton — and she kept on complaining it was dull. She went and stayed at Nairobi now and then; she stayed with friends and had a gay time … and bought clothes. I don’t know where she got the money but she seemed to manage.”
I knew where she had got the money.
“Then she met Lancaster,” said Ronnie. “She met him at Nairobi and asked him to come over and spend the day. He came several times after that. He had hired a Bentley — a beautiful car — and sometimes he took her for a spin. Helen likes cars and knows a good deal about them, so she liked the Bentley.” He sighed and added, “I was a perfect fool.”
It was difficult to know what to say.
“I was a perfect fool,” repeated Ronnie. “Of course I saw that he amused her but I was so busy, so wrapped up in the work, that I was quite glad she had somebody amusing to take her out occasionally. I had no idea he came so often — it was not until afterwards that I discovered how often he came — and I had no idea there was anything wrong. That’s why I said it was my fault. I ought to have known. I ought to have done something about it instead of sitting back and being pleased because Helen seemed more cheerful …”
Chapter Twenty-One
The drive was very long, it seemed to go on for ever, but at last we arrived at the bungalow — a long low building with a wide veranda. There were lights in some of the windows and, as we drove up, the door opened and Mrs. Orton came out. She was older than I had expected, short and stout with smooth grey hair.
“He isn’t asleep,” she said with a worried frown. “I’ve been reading to him, but he heard the car.”
Anna and Her Daughters Page 17