I told myself that I was a perfect fool to be nervous for I had travelled in many strange countries … but of course I had never been alone in a quiet bungalow in the wilds of Africa. It was very quiet indeed. Not a sound broke the stillness. I found myself glancing over my shoulder at the door … for although it was quiet it was not peaceful and I knew there were people about, moving stealthily. If something happened I should be helpless. Ronnie was at the hospital; he was probably quite near, but I did not know where.
Somehow I could not concentrate on the letter, and it required a good deal of concentration for Mother would want to know all I could tell her — and I must give her the impression that Mrs. Orton was staying here in the bungalow without actually telling a lie. I would tell her everything when I got home — and she would understand — but meantime it was no use worrying her.
Suddenly a tray was placed upon the desk beside me by a pair of large black hands. It was Ebra, of course, and he was bringing me my coffee, but he had moved so quietly that I had not heard a sound. I managed to murmur ‘thank you’ and he moved away as noiselessly as he had come.
There were two cups on the tray and I was just wondering whom I might expect when Ronnie’s face appeared at the window.
“Ah, coffee!” he exclaimed. “That’s good. I just came back to see how you were getting on.”
“All right. Only it is a little — queer.”
“Africa is a queer place; you can imagine all sorts of queer things in Africa — if you’re an imaginative person.”
Ronnie came in and sat down and poured out the coffee. “Jane,” he said. “I’ve something to tell you. It’s something rather stupid. Orton says you shouldn’t be here — at the bungalow.”
“In case of future complications,” I suggested.
“Oh, you know about it,” said Ronnie with a sigh of relief. “Well, there it is. It’s the silliest thing I ever heard of, but Orton says it’s the sort of thing that might complicate divorce proceedings — if I’m going to take divorce proceedings.”
“Are you going to, Ronnie?”
“I might have to,” said Ronnie. “If they really want to be married it’s the only thing to do … but I’m not going to do it straight off; I’m going to wait and see.” He stirred his cup and added, “I suppose you had better go and stay with the Ortons.”
“But I’m no good to you if I stay with the Ortons. Unless I’m here at night with Val I’m no good at all. I’ve been here one night so it won’t make any difference if I stay a little longer — if I stay till Monday and then fly home and take Val.”
“He wouldn’t go with you!”
“He’ll have to. There’s no other way.”
“I don’t know what would happen,” said Ronnie uneasily. “Val clings to me. He might be ill if I sent him away. If he knew you well it would be different, but you’re a stranger to him.”
“There’s no other way,” I repeated. I had thought about it myself but I could see no other way, for if Ronnie happened to be working at night or was called out at night to an urgent case at the hospital, Val could not be left alone in the bungalow. (I saw this even more clearly now that I had been frightened myself.) For the last week Dr. Orton had been doing all the night-work but obviously that could not go on.
While we were discussing the matter Ebra came in and removed the tray, but Ronnie went on talking. Probably Ronnie was so used to large black shadows that he did not notice Ebra was there.
“He understands English,” I said, when Ebra had gone.
“Not a word,” declared Ronnie. “None of them do. I wouldn’t keep a boy that understood English. Listen, Jane, my plan was for you to stay here several weeks and make friends with Val, then he would have gone with you quite happily … but if you’ve got to go on Monday there isn’t much time.” He sighed and added, “We had better wait till Sunday night before telling Val.”
“But you’ve made up your mind he is to come?”
“I suppose so,” said Ronnie miserably.
*
That was Friday, so I had two days to ‘make friends with Val’ and I felt pretty hopeless. If Rosalie had been in my place she could have done it; she was used to children and ‘had a way with them’, but I did not know how to begin. I was just as miserable as Ronnie and was sitting in the drawing-room brooding about it, with my half-written letter in front of me, when the door opened and Val burst in like a whirlwind.
His face was red and his breath was coming in gasps. “Do you tell lies?” he demanded.
“Tell lies!” I echoed indignantly. “No, of course not!” … and then I hesitated, for of course it was not true. “Listen, Val,” I said. “Sometimes people have to — sometimes it’s absolutely necessary — but I don’t like telling lies and I don’t do it often.”
“Mrs. Orton tells lies — often!”
It seemed unlikely.
“Oh yes, she does!” cried Val. “Ebra tells lies too of course, but that’s different. I mean you can tell by his face — and if you keep on trying you can make him tell you the truth — but you can’t tell by Mrs. Orton’s face whether she’s telling lies or not. For instance last night Mrs. Orton said Daddy was over at the hospital. ‘Detained at the hospital’ — that was what she said. And of course it wasn’t true. Daddy went to meet you at Nairobi.”
He paused for breath and glared at me defiantly.
I wondered if I should try to explain why Mrs. Orton had thought the lie expedient, but it seemed too difficult. The woman had my sympathy but it was a silly lie.
“Val,” I said solemnly. “I promise never to tell lies to you.”
“Is it a real promise — cross your heart?”
“Yes, Val, cross my heart.”
“Well then, have I got to go to England with you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to.”
His face had been red but now all the colour drained out of it and it was grey. “Without — Daddy?” he whispered.
“Yes. You know Daddy can’t come. Listen, Val, you must be brave and sensible,” I said desperately … and I explained the whole matter plainly, making sure that he understood. “You see, don’t you?” I said. “Daddy doesn’t want you to go, but there’s no other way.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to bear it,” said Val with quivering lips. “But I suppose I’ll have to bear it — somehow. Anyhow I know. It’s not knowing things. It’s being treated like a baby that’s so — sickening.”
There was a pathetic dignity in Val’s demeanour: it tore my heart. I tried to comfort him by saying that it would not be as bad as he thought; we would be friends and take care of each other till Daddy came.
“How long?” he asked.
“Four or five months — or perhaps six. He’ll come as soon as he can.”
“It’s a long time,” said Val. His tears were flowing now and he took a small grubby handkerchief out of his pocket to mop them up. “It’s all right, I’m not crying,” he declared. “At least I am, really, but I can’t help it. Ebra told me I was going to England and I didn’t know if it was true. That’s all.”
This was a strange way of beginning to make friends with Val but at least he trusted me, which was something.
When Ronnie returned from the hospital and heard my story he was first incredulous and then horrified.
“Get Ebra and ask him,” I said. “Keep on asking until he tells you the truth. Val says that’s the way to get to the bottom of Ebra — keep on asking.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of Ebra,” declared Ronnie grimly. “If I had known he understood English I never would have taken him. Good lord, I wonder what else he heard — and retailed to Val!”
“You mean — about Helen?”
Ronnie nodded. “Yes, about Helen. Mrs. Orton told Val that she had gone to England for a holiday and would soon be back. As a matter of fact I thought at the time it was rather a thin sort of story (Val is no fool). But what could I do? How could I tell him the
truth? If Ebra understands English.”
“He does,” I said. “Go and ask him.”
Ebra had told Val everything. Moving silently about the house and listening to the conversation he had heard the whole story and passed it on to Val. He was fond of Val in his own peculiar way — there was no malice in him, he was just an inveterate gossip — but clearly he was no fit companion for the child.
All this and other things showed quite clearly that Val must come home with me.
“Val has been here too long,” said Ronnie miserably. “He has been neglected. Helen didn’t bother about him; she left him to his own devices — and I was busy. It’s my fault, of course. I ought to have sent Val home long ago. He must go with you whatever happens. He must go even if it makes him ill.”
“Do you think it’s likely to make him ill?” I asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” replied Ronnie. “But there’s no other way.”
*
It was a dark cloudy night when we set out upon our journey. The plane taxied to the end of the airstrip and halted for a few minutes, testing its powerful engines, then suddenly it made up its mind that all was well — and we were off. To me this was always a terrifying experience (I never could really believe that the clumsy-looking contraption would leave the ground and soar like a bird) and to-night I was even more alarmed than usual for my nerves were all to pieces.
Val had been remarkably brave until we reached the airport and saw the plane … and then he had broken down completely and clung round Ronnie’s neck. All persuasions had been useless, they had fallen upon deaf ears; he clung so tightly that he had to be removed by force. It had been a frightful scene.
I was very sorry for Val; I was even more sorry for Ronnie; now that I had time to think about it, I was most sorry of all for myself. What was I going to do with the limp bundle of misery sitting beside me and sobbing uncontrollably? I had tried to comfort him; I had tried to put my arm round him; I had tried to interest him in something else. He lay curled up in the seat and sobbed.
It was late by this time — long past Val’s usual bedtime — and I wondered if he would sob himself to sleep. I wondered what the other passengers were thinking. They had seen Val torn from his father’s arms and carried into the plane. I had been through a good many miseries and humiliations in my life but this was the worst.
For a long time I sat there, waiting for Val to recover, and at last the sobs grew less. Presently a hoarse voice said, “I suppose I’ve got to bear it. I mean you couldn’t ask the man to go back?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t,”
“I’ve got nobody now,” said Val with another sob. “No Mummy and no Daddy.”
“You’ve got Daddy,” I told him. “Daddy loves you dearly. He’ll come home as soon as ever he can … and you’ve got me. I’ll tuck you up in the rug and you’ll go off to sleep —”
“No thank you. I’m not a bit sleepy.”
“Shall I tell you about Goldilocks and the Three Bears?”
“You can if you like,” said Val hopelessly. “I don’t think — I’ll be awfully — interested — but you can tell me.”
We had Goldilocks and Red-Riding-Hood and several other nursery classics and although Val showed no signs of going to sleep he allowed me to put my arm round him.
“Shall we have Cinderella now?” I asked in desperation.
“If you like,” agreed Val.
“Would you rather have Jack the Giant-Killer?”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “They’re nice stories but they aren’t true, are they? I like true stories best. Daddy tells me true stories. The one I like best of all is about Jesus cooking the breakfast.”
I was so startled that I was dumb.
“Don’t you know it, Aunt Jane? They were out all night in the boat, trying to catch some fish, but they didn’t catch any at all and they were awfully cold and wet and miserable. Then they saw Jesus on the shore. He had lighted a little fire and was cooking their breakfast.”
I recognised it now. It was my favourite story, too, so it was easy to tell it to Val.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “That’s just the way Daddy tells it. I’m awfully glad you know it, Aunt Jane.” He sighed and added, “I think a breakfast picnic would be lovely. I’ve never been to a breakfast picnic.”
Neither had I; but I promised him one when we got to Timble Cottage — a breakfast picnic on the moor beside a little burn. I would have promised him the moon if it would have done him any good or if it had been within my power to get it for him.
“Tell me the story again,” said Val, snuggling closer and putting his head against my shoulder.
I told it again — and yet again. When I had told it four times he was fast asleep so I drew up the rug and tucked it round us both and we were very comfortable together.
Sitting there with Val’s warm little body against my side and his silky-soft hair against my cheek I felt happy and peaceful. Before this I had loved Val because he was Ronnie’s son, but now I loved him for himself … and I knew there would be no more trouble. He would feel miserable at times, that could not be helped, but he would let me comfort him. And I saw how foolish I had been to fuss and worry about ‘the right approach’ because of course ‘the right approach’ to all our fellow creatures is just to love them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“This is a gorgeous place for the picnic,” said Val. It was not yet half-past eight but the sun was shining brightly and already there was a pleasant warmth in the air.
The place I had chosen was a little strip of gravel beside a hill-burn which ran down into the Rydd Water. It was sheltered by a high bank and there was a fir-wood close by; one of those straggle woods which had been planted long ago as a wind-break to shelter a little croft. Val and I had left home early and had carried our heavy baskets up the hill, so by this time we were hungry and we wasted no time in setting about our preparations.
My intention had been to make sandwiches and bring a Thermos flask, but when I saw Val’s face I knew I had blundered badly and I put them all away. Instead we had brought sausages and thick slices of buttered bread and a small black kettle and tea and milk and sugar and all the other accessories of a ‘real proper picnic’. The only concession to modernity was a packet of fire-lighters — for I was not a Girl Guide.
Val took an empty basket and went off to the wood to gather sticks while I set about making a little fireplace. It was not long before we got the fire going and the kettle boiled in due course. In fact everything went according to plan except the cooking of the sausages.
The idea had been to impale the sausages upon sticks and roast them over the hot embers; but this method of cookery, though sound in theory, was found to be unsatisfactory in practice; the sausages were either half-raw or charred and in either case unpalatable. Once or twice the flame from a dry piece of drift wood leapt up unexpectedly and burnt the stick and the sausage fell into the fire.
“We should have brought toasting-forks,” I said.
Val looked dubious. Obviously he thought toasting-forks were out of place at a ‘real proper picnic’ but when the last sausage fell into the heart of the flames he changed his mind.
It had been a struggle to get up early but it was worth it, not only because Val was so happy but because it was delightful. The day was new and unspoilt; the sky was blue, the grass was green and a shy little breeze rustled over the moor. Even the burn seemed merrier than usual as it prattled over its bed of pebbles and flung itself into the Rydd Water.
“There’s a bird!” exclaimed Val. “What a funny bird! It’s got long legs, hasn’t it?”
I looked where Val was pointing and saw a heron standing upon a stone at the edge of the burn. I wondered if it could be the same heron that Ronnie and Rosalie had seen … but of course it couldn’t. It might be the grandson of that famous heron.
There were other birds on the moor and I found that Val was interested to hear about them. He was inter
ested in everything he saw and now that we had got to know each other he was easy to talk to.
When we had finished breakfast Val took off his shoes and socks and splodged about in the burn — as every little boy has loved to do from time immemorial. He saw a tiny brown trout in a peaty pool and tried to catch it in his hand. He spent a long time pursuing the little creature but it eluded him easily. After that we built a dam with stones and turf and watched while the pool filled up with water.
Although Val was quite unlike his father in appearance he had some of Ronnie’s mannerisms. He would turn his head quickly and smile … and just for a moment Ronnie was there, smiling at me. Sometimes he nodded his head slowly up and down in a thoughtful way … and again I saw Ronnie.
Val was so happy playing about in the burn that I was reluctant to drag him home, but by this time he was wet and I was afraid he would get a chill, for he was used to warmer climes than Ryddelton.
“We’ll come again, won’t we?” said Val as we went down the hill together. “We’ll bring twice as many sausages and two toasting-forks and a little net to catch the fish.”
*
In a week Val had settled down and become part of the household at Timble Cottage. It was very different from the life in the bungalow at Adruna, but perhaps the fact that it was so utterly different helped him to forget his troubles more quickly. Occasionally he looked wistful and said regretfully, “If only Daddy was here …” and sometimes at night he wept a few tears into his pillow before settling down to sleep, but on the whole his contentment was amazing. I was able to write a good account of him to Ronnie.
Fortunately a litter of puppies had arrived quite recently and Val was delighted to help Margaret with them. He was infinitely gentle. He undertook a few small duties in the house and the rest of the time he played in the garden.
Tom Gow had fixed a few planks in the chestnut-tree at the gate and Val spent hours in his ‘crows’ nest’ gazing round the country and pretending to be all sorts of strange and unlikely people. We found an old brass telescope in the antique shop in Ryddelton, and bought it for a few shillings, and Tom Gow put it in order so that it ‘really worked’. Tom Gow could put up a shelf or cure a sick hen or prune a rose-tree … but we had never expected him to be able to mend a telescope. When we wanted to pay him for the job he would not take the money.
Anna and Her Daughters Page 19