Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Och, it was naethin’,” he declared. “I just sorted it for Vull … an’ I was thinkin’ we micht put up a swing in yon aipple tree if you an’ Miss Firth ha’e nae objection.”

  Far from offering any objection Margaret and I were enchanted with the plan.

  All this was very pleasant but I discovered that having Val in the house interfered considerably with my work. I had been in the middle of a new novel when I received Ronnie’s letter and had flown out to Adruna; now that I had returned I was anxious to finish the story, but the worry and confusion had broken the sequence and I was completely stuck. Val did not interrupt me when I was shut up in my study — he had been told not to — but I found myself listening for his voice and wondering what he was doing. More often than not I put down my pen and went out to see. More often than not I would find Val in his ‘crows’ nest’ with the telescope, surveying the scene.

  “Come up!” he would cry in welcoming tones. “Come up, Aunt Jane. It’s frightfully interesting. There are three sheep in Mr. Gow’s garden and he’s trying to chase them out!”

  Or, if it were not sheep in Mr. Gow’s garden, it was something else equally enthralling.

  Val was never bored. He played by himself for hours … and then one day another small boy appeared. He was a grandson of the Gows and they always referred to him as ‘Chairley’s Chairley’. The Gows had innumerable grandsons and at least three of them were called Chairley — it seemed to be a favourite name in the Gow family. There was Wullie’s Chairley (a tall gangling youth who delivered the milk); there was Kate’s Chairley, whom we had never seen, and there was Chairley’s Chairley whom we knew only too well.

  Chairley’s Chairley was a fat little boy with red hair and a ruddy complexion. At one time he had haunted the garden whistling untunefully, climbing the trees and searching for birds’ nests. He had stolen all our apples (not just a few, which we would not have minded, but the whole crop at one fell swoop) and had sold them to his friends at twopence each.

  Margaret and I had a feeling that Chairley’s Chairley was on his way to a Big Business Career, but his father had put a stop to that.

  “He’ll nae dae it agen,” said old Tom Gow — and added with relish, “Chairley walloped him proper.”

  For a time we saw no more of Chairley’s Chairley, but now, here he was in the garden playing with Val.

  “I don’t suppose he’ll do Val any harm,” said Margaret, peering out of the window.

  “He’ll do Val all the good in the world,” I replied.

  *

  Mother wrote and said that she and Andrew were looking forward to having Val. He could stay with them and go daily to a very nice little school conveniently near. “It is much the best plan,” wrote Mother. “You are not interested in children and you have got your writing so you will not have time to look after Val. I have put down his name for the school and he can start next term!”

  Rosalie rang up and said Val must go to Mount Charles. She and Edward would love to have him and of course Mount Charles was an ideal place for a little boy. They had engaged a nursery-governess for Anna — who was now five — and Val could have lessons with her. Rosalie added that I was not very keen on children and of course I had my writing.

  Jean said Val was Ronnie’s son, so of course Ken wanted to have him. She pointed out that she and Ken were used to children and it would be very lonely for Val at Timble Cottage. I had my writing and Margaret was busy with the dogs.

  “It’s all true,” said Margaret when we had considered these offers. “At least most of it is true.”

  I knew Margaret was no more anxious than I was to part with Val … “He’ll have to choose,” I said. “Val is a person.”

  “But how can he know which would be best for him?” asked Margaret with her usual common sense. She added thoughtfully, “I believe Edinburgh would be best — really. It’s a very nice little school and it would be good for him to mix with other children, he’s too grown-up for his age. It’s lovely having him here but he must be educated, Jane.”

  But Val had been through so many troubles that I thought it was more important for him to settle down quietly and vegetate; more important than schooling.

  We were still debating the matter when Val cleared up the problem for himself.

  “We’ll have to start breakfast earlier next week,” said Val, as we sat down to our morning meal. “School begins on Monday and Chairley says we have to be there at half-past eight. Chairley says school is smashing,” he added, taking up his spoon and tucking into his porridge and cream.

  “School —” I began doubtfully.

  “Yes, I can go with Chairley,” explained Val. “I’ll need to start in the lowest form, but I’ll soon work up.” Already Val’s conversation was slightly tinged with colour borrowed from the conversation of his boon companion.

  Margaret and I looked at each other and said nothing but when Val had gone we talked it over — and we sent a long and extremely expensive cable to Ronnie asking what we were to do.

  Ronnie’s reply was, ‘Yes’.

  So I went and saw the headmaster and it was settled.

  We knew that there would be a storm of protest from the whole family — and there was — but by this time Ronnie’s letter had arrived and we stood upon firm ground. Ronnie had written, “By all means let him go to Ryddelton Academy. If the rough and tumble is too much for him you can take him away, but give it a fair trial. This world is not made for pampered darlings!”

  We were both somewhat anxious when we saw him off at the gate, but we need not have worried for Val was a success. Val had lived in Africa; he had seen lions and giraffes and zebras in their native haunts — not just in the Edinburgh Zoo. He had been waited upon by ‘blacks’ and had flown in an aeroplane — and in spite of all this he did not put on airs (it never occurred to Val that he was better or worse than anybody else). Last but not least he had a staunch and doughty champion in Chairley’s Chairley.

  During the first week we heard a lot about school, about the lessons and games in the playground, but we heard nothing that gave us cause for anxiety.

  On Saturday afternoons the garden was full of small boys rushing about madly all over the flower-beds, climbing the chestnut-tree and uttering strange oaths. We minded nothing except the oaths. They worried us. When Val began to adorn his conversation with them it worried us still more.

  “Val, need you say that?” I asked.

  “What?” asked Val. “Oh, you mean bloody. But they all say it. They’d think I was a Jaissy if I didn’t say it too.”

  This certainly raised a problem. I thought of Rosalie’s face if the word were used in her presence! I thought of Mother’s face!

  Val was looking at me searchingly. “Perhaps I could say it at school and not at home,” he suggested. “It would be awfully difficult to remember, but I could try.”

  I did not want him to say it at all. “Oh Val! It’s such a horrid word! Couldn’t you say something in Swahili instead?”

  “I might,” said Val thoughtfully. Then he giggled and added, “I’ve just remembered something …”

  So Val swore in Swahili and it sounded quite frightful but at least nobody knew what it meant.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now that Val was at school it was reasonable to suppose that I would be able to finish my book but I had got completely bogged and the wheels would not turn.

  “Why don’t you go and see Miss Smith?” suggested Margaret.

  Miss Smith was Mrs. Millard’s friend; the woman who ‘lived and moved and had her being in the seventeenth century’. I had written to her several times about my books, and she had helped me with historical facts and details about clothes and phraseology, but this time my problem was the plot. Nobody could help me with that. All the same I considered Margaret’s suggestion. Perhaps it might help to talk to Miss Smith … and anything was better than sitting at my desk and looking at a blank sheet of paper.

  There was nothin
g to prevent me from leaving home and spending a few days in London. Val was settled in a niche, going to school daily and enjoying the companionship of Chairley; Margaret was here to look after him and to see that all went well.

  The first two days of my stay in London were occupied with business matters and shopping; on the third and last day I called on Miss Smith. Her house was situated not far from the Tower. It was a very old house in a street of very old houses. Some of the houses had been modernised, but not Miss Smith’s. The front door was of solid oak with iron hinges and an iron knocker.

  Miss Smith opened the door herself; she was ‘a dried up little stick’ — as Mrs. Millard had said — but her eyes were bright and her smile was cordial. She was dressed in a dark green smock with a leather belt round her waist; it was a shapeless garment, obviously home-made and certainly not copied from the fine ladies of her favourite period. All the same there was something a little strange about her and almost I expected her to drop a curtsy and say: ‘your sarvent, marm’ … but instead of that she shook hands and invited me to come in, adding that any friend of Augusta Millard’s was welcome.

  Although we had not met before we had corresponded, so we knew each other and wasted no time in idle talk. I explained my predicament and she replied that she could not help me — fiction was not her line — but she would show me her house and her dolls and would tell me anything I wanted to know.

  “All these houses were built in 1668,” declared Miss Smith. “Many of them have been modernised but fortunately this one was not much spoilt by alterations and when I bought it, about thirty years ago, I was able to restore it without much difficulty.”

  It certainly was extremely interesting to me for it was all ‘in period’ and yet it was a dwelling-place and not a museum. The rooms were small and rather dark, the walls were panelled in dark wood; there were low ceilings and uneven sloping floors. The furniture consisted of oaken chests and cupboards and high-backed chairs. I was particularly interested in the latches on the doors which were made of wood and fastened somewhat clumsily.

  “I am afraid I must admit that the latches were made for me by a carpenter,” said Miss Smith when she saw me looking at them. “It was impossible to buy latches of the correct pattern … and the electric light is an anachronism, but the fact is my eyesight is not good and I found I could not work by candlelight. Another of my concessions to modernity is adequate plumbing. No doubt you are aware that the house should be pervaded by an extremely unpleasant odour.”

  I glanced at her to see if she were joking but she appeared to be perfectly serious.

  She added apologetically, “I have a bathroom with hot and cold water … and a gramophone.”

  It was difficult not to smile. “Seventeenth century music?” I suggested.

  “Yes — and not only music. I managed to get some records made by a school of elocution. Perhaps you might like to hear one … but first I must show you my dolls.”

  The dolls were well worth seeing. Miss Smith set them out on the table in a little group; they were about six inches tall and beautifully dressed, here was a lady in travelling costume with a tiny black fur cape and a muff to match; the bodice was tight fitting, the skirt was wide and reached her ankles. Her hat was made of black felt with a wide brim and a scarlet feather. Another little lady was attired for an evening party in a taffeta gown of white and green. The bodice was cut very low and displayed her neck and shoulders and her bare arms. There was a little man in a periwig with a black velvet coat and breeches, black stockings and tiny high-heeled shoes … and other little men, more finely attired, in brightly coloured coats and embroidered waistcoats. All of them wore wigs and broad hats with feathers lying flat along the brims, all of them wore high-heeled shoes with red heels. Some of them had tiny swords.

  “I dress them myself,” said Miss Smith with pardonable pride. “It is an amusing occupation. The latest addition to my collection is not yet finished.” She picked up a little figure in a bright blue coat and breeches and yellow stockings.

  “What a long time it must take!” I exclaimed.

  She nodded. “The perukes take time and the little shoes —”

  “And the swords! How do you make the swords? They aren’t much larger than pins!”

  “Oh, I get them made by a watchmaker,” she replied. “He is interested in my dolls and very neat-fingered. At the moment he is making me a sedan chair. If it is a success — and I have reason to believe it will be — he is going to make a coach.”

  Somewhat to my surprise I discovered that Miss Smith did not approve of The Biography of Lady Esmeralda Pie.

  “Augusta’s book disappointed me,” she declared. “Augusta has an exceedingly good brain but instead of using it to the best advantage she panders to popular taste. Works of history and biography should be approached in a serious manner, not lightly and amusingly.”

  “They wouldn’t sell,” I objected.

  Miss Smith did not reply. Obviously she thought the remark unworthy of her attention.

  “Augusta and I have known each other since we were children,” said Miss Smith. “We disagree frequently but in spite of that we continue to be friends.”

  “She has had a sad life.”

  “Partly sad and partly gay.”

  For a few moments there was silence, and then my hostess rose and said she must play one of her records for me.

  “Does it take you back to the seventeenth century?” I asked.

  “You shall answer that question for yourself, Miss Harcourt,” was the reply.

  Miss Smith lighted two candles which stood upon the chimney-piece and drew a thick curtain across the window. The record she had chosen was a scene from one of Congreve’s plays — an obvious choice — but the phraseology and pronunciation were so strange that at first it was difficult to follow. Then gradually I began to understand; my imagination was gripped. The dimly lit room was filled with voices from the past; I could have sworn I heard the whisper of silken skirts and the chink of swords; I could have sworn I saw people moving in the shadows.

  The illusion was so real that it was alarming and to tell the truth I was glad when the scene ended and the needle ran on the waxen disc with the familiar scraping sound.

  “Did you go back?” asked Miss Smith as she drew back the curtain and let in the sunshine.

  “They came here,” I said in a low voice. I saw by her face that it was the right answer.

  *

  When I returned to the hotel it was nearly five o’clock but I decided not to bother about tea. My head was full of all I had seen and heard, full of ideas for my story, and I wanted to get them on to paper while they were still fresh. I was running up the stairs to find a notebook when the hall-porter called me:

  “Miss Harcourt, there’s a visitor for you!”

  “For me?” I asked in surprise and annoyance.

  “He’s been waiting more than an hour — in the lounge.”

  I came down reluctantly. Who could it be? Only Margaret knew I was here.

  “It’s Dr. Ferguson,” said the hall-porter.

  “Dr. Ferguson!”

  “Yes, miss, that’s what he said.”

  Kenneth! But why had Kenneth followed me to London? Something had happened! Some accident! Val was ill — or Margaret. Kenneth had come to tell me …

  The hall-porter was looking at me strangely. “He’s in the lounge, miss. He seemed very anxious to see you. I said I didn’t know when you’d be back but he said he’d wait.”

  As I pushed open the swing door a tall figure rose from a sofa in the comer of the room and came towards me holding out his hands.

  “Ronnie, it’s you!” I exclaimed in amazement.

  “Didn’t the man tell you?”

  “He said it was Dr. Ferguson.”

  “Well, so it is.”

  “Yes, of course — but I thought it was Kenneth. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Come and sit down and I’ll tell you,” said Ron
nie. “We could have some tea, couldn’t we? I’ve been waiting hours in this dreary hole. Why couldn’t you go to a more comfortable hotel?”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “It’s quiet and the people know me. I’ve been coming here for years.”

  Ronnie knew that. “Yes, we sat here when I called to see you before we went out to Adruna. A lot of water has flowed under London Bridge since then.”

  I ordered tea and we sat down on the sofa together. I wanted to know why Ronnie was here, I wanted to hear all his news, but seeing Ronnie unexpectedly had set my heart beating quickly and I was so breathless that it was difficult to speak.

  “Miss Firth gave me your address,” said Ronnie. “I rang up Timble Cottage this morning. I told her not to tell Val that I was here. It’s no good upsetting Val — I’m only here for a few days.” He hesitated and then added, “I always seem to be burdening you with my problems, Jane.”

  “Have you heard from Helen?” I asked him anxiously. She was his principal problem,

  “Not a word. I don’t know where they are nor what they’re doing. I suppose I could find out, but what’s the use? I’m just waiting. Sooner or later Helen will write and tell me what she wants.”

  As usual Helen was to have exactly what she wanted!

  “Meantime things have been moving,” continued Ronnie more cheerfully. “Orton and I have succeeded in isolating our bug. Of course we can’t pack up and leave Adruna until someone else is appointed to take charge of the hospital but we ought to be free in a few months.”

  “And then?”

  “Then Eastringford,” said Ronnie smiling. “Yes, really! Orton has been appointed to the bacteriology research laboratories at Eastringford and he’s asked for me as his chief assistant.”