“Ronnie, how splendid!”
“That’s why I came home. They wanted to see me.”
“And you’ve got the post?”
He nodded. “There were half a dozen other fellows after it — some of them much better qualified — but Orton had written and asked for me. It’s queer how things happen, isn’t it? I never thought I’d get another chance of going to Eastringford.”
“You’re very pleased?”
“Pleased as Punch,” declared Ronnie. “I’ve always been interested in bacteriological research … and the laboratories at Eastringford are simply wonderful. I could laugh when I think of the way we’ve been pottering about at Adruna with make-shift equipment.” He smiled and added, “Ken will be pleased too. Ken was so angry with me when I gave up the appointment at Eastringford that he would scarcely speak to me. In fact he has never really forgiven me.”
“He will, now.”
“Yes — and I’m glad. We are such friends, Ken and I.”
Ronnie did not stay long but as he was going away he asked me to go out to dinner with him. At first I refused for I had made up my mind that the less I saw of Ronnie the better.
“Do come,” said Ronnie. “We’ll have dinner at the Savoy. Well be gay — just for to-night. We’ll forget all my problems; we’ll pretend they don’t exist — just for to-night. It’s my birthday.”
“Your birthday! Oh Ronnie —”
“So you must come. You will, won’t you? Say yes.”
I said yes.
*
Ronnie and I had arranged to meet at eight o’clock and I was there early, but my host was waiting for me. He was in full rig: white tie, white waistcoat and a white carnation in his button-hole. He looked absolutely marvellous as he came forward to greet me and I could see that other people thought the same. I was glad I had got a new frock and had put it on for Ronnie’s birthday celebration.
“That colour suits you, Jane,” said Ronnie. “It’s the same colour as the dress you wore at — at —”
“Cherry colour,” I told him. “I’m glad you like it. Mother always says it suits me and she’s very clever about clothes. As a matter of fact you don’t look bad yourself!”
The cloud, which had appeared for a moment, vanished. Ronnie smiled. “Oh well,” he said. “If a fellow can’t wear a carnation in his buttonhole when he’s entertaining a famous author —”
“On his birthday —” I put in.
“On his birthday,” agreed Ronnie.
We went in to dinner laughing.
We had a table in the corner farthest from the band and we sat and watched the other people — neither of us wanted to dance. We talked about ourselves and the things that interested us; we talked about Val; we talked about my books. I discovered that Ronnie had read all my books and enjoyed them.
“They’re an entertainment,” he declared. “You say they’re ‘just stories’ — well, of course they are! I like stories. Everybody likes stories.”
“Not everybody.”
“Everybody with any sense. The story-teller has always been a valuable member of society. Even in prehistoric times when men hunted wild beasts and lived in caves they sat round the camp-fire at night and listened to stories. Your profession is one of the oldest in the world and one of the most useful.”
“Away!” I cried, laughing.
“It is, really. And we need stories more than ever now. We need stories to entertain us, to help us to forget our troubles, to fill our lives with colour.” He paused and then added, “The period you’ve chosen is very colourful.”
“Would you like to have lived then, Ronnie?”
“It must have been fun. Awful fun to wear all those queer clothes and swagger about with a sword.”
“Not so much fun if you got ill.”
“Oh, you hadn’t a hope if the doctor got you into his clutches. If you were wounded and lost a lot of blood the doctor bled you; if your lungs went wrong he shut the window and pulled the curtains and kept out the fresh air …” For a moment Ronnie looked quite upset at the stupidity of his predecessors.
“Talking of curtains,” I said. “You will be interested to hear about a most astonishing experience I had this afternoon. I went to see a woman who lives in a queer old house near the Tower and summons up ghosts from the past.”
“Not really!”
“She did — for me. I’m not sure she isn’t a witch …” Ronnie listened to my story and asked several questions. He said, “The play was spoken by actors; but how do they know the way people spoke in those days.”
“From old diaries and letters — people spelt words as they were pronounced — and from verses. For instance:
Love’s but a frailty of the mind
When ’tis not with ambition join’d.”
I added, “Obviously Congreve pronounced the words as if they rhymed.”
“You know a lot about it,” said Ronnie in surprise.
“Oh well, my books are ‘just for fun’ but I like to have the background right.”
“Where do you get your characters, Jane? They’re awfully real. I liked that fellow, Ralph, in The Mulberry Coach.”
“Did you?”
“He was my sort of chap,” declared Ronnie. “If I had met him in real life I would have liked him — if you know what I mean.”
I nodded. I knew what he meant.
“Where did you get him?” repeated Ronnie. “Is he a real live person?”
It was difficult to answer. “He was a dream,” I said vaguely.
“You mean you dreamt about him?”
“I dreamt about him for months, sleeping and waking.”
Ronnie gazed at me for a moment without speaking. I thought he was going to ask more about Ralph but fortunately the subject was changed by the arrival of a large party at the next table. They wanted two tables put together and the seats changed round and there was a lot of talk and confusion.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Ronnie. “Look at that woman with the blue hair! Does she think it’s pretty?”
“She thinks it’s arresting — and how right she is!”
“What do you mean?”
I laughed and said, “Well, you stared at her didn’t you? You’re talking about her. If she hadn’t got blue hair you wouldn’t have looked at her twice.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Take away the blue hair and there’s nothing much left. You’re rather a devil, Jane.”
“You didn’t know I was a devil, did you?”
“I didn’t know much about you — until to-night,” said Ronnie seriously.
Presently Ronnie leant forward and said, “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You’re glad you came?”
I was glad I had come. Later I should be miserable, but I put it out of my mind. We were gay — just for to-night — because it was Ronnie’s birthday.
Chapter Twenty-Five
*
The next day I went home to Ryddelton. Ronnie came to Euston to see me off; he had tried to persuade me to stay in London for the week-end and go out with him again, but I refused firmly. We had had our gay evening together and it had been perfect — that was enough.
At the very last moment, when the train was about to start, Ronnie repeated his plaint.
“I can’t think why you won’t stay,” he declared. “There’s nothing to prevent you. Even now it isn’t too late. Stay till Monday. We could have another binge —”
“The traveller cannot bathe twice in the same stream,” I told him.
“That sounds like a proverb.”
The train had started to move.
I put my head out of the window and said, “Chinese philosophy, Ronnie.”
Ronnie took his hat off and waved. I watched him standing there and waving until I could see him no longer. I wondered when I should see him again.
There was a warm welcome waiting for me at Timble Cottage. Margaret and Val had got on very well but all the same they were very pleased to see me.
Val’s hug nearly strangled me.
“How’s Chairley?” I asked when I could speak.
“He’s fine,” said Val. “He has got a new baby at his house. I think it would be rather nice to have a baby, but Chairley says they’re no use at all. They can’t do anything except lie and stare. Chairley says he’d much rather have a bike. Did you remember my bike, Aunt Jane?”
“It’s coming,” I said. “It’s a red one — with a bell.”
“Oh joy!” cried Val and he hugged me again.
“You didn’t forget the electric cooker, I hope,” asked Margaret anxiously.
“It’s coming,” I said. “It’s a white one with a glass door,”
“Oh joy!” exclaimed Margaret, laughing.
“No hug?” I asked … so Margaret hugged me, too.
It was all very pleasant. I knew I was lucky to have Margaret and Val (some people seemed to think ours was a strange household, consisting as it did of three generations, but no household could have been more harmonious); I knew I was lucky to have my work. The new story which had stuck so badly began to move and I settled down to a daily routine. Writing in the morning, walking the dogs in the afternoon, playing with Val after tea.
There were interruptions of course, social occasions such as tea at Mount Charles and an occasional visit to Edinburgh. In August there was the Tennis Tournament and the Flower Show and a dance at Tocher House.
So the summer passed and the heather bloomed purple on the hills and it was September.
*
One morning when I was hard at work a car drove up to the door. I was alone in the house, for Val was at school and Margaret was shopping in Ryddelton, so I had to put down my pen and answer the bell myself. My visitor was Andrew.
“Hallo!” I exclaimed. “What good wind has blown you to Ryddelton? Where’s Mother?”
“I didn’t bring your Mother — she doesn’t know I’ve come. I wanted to talk to you, Jane. Are you alone?”
This sounded mysterious, to say the least of it, and I wondered what had happened.
“I can’t stay long,” said Andrew as he followed me into the sitting-room. “No, I can’t stay to lunch. I just wanted to see you and have a chat. I suppose Ronnie is still in Kenya?”
“Yes,” I said. “They haven’t found anyone to take charge of the hospital yet.”
“Have you had a letter from him lately?”
“Last week,” I replied. Ronnie and I corresponded regularly for he liked to hear about Val’s doings.
“And you saw him in London, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Jane, what is he going to do about Helen?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing until he hears from her. He hasn’t heard a word from Helen since she left him.”
“It’s most unsatisfactory,” declared Andrew. “If he intends to divorce Helen he should start proceedings and not leave it too long.”
I explained that Ronnie did not intend to start proceedings until he knew quite definitely what Helen wanted.
“What Helen wants is neither here nor there,” said Andrew.
“He thinks it matters a lot.”
“Well, he ought to find out. He ought to get moving. The best way would be to send her a lawyer’s letter.”
“How can he when he doesn’t know where she is?”
Andrew hesitated for a moment and then he said, “I know where she is. As a matter of fact I’ve been keeping track of them. Perhaps you think it was none of my business; but Anna is very much my business, and Helen is Anna’s daughter, so I thought it essential to know what was happening. They were in London for a time, going the pace and spending money like water, then they went to Paris and Rome —”
“Do you mean you engaged a detective?”
Andrew laughed, not very merrily. “It wasn’t necessary,” he said. “They haven’t been in hiding — far from it. They’ve been throwing their weight about; they’ve been seen everywhere. I made a few inquiries from time to time, that was all.”
“Where are they now?” I asked.
“Lancaster is in London on business. He’s well known in the financial world. Helen is staying at a clinic in Switzerland.”
“Is she ill?” I exclaimed.
“She may be ill or she may have gone there for a rest. I can’t tell you. Anyway that’s where she is.”
“Have you got her address?”
“Oh yes, it’s that clinic where she went when she was a child.” Andrew hesitated and then added, “I haven’t said a word about it to your Mother — and you’re not to tell her, Jane. I won’t have her worried. She has worried quite enough about Helen. You can tell Ronnie if you like, but he had better be careful what he does. If he writes to Helen or goes and sees her it will complicate matters considerably.”
“Perhaps I should go and see her.”
“You had better keep clear of the whole affair,” said Andrew.
I was silent for a few moments and then I said, “Honestly, I think I should go and see her.”
At first Andrew said no, but after some argument he agreed reluctantly that it could do no harm for me to go and see Helen — if I were careful. I was not to say I was an emissary from Ronnie nor to commit him to any course of action; I was on no account to tell her that I had stayed unchaperoned in Ronnie’s bungalow. In fact I received so many instructions about what I was not to say to Helen that it seemed as if there was little left to say.
That night I talked it over with Margaret, for I had come to depend upon her solid common sense.
“Yes, I see,” said Margaret thoughtfully. “Of course Andrew is usually right, but he’s looking at the matter from a legal point of view and to my mind it’s a human problem. She’s your sister so it’s only natural for you to go and see her when she’s ill.”
“I feel I ought to.”
“I think you ought to,” agreed Margaret. “You don’t need to mix yourself up in her affairs. It will just be a sisterly visit … and when you’ve seen her you’ll be able to write and tell Ronnie all about her. Then he can do what he thinks best. That would clear up the whole situation, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” I said.
“So your book gets shelved again,” said Margaret with a rueful smile. “Your family is a great nuisance to you, Jane.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The clinic where Helen was staying was situated on a hill above the town. It was not a very large building. Round it, but not very near, there were pinewoods and beyond the pinewoods were snow-capped mountains glistening in the sunshine. Quite a number of patients were walking about in the beautifully laid-out gardens, others were lying on balconies, wrapped in rugs. There was an atmosphere of peacefulness and cheerfulness about it, so that it did not seem like an ordinary hospital at all. I gave my name to the girl at the desk and after a few minutes delay she said that Madame Ferguson would be happy to see me.
“Madame is not really allowed to have visitors but a sister is different,” she explained.
Helen was lying propped up with pillows and enveloped in a white fleecy shawl. She was as lovely as ever — indeed she was lovelier for her expression was softer.
The nurse put a chair for me and went away.
“It was good of you to come,” said Helen with a welcoming smile. “When they told me you were here I was surprised. I thought you would be angry with me.” Her voice was very soft and husky and her face was thinner, but she did not look really ill.
“I came at once,” I told her. “I only heard a few days ago that you were here.”
“How did you hear?”
“Andrew told me.”
“Andrew!” she exclaimed. “I used to like Andrew at one time but he’s far too nosy. He interferes in things that don’t concern him. He thinks because he married Mother it gives him the right to interfere with me.” She smiled and added, “But I’m glad you came.”
“I was so sorry to hear you were ill.”
“Yes, it�
�s a nuisance. Some days I feel ghastly, but I’m much better really. Of course Madame Monet is rather a fuss-pot and so are the nurses, but I want to get well quickly so I do what they say.” She paused for a few moments and then added, “When I’m better I want to go back to Ronnie.”
I was silent.
“Jane, I want to see Ronnie. I want to say I’m sorry. It was all a mistake. It was because I was lonely and Dick was kind and amusing. That was how it happened.”
“You mean you’ve left Mr. Lancaster?”
She nodded. “Yes, but we’re still friends. He’s very fond of me and we had a good time together until I began to get ill. Then I realised that Dick wasn’t all I thought.” She moved uneasily and added, “I don’t mean he wasn’t kind, but he just — wasn’t — Ronnie.”
For a moment I was too angry to speak; all sorts of horrible feelings boiled up inside me but I managed to swallow them down.
“I see you’re annoyed,” said Helen with a little sigh. “You don’t understand, that’s all. I think Ronnie will understand if I tell him about it. That’s why I want to see him.”
“Yes, I expect Ronnie will understand.”
“You mean it will be all right?” Her eyes were looking at me anxiously and I realised that for once in her life Helen was not sure she was going to get exactly what she wanted — but of course she would. If she wanted to go back to Ronnie he would take her. He had said so.
“Why don’t you write to him?” I asked. “You could explain —”
“They won’t let me write letters … and it isn’t the sort of letter I could dictate. But you could write to him, couldn’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll write.”
“Write to-night, Jane. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him I’ll be better soon. Nobody could help getting better quickly in this lovely place.”
I had felt the same. It was a lovely place and Helen’s room was extremely pleasant; large and airy. It was bare except for necessities but that was as it should be. The windows were wide open and the view was incredibly beautiful. The sun was shining and the air was clear as crystal.
Anna and Her Daughters Page 21