Amberwell

by Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily), 1892-1973

  "Good," said Nell, trying to smile.

  "You are worrying," said Tom. "I wish you wouldn't. No, that's not quite true. It's rather nice to know that somebody is worrying a little, but don't worry too much." He rose and added, "I promised Mr. Gray I'd do a bit of digging."

  Nell watched him as he strolled off; she would have liked to bury Tom in a deep hole in the garden and keep him there safely until this ghastly war was over.

  It was a miserably wet morning for Tom's departure. Nell got up very early to give him his breakfast but when she went down to the kitchen Mrs. Duff was there already, frying a large pan of bacon. Nell wondered where she had managed to collect it, but forebore to enquire. As the breakfast was under control she went out to get the car to drive Tom to the station but here again she was forestalled. Mr. Gray was in the garage; the car had been started and was running smoothly.

  At six o'clock it was still dark and raining heavily but in spite of the weather conditions everybody in the place had gathered round the door to see Tom depart (everybody except Mrs. Ayrton who was still in bed). The group consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Gray and the Land Girl, Mrs. Duff and Nannie and Stephen. Even Margaret, the daily help, who was not due to arrive at Amberwell until nine o'clock, had limped up from Westkirk through the rain to say goodbye.

  Tom was in tearing spirits—or at least appeared to be— he kissed everybody with the single exception of Mr, Gray and leapt into the car beside Nell.

  They shouted "Good-bye!" and waved.

  "Haste ye back!" cried Mrs. Duff, bursting into tears.

  CHAPTER XVII

  1

  All this time Mr. Gray had been doing his best with the gardens but except for the Land Girl he had nothing but casual labour to assist him and things were going from bad to worse. Nell would have helped if she had had time but her days were too full already. Amberwell was very quiet, there v^as no social life in the district because people could not use their cars to go about and visit their friends.

  One streaming wet day in November Nell met Mary Findlater coming out of the butcher's. They were both thoroughly mackintoshed and hung about with baskets and bags.

  "Nell!" exclaimed Mary. "Goodness, what years it is since I saw you! Have you got time for a cup of coffee?"

  Nell decided to make time, for as Mary said it was years since they had met and Mary looked so tired and depressed that it would have been unkind to refuse her invitation.

  They went into the little hotel together and sat down in the comfortable lounge before the fire.

  "I'm just home for a fortnight's leave," said Mary. "I'm in the Wrens—but I expect you knew that."

  "Do you like it?" asked Nell.

  "Yes, it's fun," she replied. "The only trouble is I ought to be at home. I wish I were twins," she added with a sigh.

  Nell understood this somewhat peculiar wish for she herself had often thought that there would be ample occupation for two Nells. She accepted a cup of coffee and sympathised.

  "It's awful," said Mary. "It makes me miserable to come home and see the poor darlings looking so old and tired. When I saw Daddy washing up the dishes I almost cried—and Mummy beating up horrible potatoes in a little bowl! Oh dear!"

  Nell tried to imagine Sir Andrew and Lady Findlater engaged in these unwonted pursuits but it was impossible. Her imagination boggled at the idea.

  "I shouldn't have left them," continued Mary. "I wouldn't have if I'd known what was going to happen. I feel a perfect beast . . ."

  She went on talking about it and Nell continued to listen and sympathise. They talked about other things too. They exchanged family news and reminisced about their childhood. They had never been great friends (Nell had never wanted any friend except Anne) but today it seemed different. She's nice, thought Nell, looking at the small piquante face, framed in curly brown hair. She really is a dear. I wonder why I didn't like her better.

  Suddenly the clock struck twelve and Mary sprang to her feet.

  "Goodness, it's twelve!" she cried. "I'm keeping them both in bed today so I must rush back and cook their lunch. It's been awfully good of you to listen to my moan. I feel a lot better—if that's any consolation. Remember me to Roger when you write—and Tom of course. You're lucky," she added as she put on her mackintosh hat.

  Nell was aware that this was an oblique reference to Ian's death. "I know I'm lucky," she agreed. "We were terribly sorry. Where is Andy?"

  "Quite safe at the moment, thank goodness," replied Mary with a sigh. "He's got a job as instructor—training commandos—not far from Inverness. I'll tell him you asked for him, shall I?"

  "Yes, do," said Nell.

  "You've changed," declared Mary as they said good-bye. "You used to be so—so shy—and—and—"

  "Stupid," suggested Nell.

  Mary laughed. "No, not stupid, but just—not very interesting if you know what I mean."

  The compliment pleased Nell and as she toiled home up the hill with her heavy basket she thought about it seriously and realised that what Mary had said was true. The hard work and all the responsibilities and grinding anxieties had changed her from a colourless nonentity into a useful sort of human being who had a definite place in the world. Perhaps Stephen had been the principal factor in the metamorphosis of Nell; Stephen had become the most important person in Nell's life. "Listen, Nell he's yours," Roger had said. "He's not to be messed about by other people." Nell could still hear the tone of Roger's voice as it had sounded on the telephone—a desperately urgent tone of voice, quite different from the flat weary voice in which he had told of the tragedy. At first it had been quite easy, for all Stephen had needed was love and care, but now that he was older —he was nearly four—there were other things to be thought of. Nannie was inclined to spoil him (which was odd, because she certainly had not spoilt Connie and Nell and Anne) so it was left to Nell to bring up Stephen in the way he should go, to teach him to be considerate and land . . . and above all to be obedient. In one way the job was simple enough, for Stephen had a delightfully happy nature, but in another way it was difficult because Stephen's charm was hard to resist. Nell would have liked to give him everything he wanted—and more. It seemed odd to Nell that although she was strict with Stephen he loved her better than Nannie, who was lenient.

  All this time Roger had not been home to Amberwell. He had had leave on two occasions, but had gone to South Africa instead.

  "Perhaps you think it queer," wrote Roger. "But I don't want to come home until we've finished the job."

  Nell did think it "queer," and at first she was surprised and hurt, but after some thought she saw that Roger had a right to do as he pleased. Tom had come to Amberwell to steep himself in its atmosphere and be healed, but Roger wanted to "finish the job" before he returned. He loved Amberwell in a different sort of way.

  2

  Occasionally the peace of Amberwell was broken by a visit from Connie and her family but unfortunately these visits were not entirely enjoyable and became less welcome and more upsetting to the household as the family grew older; for Gerry and Joan were being brought up in the modem manner and were allowed at all times to "express their ego." This curious phrase, which Connie had culled from a book on child-management, was always upon her lips and excused the most unsocial behaviour on the part of her offspring.

  They came for a fortnight in the early spring of 1945 when Gerald was obliged to leave home on business.

  Mrs. Ayrton had been looking forward to having Connie, and although she was not very fond of children she was prepared to love Gerry and Joan for Connie's sake. She had become a great deal older in the last few years and she was lonely. She and Nell had never had anything in common but Connie was different.

  Mrs. Ayrton had looked forward to long comfortable chats with Connie about matters which interested them both . . . but alas Connie was now "all mother" and was interested in nothing except her children. If they were present they claimed her full attention and if they were absent she talked about th
em all the time. Mrs. Ayrton did her best to make friends with Connie's children but they did not respond and they were so wild and rough that she was actually frightened of them. They ran about the house shouting and yelling; they climbed upon chairs and bounced up and down and then jumped off; they wandered round the room touching everything. Any ornament which attracted them was removed from the table upon which it happened to be standing and placed upon the floor. Usually they both wanted the same thing at the same time and quarrelled over it loudly and violently.

  "It's mine, I saw it first!" Joan would cry.

  "I want it!" Gerry would declare, trying to tear it out of her hands.

  A struggle would ensue during which the bone of contention was sometimes broken.

  Mrs. Ayrton had never been used to this sort of behaviour and she did not like it. "Connie dear, don't you think—" she would begin.

  "No, Mother, we mustn't interfere," Connie would say earnestly. "It's so important for them to express their ego. Of course it's a pity the little shepherdess has lost her head but if I stick it on with glue it won't show at all. I often have to mend things at home and I know just how to do it."

  Nell bore the "expressions of ego" as patiently as she could, reminding herself from time to time that the days were passing and the visit would soon be over. She was obliged to remind Nannie too, for Nannie suffered severely —especially at meal-times.

  "It's just awful," Nannie told her. "The nurse is quite a nice sort of woman but she's not allowed to check them. If she checks them they go straight off and tell their mother. You never saw anything like the way they behave; they don't like carrots so if there's carrots they throw their dinners on the floor—and they get down off their chairs and rampage round the room like savages."

  "They're going away on Friday," said Nell comfortingly.

  "Well, I hope I'll be able to last out," declared Nannie. "My hands itch to give them a good skelping."

  There was one frightful day when Gerry and Joan excelled themselves in wickedness. They woke very early in the morning and demanded to be dressed. It was cold and rather misty but their nurse dared not thwart them so she dressed them and let them loose. As they clattered off down the stairs to the garden she wondered whether she ought to go after them and see what they were doing. But what was the use? thought the unhappy woman. She had no control over her charges so she might as well go back to bed.

  Mr. Gray was taking a walk round the garden before starting his day's work and was alarmed to hear a series of loud crashes coming from the direction of the greenhouses; when he went to investigate he discovered Gerry and Joan throwing stones through the glass and screaming with delight.

  "Stop that!" shouted Mr. Gray. "Stop it at once, you young devils!"

  "We like doing it!" yelled Gerry, seizing another stone and sending it hurtling through the air.

  "It's good for us!" shrieked Joan, following his example.

  Roused beyond bearing Mr. Gray rushed upon them waving his stick, and chased them out of the garden, and the two children fleeing in fear and astonishment made straight for their mother's room.

  "He was horrid to us!" wailed Joan. "He tried to hit us with his stick."

  "He called us devils," added Gerry between his sobs.

  Connie was very upset—but not because of the damage to the greenhouse—she explained to Nell that the glass could easily be replaced but the effect of Mr. Gray's behaviour might be irreparable. The book said fear and violence often produced complexes which could ruin a child for life. When Nell tried to comfort her by pointing out that Gerry and Joan seemed none the worse of their experience, but were chasing each other round the house and shouting lustily in their usual manner, Connie replied that the book said it would show later—perhaps not until they were grown-up.

  Having failed to comfort Connie, Nell's next thought was to seek out Mr. Gray. She found him trying to stop up the holes in the greenhouse with pieces of cardboard.

  "All my wee seedlings!" mourned Mr. Gray. "They were doing fine—and who knows but there might be frost tonight!"

  Nell thought this unlikely and said so, but her assurance fell upon deaf ears.

  "They're hooligans, that's what they are," declared Mr. Gray with unaccustomed frankness. "You say they don't know it's naughty—well, they ought to. Miss Connie—I mean Mrs. Lambert—ought to bring up her bairns to know right from wrong. None of you ever thought of spoiling things. All the years you ran about the gardens there was never a bit of damage done."

  "They're going home on Friday," said Nell.

  "The sooner the better," growled Mr. Gray.

  The afternoon was fine and Connie proposed that she and Nell should take the children and have a picnic on the bowling-green. Nell suggested that they might go to the shore instead, but Connie would not hear of it.

  "The bowling-green is more peaceful," said Connie. "I want them to have a very peaceful afternoon."

  Peace was obtained by allowing the young Lamberts to do exactly as they wished; Gerry rode Stephen's tricycle round and round the lawn; Joan played with Stephen's wheelbarrow. Nell had brought a toy roller for Stephen to play with but after a few minutes Joan wanted that too, and Stephen surrendered it meekly. Stephen had learned that it was better for everybody if his cousins got what they wanted.

  They had tea on the grass stage; it had been a favourite place for tea when Connie and Nell were children and it reminded them of byegone days. "Do you remember . . ." is a fascinating game to play, especially with a sister, and Connie became quite human. She was so interested in the conversation that she actually stopped worrying about her children.

  "You're not talking to us. Mummy," complained Joan.

  "Mummy is talking to Aunt Nell," said Connie. "Oh Nell, do you remember—"

  But Nell was fated not to hear this memory for Joan took immediate action; she leant forward and emptied her mug of milk into her mother's lap.

  For a moment Nell thought—and hoped—that Connie would lose her temper but Connie had trained herself too thoroughly to do anything so crude.

  "Oh Joanie, you are a funny little girl," said Connie, taking out her handkerchief and trying to mop up the mess. "You wanted Mummy to talk to you, didn't you? Naughty Mummy to talk to Aunt Nell!"

  Joan was delighted of course for she had achieved her object but Gerry was not so pleased. Gerry was being neglected, nobody was taking any notice of him. Gerry's ego prompted him to seize a stick, which happened to be handy, and hit Stephen on the head.

  The unexpected assault alarmed Stephen and he opened his mouth and howled.

  "Don't do that, Gerry!" cried Nell.

  "It was only in fun," declared Connie.

  "It's fun!" said Gerry, laughing with glee and hitting his cousin again.

  Nell leapt to her feet and snatched the stick from his grasp, and in a moment there was pandemonium. Gerry shrieked at the top of his voice, Stephen sobbed loudly and Connie added to the din by rounding upon Nell.

  "It's horrid of you!" she raged. *'You should never use violence to little children—it's a dreadful thing to do— you've upset poor little Gerry frightfully. He was just having fun with Stephen—that's all. Stephen shouldn't be such a baby. He's completely spoilt—"

  All three children were now screaming so the remainder of Connie's diatribe was lost and Nell was so angry that she picked up Stephen and carried him into the house.

  When Nell discovered that there were no wounds upon Stephen—not so much as a red mark—her rage died down and she was able to smile, but all the same a quite unmistakable chill developed in the relationship between herself and her elder sister and she was thankful when Friday came and the family packed up and went home—nor was Nell the only person who was thankful.

  It isn't fair, thought Nell as she waved them away (but without the usual valediction). It really isn't fair to them to allow them to make themselves so unpopular.

  The visit had been an ordeal, and yet it was useful, for at least Nell had be
en given an object lesson on how not to bring up the young. Nannie had had an object lesson too, and was not quite so indulgent with Stephen as she had been before.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  1

  Amberwell was in Tom's thoughts as he stood on the bridge of the destroyer, Starfish, with Dennis Weatherby. He often talked to Dennis about Amberwell and Dennis listened and understood for he had a home in Yorkshire and loved it in much the same way. Dennis was some years older than Tom (he was a Lieutenant Commander and due for promotion) but in spite of the difference in age the two were firm friends.

  The Starfish had had a pretty thin time all winter for she had been on convoy duty in the north but now she was making for Rosyth and her crew was looking forward to a well-earned spell of leave.

  It was early April, but the night was warm—or at least it seemed warm to men who had braved the blizzards of a northern winter—there was no moon but the stars were so bright that it was not really dark. There were millions of stars to be seen and for a while the two young men looked at them in silence. Tom had always loved stars.

  "I suppose you'll be going home," said Dennis at last.

  "Yes, what about you? I mean would you like to come to Amberwell for a few days? It would be grand if you could."

  "I'd love to, sometime. But they're expecting me at home, and—well, you know how it is. I mean one doesn't get home too often."

  "Of course," agreed Tom quickly. "I just meant if you could manage to come—"

  Silence fell. They understood one another and their silences were companionable. What a splendid fellow Dennis is, thought Tom. You can depend upon him whatever happens . . . just as you can depend on Roger. The fact was Tom had always needed someone like that, someone solid and rock-like, to give him stability, to make him feel safe.