by Carola Dunn
“The church is part of the Hydro, too,” Simon said. “Old Smedley was a Primitive Methodist. They still don’t allow alcohol on the premises.”
“Perhaps that’s why Ilkton’s great-uncle, or whatever relation he is, is still going strong in his nineties,” said Daisy.
Carey laughed. “I’d rather die young.”
“The motor-bike rather gives one that impression,” Simon drawled.
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like one, Si,” said Myra.
“Are they very dangerous?” Miss Usher asked anxiously.
As they strolled on, chattering, Daisy felt more and more chaperonish. She was glad when, after walking the length of the Winter Garden and back, Myra declared herself utterly bored with palm trees. “Get a coat, Miss Usher,” she urged, “and come down to the market with us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, not without asking Mother, and I can’t talk to her while she’s having her treatment.”
“What a shame! Neil, why don’t you stay for a bit and keep Miss Usher company? On your motor-bike, you’ll be there as soon as we are.”
Carey obligingly agreed, claiming to be delighted though looking nonplussed. A few minutes later, Myra, Simon, and Daisy set off down the hill.
“You see?” Simon said to Daisy.
“I do,” said Daisy, laughing.
“See what?” Myra demanded.
“Just that you don’t particularly care for Carey,” said her cousin.
“I’m very fond of Neil!”
“You aren’t exactly heartbroken by his interest in Miss Usher.”
“I didn’t say I’m madly in love with him. Besides, he’s not really interested in Miss Usher. He’s being kind to her and trying to make me jealous.”
Simon and Daisy burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“I told Mrs. Fletcher you’re not the jealous sort.”
“I can’t see the point in it.” Myra frowned. “Perhaps it’s different if you are madly in love, but I never have been. I expect I’m not the falling-in-love sort, either.”
“Give yourself time,” Daisy advised. It looked as if Walter Ilkton was out of luck.
TEN
Daisy hadn’t visited a country market for some time. She found it interesting poking round the stalls, mostly fruit and vegetables from local farms, but a couple with bric-a-brac and one with artsy-craftsy stuff. She bought knitted caps with pompoms for the twins—blue and grey stripes for Oliver, peach and lavender for Miranda.
“I have to resist the temptation to dress them to match,” she admitted to Myra, who declared the caps perfectly sweet. “It’s easier because they’re boy and girl. If they were both the same, I’d probably succumb.”
“I knew twins at school,” said Myra. “Vanessa and Veronica, can you believe it? They always dressed exactly alike. We always knew which was which but they used to drive some of the teachers mad. I remember Mademoiselle saying in despair, ‘I do not understand ze English sense of ’umour.’”
“It sounds as if you had a good education.”
“Some of my money was set aside for school. Mr. Howarth—he’s a lawyer and my guardian and trustee, and an absolute sweetie, mostly—he wouldn’t let me spend a penny of it on anything else. And now, I can’t spend a penny over my allowance. He’d have a fit if I ran up an overdraught! Otherwise he lets me do pretty much what I want, as long as I don’t bother him.”
“Isn’t it odd that your parents made a lawyer your guardian rather than your uncle?” Daisy said, wondering whether Myra’s parents hadn’t trusted Humphrey Birtwhistle as trustee of her money.
“Mr. Howarth says it’s because they were afraid he might pop off back to America.”
“That’s a point. Did you dislike your school? Mine was rather a mixed bag. Parts were fun, parts were boring, and parts were horrid.”
“Same here! I suppose it was worth it. I learnt deportment and elocution, though the rest of it was rather a waste. And I made lots of good friends.”
“Yes, that’s the best part.”
“If it weren’t for them, I’d be stuck at Eyrie Farm most of the time. As it is, people invite me to stay and to go to parties, and I meet other people.”
“Such as Walter Ilkton?”
“Yes.” Myra looked guilty. “I know Aunt Lorna and Uncle Norman hate it when my friends come to stay, but I don’t exactly invite them. If they ask for my address to write to, it would be awfully rude to refuse to give it, wouldn’t it? It’s not as if many come. After all, we’re buried in the wilds of Derbyshire. It can be pretty boring, but you mustn’t think I’m complaining. One needs some sort of background, to be able to refer to ‘my family in Derbyshire’ and not be a single girl completely unprotected. I’d hate to be all alone in the world, and they’re the only family I’ve got.”
“But not the family you’d choose?”
“No one chooses their family, after all. They’re not such bad old sticks, especially Aunt Ruby. Even Simon has his points. Occasionally. And I like Sybil. She’s become sort of part of the family. Monica, her little girl, is a darling. Oh, there you are, Simon. Where did you disappear to?”
Simon had played least-in-sight for the past twenty minutes. “Sorry to desert you, Mrs. Fletcher. I popped into the Railway Hotel for a pint, I’m afraid. There’s something about going to the Hydro that always gives me a thirst.”
“Because it’s teetotal,” Myra helpfully reminded him. “I’m thirsty, too. I suppose we’d better not venture into the Railway. It’s more pub than hotel. We have time for a cup of coffee in a tea-shop if you’d like, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“If Simon will go with you, I’ll look round a bit more. I’d like to find something for my stepdaughter.”
“How old is she?”
“Belinda’s thirteen.”
“Something pretty,” Myra said, forgetting her thirst. “A necklace? Look at these beads.”
“Made from local minerals, miss,” said the stall-holder.
“Or this one?” Myra mulled the selection. “All one colour or varied?”
“I’ll leave it to you,” said Daisy. “She has red hair, so no pink, however good it looks on you.”
Just as Myra at last made a decision, Neil Carey arrived. She pressed a string of blue-and-green azurite beads into Daisy’s hand, and she and Simon went to meet him. Daisy paid for the necklace. By the time the stall-holder had wrapped it in tissue-paper, the three had disappeared.
She thrust the necklace into her coat pocket and went looking for them, until she realised that she had no real desire to find them. Crown Square, where they were to meet Walter Ilkton and the car, was not far away. She wandered in that direction, looking in shop windows, until she saw Ruby Birtwhistle come out of a chemist’s, tucking a small packet into her overflowing shopping basket. Crossing the street, Daisy joined her.
“Have you lost the others, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’m not sure whether I lost them or they lost me, not that it matters. Mr. Carey turned up and Simon and Myra went over to him. Next time I looked they were gone.”
“That wretched girl! Simon should know better.”
“Myra was very helpful in choosing a present for my daughter. I expect they were caught up in the excitement of Myra’s bike ride and simply failed to realise I wasn’t with them. No doubt they’re now sneaking into one of the hotels by the back way so that Myra can put on her riding outfit.”
“I do hope she’ll be safe!”
“I’m sure Carey will go carefully.” Whether motivated by love or money, Daisy thought, but didn’t say. “That basket looks awfully heavy. Let me carry it for you.”
“No, no, it’s not so bad, and I’m used to it. Tradesmen just won’t deliver to the farm.”
“Too far from town, I suppose.”
Ruby nodded resignedly. “Luckily Norman manages to provide a large proportion of our necessities, between the home farm and the tenants. He’s a very good farmer and estate manager. T
here’s always a few things that have to be bought, though. We’ve had housekeepers in the past who’d do the shopping, but they never stayed long. Servants don’t like living in such an isolated spot with no bus service. Let’s just pop in here for a cup of coffee while we wait for Mr. Ilkton. Usually I can drop off stuff in the car, but I was afraid Myra would go off on the motor-bicycle on the slippery roads if we didn’t come in the Packard. It’s much grander than our old Jowett.”
They went into a small, rather frilly tea-shop. Daisy looked round, but either Myra had forgotten her thirst in the excitement of Carey’s arrival, or they had chosen a different establishment. A frilly waitress came over.
“Morning, Mrs. Birtwhistle.”
“Good morning, Maisie. Coffee for two, please. Will you have something to eat, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Not for me, thanks.” Daisy hoped Ilkton would not be late and lunch would be ready when they got back to the farm. “Myra must be quite a responsibility,” she went on when the waitress left. “I gather she pretty much goes her own way.”
“She’s a handful,” Ruby admitted, “a flibbertigibbet. Self-willed. But she’s never out of temper and she’s not completely devoid of common sense. She’s surprisingly good about letting us know where she is. Her friends seem to be respectable people, thank goodness.”
“That must be a relief.”
“Very much so. One hears such dreadful tales of what goes on in some circles of society. I’m very fond of Myra. It would be wonderful if she decided to settle down with Walter Ilkton. He seems to be a steady character, who would take care of her and not be too upset by her whims. I think he’s truly smitten with her, as we used to say in my young days.”
“So do I.”
Their coffee arrived, and the subject was dropped. They talked, inevitably, about the Hydro, and Daisy showed the presents she had bought for the children.
When they reached Crown Square, Ilkton was just arriving. Lorna Birtwhistle was waiting on a bench, and Simon stood some distance from his aunt. Myra and Carey had already gone off together.
“She wanted to show him Riber Castle, and he said he’d take her on a scenic tour,” said Simon, shrugging. “They promised to be home for lunch.”
Ilkton’s lips tightened, but there was nothing he could do about it. He and Simon stowed the two shopping baskets and helped the ladies in, and they drove back to Eyrie Farm.
Myra and Carey had not yet returned. Daisy went up to her room to wash off the inevitable road-dust and tidy her hair.
When she went down to the hall, the missing pair had arrived. Myra, nonchalant in dungarees and leathers, was telling Ilkton about her adventures. Simon, meanwhile, had decided riding a motorcycle was an essential part of the experience necessary to a serious novelist and was trying to persuade Carey to take him out that afternoon.
Ruby came in and sent Myra to change. Carey, whose trousers showed the effects of riding without leathers, apologised and hurried off to clean up. Next to appear was Sybil. Ruby pounced on her.
“Humphrey isn’t in his room. Has he been up all morning?”
“He got up quite late and he won’t join us for lunch.” Sybil noticed Ilkton’s presence and lowered her voice as she continued to report on Humphrey’s health and activities.
Daisy helped by asking Ilkton how he had found his aged relative. As a diversionary tactic it worked, though, after saying briefly that his cousin was unchanged since his last visit, Ilkton moved on to ask Daisy’s opinion of ladies wearing trousers and riding motor-bikes.
“I don’t know about motor-bikes. I’ve never ridden one. From watching, I should think they’re too heavy for most women to cope with alone. But I don’t see why women shouldn’t wear trousers.”
“Hear hear,” Simon put in. “Some women have better things to think about than clothes, so why shouldn’t they wear whatever’s most convenient?”
“Oh, intellectuals!” said Ilkton dismissively. “I’m talking about ladies of fashion.”
“My friend Lucy, Lady Gerald Bincombe, was a Land Girl during the War. She couldn’t have managed the work in a skirt.” No need to mention that Lucy had loathed both the work and the trousers! “I’ve heard they wear beach pyjamas on the Riviera, and I have friends in Chelsea who wear evening pyjamas to parties. Then there’s jodhpurs for riding, of course.”
Uninterested after putting in his two-pennyworth, Simon had mooched off to join his mother and Sybil. Daisy managed to keep Ilkton occupied with talk of the horrors of hoops, crinolines, bustles, and the “S-Bend” beloved of the Edwardians. Luckily Myra came down quite quickly, so Daisy no longer felt responsible for entertaining him.
After lunch, Sybil told Daisy that Humphrey was taking a nap. “‘Forty winks,’ he said. I do hope that’s all it is—I mean, that he’s still feeling well when he wakes up.” She was outwardly calm, but Daisy could see she was suppressing strong emotions. “He said, since the weather’s lovely and may not last, and I have a friend staying, I should take a couple of hours off and go for a walk. Do you feel like it? There are some beautiful footpaths round here, but perhaps you’ve already had your fill of views for the day.”
“I’m dying for a chance to talk to you. Let’s go.”
ELEVEN
A footpath led through the copse and up the hill. A stone wall ran along the ridge, with slabs sticking out where it crossed the path, to form a stile. Climbing it, with Sybil’s hand to steady her, Daisy said acerbically, “Here’s something else that would be so much easier in trousers!”
Scattered sheep grazed the downward slope of a narrow valley. Away to their right, halfway up the opposite slope, crouched a small farmhouse with a few outbuildings. The song of an invisible skylark poured down, reminding Daisy of Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending, one of her favourite pieces. That made her think of Alec, whose irregular hours made it impossible to attend as many concerts as they would have liked. She wished he were at her side, striding down the slanting path, instead of Sybil.
Not that she hadn’t come to like Sybil, and admire her talent, but she didn’t like at all the situation she’d been landed in. She had to admit, though, that her own insatiable curiosity was equally to blame.
She looked up, trying to spot the lark, but all she saw was a buzzard turning lazy circles across the sky.
“I feel so beastly!” Sybil burst out. “Whenever he’s feeling better, half of me wants him to recover completely, but the other half worries about what on earth we’ll all do if he does!”
Daisy patted her shoulder. “It’s only natural. What happened this morning? Did he want to see what you’d been writing?”
“No, he was too busy explaining a couple of ideas he’d come up with for twists in the plot, and the scenes needed to carry them out, as well. They’re terrific.”
“Did he used to discuss ideas with you when he was doing all the writing and you were just typing it up?”
“Never. He’d just hand me the pages and I’d get on with it. Now everything’s such a mess,” Sybil said wretchedly, “I don’t see any way out.”
“I don’t believe it’s as bad as that. Suppose he makes a complete recovery. Why can’t you just go on working in partnership? Why should it matter if the publisher finds out? Surely all they’re interested in is sales figures. You’d just have to make sure it didn’t leak out to the reading public.”
“Perhaps. It’s the uncertainty that’s so hard to bear.”
“Isn’t it always.”
“You must be bored to tears with my troubles. Tell me about your outing. Were Ilkton and Carey at each other’s throats?”
“Not at all. Carey goes his merry way without much concern for what anyone thinks.”
“Just like Myra.”
“But I wouldn’t call Myra mischievous, whereas Carey has more than a touch of the mischief-maker in him, if you ask me.”
“That’s obvious from his writing plays shut down by the censors. He can’t possibly make any money from them.
”
“I imagine he lives a fairly hand-to-mouth existence. Ruby’s convinced he’s after Myra’s money, which I dare say is true.”
“A fruitless pursuit!”
Daisy laughed. “So I hear. If you ask me, he’s just flirting for the sake of baiting Ilkton.”
“And Ilkton?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s caught him if she wants him.”
“If. ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”
“I’m fairly certain she doesn’t. But he acts as if he’s very confident of winning her.”
“Could they have a secret understanding?”
“Why? I mean, why secret? All I’ve heard is approval, no opposition.”
“Because Myra would consider it romantic? Playing the star-crossed lover. I can just imagine her fabricating some romantic fiction for his benefit. That the family want to keep her income in their hands, or something like of the kind.”
Daisy shook her head. “I’d be surprised. You know her better than I do, of course, but I don’t see her as either being a secret romantic or fabricating lies about the family.”
“You’re right. She’s really rather pragmatic and practical.” Sybil sighed. “I’m the romantic.”
“Imaginative, rather. Besides, she’s attached to the family in her way. Her practical way. They’re her ‘background,’ she told me.”
“Background?” Sybil sounded surprised. “What did she mean by that?”
“Without them, she’d be a floating single young woman without roots, and as such, not quite respectable. At her age, not at all respectable in many eyes. The family are her roots, her anchor, her ballast, whatever you want to call it. Her respectable background.”
“Is that all they are to her, after all they’ve done for her!”
“Heavens no. She’s fond of Ruby and Humphrey, and even Simon ‘at times.’”
“At times?” said Sybil with a smile. “There is the odd moment when they aren’t quarrelling.”
“And she likes you and Monica.”
“She does? I didn’t know. I’ve never paid her much attention.”