by Anne Weale
What time does she usually get home?’
‘On the six o’clock bus, I think She’ll be dreadfully upset, poor woman. Bert’s all she’s got now.’
‘Don’t worry. I expect it’s only concussion. He’ll probably be risking his neck again by this time next week.
Where do you suppose she keeps the tea?’ he said, looking round the cramped, ill-lit cottage kitchen.
Jenny found the tea caddy and put the kettle on. ‘Now this place looks very picturesque from outside, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want to live in it,’ he remarked, as they waited for the water to boil.
‘No, it is pretty grim,’ she admitted.
‘And I expect most of the houses that make up your
“lovely unspoilt village” are not much better as far as comfort and convenience go,’ he went on. ‘Even the Rectory only looks attractive. I’ll bet it’s like an icehouse in the winter, and the kitchen is pure nineteenth-century.’
‘Not quite. We do have a modern gas cooker. But it is a cold house, and not very well planned for easy running,’
Jenny conceded reluctantly.
‘Yet you’re up in arms because I’m building a house which really is geared to modern life,’ he said, with a quizzically raised eyebrow.
‘Because modern houses may be ideal inside, but they always look so ghastly outside,’ she contended. ‘Those hideous flat roofs with water tanks stuck on top, and—’ she stopped short suddenly. Then, after some second’s hesitation, she said, ‘Look, we’ll never agree on this subject.
But I don’t want to quarrel with you when you’ve been such a help with poor Bert.’
For once, his smile held no mockery. ‘Are you calling a trace, Miss Shannon?’
She held out her hand, and said, ‘Yes, I suppose I ... and everyone in the village calls me Jenny.’
His fingers closed firmly over hers, and then there were footsteps on the path and Mrs. Bagley rushed in.
Some time after nine o’clock, Jenny was crossing the hall at home when the telephone rang. She perched on the rug chest and lifted the receiver.
‘Farthing Green 181.’
‘Jenny? Simon Gilchrist.’ His voice sounded even deeper on the telephone. ‘I thought you’d like to know that young Bert’s X-ray didn’t show any serious damage, but they’re keeping him under observation for a couple of days.’
‘Oh, what a relief. How is Mrs. Bagley now? Has she calmed down?’
‘Yes, she sat with the boy for a while and then I took her home, and a neighbour is going to keep an eye on her.’
‘Well, thank you for ringing me. It was kind of you to think of it.’
‘I’m not entirely inhuman. Good night, Jenny.’
‘Good night ...’ She hesitated before adding ‘Simon.’ But before she said it, he had rung off.
The following Friday evening, James rang up to ask Jenny if she would care for a run to the coast on Sunday afternoon. But on Saturday the good weather changed, and it was still chilly and overcast on Sunday morning. Before going to church, Jenny rang James to see if he had any alternative plans for the afternoon. It would be unpleasant at the sea on such a day.
Somewhat to her relief, James said his mother was not well, and he thought he had better cancel the outing, and stay with Mrs. Langdon.
‘Oh dear - is there anything I can do?’ Jenny asked.
‘No, I don’t think so, thanks. I’ll ring you during the week. Sorry about our drive.’
After lunch, Mrs. Shannon went upstairs for a rest, and the Rector went off to Sunday School. Jenny washed the dishes, and wondered whether to make a cake, or do some sewing, or finish a not very absorbing library book.
Going outside to throw some scraps of pastry to the birds, she glanced across towards the building site and saw a tall figure moving about beyond the fence. Her heart gave an odd little double-beat, and she quickly retreated into the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, in slacks but with a jersey which was rather more presentable than her usual gardening sweater, she fetched a trug from the potting shed and went round to do some weeding in the drive.
A few minutes after she had started, there was a whistle from behind her. She straightened and crossed the wet grass to the fence.
‘Hello. What a dismal sort of day.’
For the first time since she had met him, Simon was not wearing one of his impeccable suits. Today, he was in a grey sweater over a darker grey sports shirt, with corduroy trousers tucked into a pair of gum-boots.
‘Come and see how the goldfish bowl is getting on. Or are you too busy?’ he asked teasingly.
She laughed, and shook her head. ‘I’ll come over by the oak tree.’
Some rain had seeped through the leaves and made the bark of the tree slippery in places. As Jenny prepared to drop from the overhanging branch, one of her hands lost its grip. It was only a four-feet drop, but she might have landed awkwardly if Simon had not stepped forward and caught her.
For a second she was pressed against his chest, her hands on his shoulders. Then he lowered her to the ground and let her go.
‘Thanks,’ she said, oddly shaken.
‘Want to wipe your hands?’ He offered her a large spotless linen handkerchief.
She shook her head, and fumbled for her own smaller one.
‘I’m getting too old to climb trees. I should have gone round by the road.’
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-one in the autumn - or “come Michaelmas” as we say in Farthing Green.’
They walked down to where the house was already taking shape amid a morass of churned up mud.
‘Careful, it’s slippery.’ Simon reached for her hand.
Then large drops of rain began to fall and there was a threatening rumble of thunder.
‘I think we’re in for a downpour. Come and shelter in our house till it’s over,’ Jenny offered.
They reached the shelter of the Rectory porch a few seconds before the deluge. Simon had stopped to grab a pair of shoes from his car. When he had taken off his boots and put the shoes on, she led him through to the kitchen.
‘Who would have thought, a few weeks ago, that we should be sitting here so amicably,’ Simon said, some time later.
The rain was still streaming down the panes, and Jenny had made coffee. Simon was sitting in the basket chair, his long legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand.
‘Who indeed?’ she echoed inwardly.
Aloud she said, ‘Tell me about being an architect. How did you start? Do you specialize in houses, or do you do other things too?’
‘Unfortunately private houses are not a very paying proposition for the amount of work involved in them,’ he said. ‘I get the most satisfaction out of houses, but I make more money from shops and factories and garages. Houses are the gilt on the gingerbread.’
He talked for nearly an hour, and Jenny was fascinated -
and often amused by his descriptions of the people who had commissioned his services. It was only later she realized that, while she had learned a great deal about the complexities of architecture, he had revealed almost nothing about himself.
Then her grandmother came downstairs and a few minutes afterwards Simon glanced at his watch and said he must leave.
‘I thought you didn’t like Mr. Gilchrist, dear?’ Mrs.
Shannon remarked, when Jenny returned from seeing him out.
‘Well, Grandpa was right. First impressions aren’t always correct,’ Jenny said, colouring slightly.
Later, alone in her room, she stood at her window and stared at the shell of Simon’s house. What had come over her? She had started out loathing the man, yet this afternoon she had deliberately sought his company, had even put on her best sweater and fresh lipstick. It had been only fair to revise her first opinion of him after the Bert Bagley incident; but this was going to the other extreme.
During the following week, Mrs. Langdon went into a private nursing home in the city for a com
plete rest and some clinical tests. Naturally James went to visit her every evening, and Jenny only saw him for a few minutes one morning when she was waiting for the bus to work. He looked tired and worried. Fortunately his mother had an excellent daily help, Mrs. Barrett, who would bully him into eating proper lunches and leave something ready for his suppers.
On Friday, after school, Jenny went to the Public Library to change her books for the weekend. She was walking back to the bus station, and had stopped to look at a display of summer sandals in a shoe shop, when someone slipped a hand under her elbow.
‘Simon!’ It was the first time she had used his Christian name to his face.
‘Hello. Where are you going?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
She indicated her basket. ‘Home to read an improving book.’
‘Come and have tea with me first.’ His left hand still holding her elbow, he took the basket from her.
‘Oh, I can’t, I’m afraid. Granny would wonder what had happened to me.’
‘We’ll ring her up and explain. Unless you don’t want to have tea with me?’
‘Of course not ... I mean yes, I’d like to,’ she answered in some confusion.
He took her to a rather grand hotel where all the smartest wedding receptions and twenty-first parties were held. There were only a few other people in the large thickly-carpeted lounge with its deep comfortable sofas and armchairs.
Simon steered Jenny to a sofa near the velvet-draped windows, and put her basket down between them.
Immediately, a waiter came to take his order.
‘I’d better make that phone call. I won’t be long,’ Simon said, rising again.
While he was away, Jenny quickly powdered her nose and retouched her lipstick. Then she relaxed against the soft brocade cushions, enjoying the unwonted luxury of her surroundings.
‘All’s well. Your grandmother seems quite confident that I’ll look after you properly,’ Simon told her, when he came back.
His mouth had a quirk at one corner, but she no longer minded that look. It sent an odd little tremor of excitement through her.
‘What do you like to read?’ He took two of the books out of her basket to see the titles. ‘Travels in Spain and’ - his eyebrows shot up - ‘Twentieth-Century Architecture.’
‘Well, you’ve got me interested,’ she said hastily.
At that point the waiter returned. Simon had asked for
‘Tea, and something to eat, please.’
The ‘something to eat’ made Jenny blink. There was a covered dish of hot buttered toast, another of scones, two kinds of jam, white sandwiches with chicken inside, brown sandwiches containing smoked salmon, and a dish of rich French pastries oozing with cream.
‘Heavens,’ she said faintly, when the man had gone.
‘You aren’t on a diet, are you?’ Simon asked, with an amused glance.
She shook her head. ‘I was thinking how expensive this must be.’
He smiled, and then a strange expression came into his face, a kind of veiled, withdrawn look which reminded her of their first encounter. She realized how gauche her remark had been.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said nervously. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.
I’m afraid I’m not very ... sophisticated.’
‘No, you’re not, are you?’ he agreed, in a dry tone. And then he took one of her hands and gave it a little squeeze, and said, ‘Which is why I like you, as it happens. And don’t worry about the bill, because I’ve just been commissioned to design an enormous supermarket, so I’m feeling rather rich today.’
On the way home, an hour later, Jenny saw James’s estate car coming towards them. He spotted her and she waved to him.
‘That was James Langdon. He’s the local vet. He and his mother live in one of those lovely Georgian houses on the green,’ she told Simon, after the two cars had passed each other.
‘Yes, I’ve seen him about the village. How did he come by that scar on his cheek?’ Simon asked.
‘He was gored by a bull,’ Jenny said, with a shiver. ‘It happened over at Bell’s farm, about three miles out of the village. The old cowman there, Charlie Rudd, had raised the bull from a calf. It was as tame as a dog with him. But a lot of the other cowmen thought he was a fool to trust it.
You can never be sure of a bull, you see. They may seem as mild as lambs for years, and then suddenly - for no reason -
they’ll turn nasty. Anyway, that was what happened with Charlie’s bull. He was out in a field with it one day, and it started pawing the ground and snorting. He couldn’t run because he had a bad hip, and there wasn’t a pitchfork or anything like that about. So he yelled for help.
‘James was passing in the lane, and he heard Charlie shout and saw the bull beginning to charge him. Charlie managed to dodge it the first time, and James tore across the field and deliberately drew it on himself to give Charlie a chance to get to the hedge. He played it like a matador does, and then just before help came he slipped on a cowpat and it got him.’ Jenny swallowed, her hands clenched into fists. ‘It tossed him three times before they drove it off. He was in hospital for eleven weeks.’
‘He’s a brave man,’ Simon said quietly.
‘Yes, he is - a wonderful person.’ She felt Simon glance at her, and added, without quite knowing why, ‘We all admire him very much, and he’s a first-class vet, too. Have you any animals?’
‘No, at present I live in a flat in the centre of the city. I shall probably get a dog when I move to the house.’
A few minutes later they reached the Rectory, but Simon refused her invitation to come in and see her grandparents.
‘Well, thank you for a lovely tea and for bringing me all the way home,’ she said warmly.
‘It was my pleasure. I shall be in London most of next week, so I won’t see you again for a bit. Good night, Jenny.’
He shook hands, then climbed back into the car and drove away.
‘How very nice of him,’ said Mrs. Shannon, when she had heard all about the delicious tea at the hotel.
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Jenny ran upstairs to change, humming a tune.
When she came down again, still humming, Mrs.
Shannon put down the sock she was knitting for her husband, and said, ‘How old do you think Mr. Gilchrist is, dear?’
Something in her grandmother’s tone made Jenny stiffen slightly. ‘Oh, about thirty, I would think, wouldn’t you?’
‘I fancy he must be more than that. I believe it takes five years to qualify as an architect, and he must have spent some time in one of the Services, and he appears to be well established in his profession. I should say he must be at least thirty-three or four.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Why are you so interested in his exact age, Granny?’
Mrs. Shannon took off her spectacles and polished the lenses with her handkerchief. Then she held them up to the light and replaced them. ‘Because I think you have suddenly become interested in Mr. Gilchrist,’ she said gently. ‘I wouldn’t like you to be hurt, dear.’
‘Hurt? Why on earth should I be hurt? What do you mean?’ Jenny asked, rather sharply.
‘Now don’t be cross, dear, I know you’re very sensible and level-headed, and of course you’re quite grown-up now and must make your own decision. In some ways I think it might have been better if you had gone to live in that flat in London with Alison Grant.’
‘Why? What is all this, Granny? What are you getting at?’
‘Well, I feel sometimes that, although you have always seemed contented, you have had rather a quiet life for a girl of your age,’ explained Mrs. Shannon. ‘It’s possible that you might become a little carried away by a taste of some of the things you’ve never experienced, and by people who are different from those in your own small circle.’
Jenny was silent for some moments. Then she said briefly, ‘You hope that I’ll marry James Langdon, don’t you, Granny?’
‘I hope that you will be happy, dear.
Has James proposed to you?’
‘Yes. Oh, Granny, I don’t know ... I simply don’t know whether I love him or not,’ Jenny exclaimed, feeling a sudden urge to unburden herself. ‘It’s so difficult to be sure.
I’ve known James for so long. He’s almost like an elder brother to me. How can I tell if I love him ... or if I’m just terribly fond of him ... used to him?’
‘I always think “falling in love” is such a misleading expression,’ Mrs. Shannon said thoughtfully. ‘It sounds as if it must be something which happens suddenly and unexpectedly. I think “growing into love” would be much more accurate. One may fall into a state of infatuation, and have great difficulty in recovering one’s balance. But true love is something very different, and it usually comes about quite slowly, almost without one being aware of what is happening.’
‘Was that how it was with you and Grandpa?’ Jenny asked.
She always found it hard to imagine her grandparents ever being young. As far as she could remember, they had been as they were now; silver-haired and wrinkled, Grandpa thin and rather stooped, his eyes the colour of periwinkles under bristly white eyebrows, and Granny plump and cosy and short-sighted.
‘Yes, Giles was the curate at our church for five years before he asked me to marry him, but of course he was very shy in those days and he didn’t think my parents would approve.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my father was a businessman with a worldly view of life, and Giles thought he would wish me to marry someone with better prospects. He was quite right. My father was furious when Giles asked permission to propose to me. I was sent away to an aunt in Harrogate for several months, so that we should not meet. But eventually my mother persuaded Father to give his consent, and we were married on the fourth of March, 1918. Fifty-two years ago.’
‘Yes, but the world was quite different then,’ Jenny thought, as her grandmother sat staring out of the window, lost in happy reminiscence.
‘Everything has changed - even people’s ideas of love.’
On Sunday, James came to lunch. When he and Jenny were alone, after Mrs. Shannon had gone up for her rest, he said, ‘What were you doing coming home with Gilchrist the other evening? I thought you detested him.’