Family Gathering

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “There is something wrong, and I did ask her but she didn’t tell me,” said Natalie. “Ever since she went back—and she was happy when she went back, because she looked so happy and so well and so gay—but since she went back she’s been quite different. She won’t say anything but just what you see there—just ‘I did this today and I did that yesterday’. No real news about herself or about Maurice—not a word about her plans—”

  “Listen, Natalie,” said Jeremy. “We’re not discussing Lucille now. This is Helen. If you think she’s not in love with that fellow, you needn’t worry, because if Helen wants to chuck him, she’ll chuck him with the greatest ease in the world. She doesn’t fear rows, as you and Lucille do; she isn’t at a loss for words—hard words, at that. She can talk any man flat on his back any time she likes. She can get rid of this incubus, if he is an incubus, without any help from anybody.”

  “How do you know?” asked Natalie. “She’s all alone, and men aren’t so easy to—to shake off.”

  “There’s only one thing,” said Jeremy, “that’ll stop Helen from shaking him off, and that’s her pride. She believes that all you have to do in life is to think it all out and organize it. She planned every detail of her engagement—you told me she did. She knew the exact moment at which she was going to stop the poor fool’s drivelling and say she’d marry him. She worked out when she’d fall in love, how much she’d fall in love, and when she’d tell him. She was prepared to tell him the day of the wedding, where it would be and who was to be his best man. She’d probably have fixed the number of kids they were going to have and whether they’d have boys or girls—and if Helen said they’d be boys, then they’d have to be boys for sure. She fixed it all, and she could unfix it with the same ease. Only—if she does call it off, she knows that she puts herself into the Lucille class—unsure, unsteady, just a goopy girl after all. Just another woman who can mistake the symptoms. Just another muddle-headed, mixed-up maiden. And that hurts Helen, who has been on top of herself— and on top of everybody else—for far, far too long.”

  “But—but we’ve got to do something,” protested Natalie.

  “Nothing but wait,” said Jeremy. “We’ve got to wait and see how she works it out. If she proves to herself that organizing is all she thought it was, she’ll marry the fellow, run the whole show and be quite happy. If she can bring herself to admit that she can be just as big a fool as everybody else, she’ll call it off and—well, she’ll call it off. And then she’ll be happy, too.”

  “How do you know?” asked Natalie.

  “I know,” said Jeremy, “because I love her.”

  Natalie stared at him for a long time, quite unable to speak. Jeremy waited for her to recover herself. At last she managed a few words.

  “You—you said you love her?”

  “Yes,” said Jeremy.

  “How long—”

  “Oh, how can one say?” said Jeremy. “When I first saw her, I think, looking so silly and so beautiful—I had no idea she’d be as lovely as that.”

  “But—but,” faltered Natalie, “did you—did you tell her?”

  “Yes and no,” said Jeremy. “If you mean does she know I love her, then the answer is yes—she knows.”

  “But,” said the bewildered Natalie, “if you love her, and if you’d told her to—to break off her engagement—”

  “She knows,” said Jeremy, “that I love her. If she wants to marry me, she knows what to do.”

  “But—but girls can’t marry people unless people ask them to,” pointed out Natalie.

  “That’s true,” said Jeremy. “But men can’t ask girls to marry them—or they shouldn’t, anyhow, when the girls are engaged to somebody else.”

  “Then you mean,” said Natalie slowly, “that you’re not going to do anything?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Jeremy.

  “Oh, but Jeremy—” Natalie put out a hand and Jeremy, taking it in his, spoke gently but firmly.

  “Look, Natalie,” he said, “you must leave this to me. I know what you want me to do—you’d like me to go up there and bring Helen home here to marry me. Well, that’s what I’d like to do, too, God knows. But if I do that,” he went on slowly, “then as long as I live I shall be a bossed man. And I can’t—I cannot and I will not—live with a wife who wants to boss me. Helen,” he ended, “has got to do her own climbing down.”

  There was nothing more to say. Jeremy’s tone was so final that Natalie knew he had spoken after long and bitter thinking. The minutes went by and both sat deep in thought. Jeremy was grateful to his stepmother for her silence.

  When he rose to go, she stopped him for a moment.

  “Jeremy,” she said, “I don’t know why I do, but I do think you’re right. Helen isn’t really as—as hard as you try to make her out, but I think it’s a matter for you and for her. But please—will you do something?”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Jeremy.

  “Your father,” said Natalie, “will be here tomorrow. Couldn’t you—please—go up to London—”

  “No,” said Jeremy.

  “Please wait a minute,” said Natalie. “Could you go up to meet your father—it wouldn’t really be that, but Helen would think it was—and just call on her for—for just a short while? All I’m asking you to do is see her and tell me that she’s all right—that she’s looking well, that this is only a mental struggle and that it isn’t having any bad effect on her health—I’d be so grateful to you. I’d go myself, but your father wants to come straight here—this house means a lot to us both. Only I can’t be happy in it with Helen on my mind. I promise,” she said earnestly, “that I’m not asking you to do more than give one look at her—to tell me that she’s well. Then I shall just leave all the rest and just—just pray.”

  Jeremy looked at her. It was a plan he had once or twice thought of himself. To go to London to give his father a preliminary greeting was a natural and sensible object.

  “Even if you don’t want to,” urged Natalie, “will you please do it, Jeremy, for me?”

  Jeremy spoke slowly.

  “I’ll look in for ten minutes,” he said, “and I’ll telephone you and tell you how she’s looking. Will that be all right?”

  “Thank you,” said Natalie. “I’m—I’m very grateful.”

  Jeremy made his way into the entrance hall of the block of flats and ran his eyes down the list of residents, stopping at Miss Forrester, No. 18. He stepped into the lift and the small, thin attendant began the ascent and looked at him inquiringly.

  “Number eighteen,” said Jeremy.

  The boy brought the lift to a stop, reversed and came down again. He opened the gate and ushered his passenger out politely.

  “Number eighteen’s out,” he said. “Miss Forrester you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s not in yet,” said the boy. “You’ll have to wait in the hall—she’ll be back in about ’alf an hour. Just after five it is, she comes in ’srule,” he added.

  Jeremy hesitated. He did not intend to sit on the uncomfortable-looking hall chair for half an hour. The boy watched him.

  “I’ll come back,” said Jeremy, at last. He turned to go and, pausing, faced the boy once more. “Oh—by the way,” he said, “is your name Skippy?”

  “No, it isn’t—and it isn’t Slippy either,” said the attendant, “but that’s what they all call me.”

  “Well, I was asked to give you a message,” said Jeremy. “From Mrs. Rome—Miss Forrester’s mother. She said she hoped you were getting on all right.”

  Slippy’s face was irradiated by a glow of gratitude.

  “She sent me a message—Mrs. Rome did?” he asked in delight. “Coo! I knew she wouldn’t forget us after she’d gorn—she wasn’t one o’ those.” He looked at Jeremy keenly. “Then you—you must be a sort o’ relation,” he said.

  “Well, my name’s Rome, too,” said Jeremy. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “Hey—wait a min
ute,” called Slippy, hurrying after the retreating form. “Look—you should ’a said you was a relation—I thought you was just one o’ them fellows after Miss Forrester. I used to line ’em up in the hall and make ’em take their turn.”

  “Really?” said Jeremy.

  “Yeah,” said Slippy. “But you’re different—come and I’ll take you up and you can wait in the flat—she won’t be long.”

  “Well—thanks,” said Jeremy, stepping into the lift once more.

  “They don’t come round now, most of them,” went on Slippy confidentially. “Not since Miss Forrester got engaged to Mr. ’Unter.—Did you ever know ’im?” he asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Jeremy.

  “Well, no, you wouldn’t,” said Slippy. “You live down there in the country, don’t you? This way,” he said, going to number eighteen and inserting a key in the door. “In here—now if you’ll sit in there, Miss Forrester won’t be long.”

  “Thanks,” said Jeremy. His hand strayed to his pocket, but Slippy seemed in no hurry to return to work. Jeremy waited a moment and then glanced at the open gate of the lift. “You must be very busy,” he hinted.

  “They can wait,” said Slippy. “You get tired sometimes, bringing ’em up and taking ’em down. It’s funny,” he went on. “I oughter ’a known who you were when you first came in—I was sorter expecting someone to turn up. I thought Mrs. Rome might come, though.”

  “No, she’s busy,” said Jeremy. “Now if you’ll—”

  “I could ’a told you all,” said Slippy. “I saw it coming. When I brought ’em up in the lift the first night after she come back, I took a look at ’er and I says to myself ‘Slippy,’ I ses, ‘that girl’s going to give that poor fellow his—’ ”

  “I think it’s awfully dangerous,” said Jeremy, “to leave the lift open like that. It—”

  “ ‘—his conjee,’ ” went on Slippy. “And I was right, but I was a bit out in my reckonings about the time it’d happen. She had more trouble than she looked for—he used to stand out ’ere and argue, poor chap, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  He stopped. Jeremy was staring at him with an expression on his face which Slippy interpreted as reproach.

  “A guy can’t ’elp it,” he said, half apologetically. “ ’Course, it’s difficult to hear what’s going on once they’ve gorn in and shut the door, but I knew the other night that the ’ole thing had done a bust. And the next day, she wasn’t wearing her ring. Some keeps ’em and some gives ’em back. Shouldn’t think Mrs. Rome’d like her daughter to keep a fellow’s ring after she’d chucked ’im, though.”

  Jeremy was still staring, and Slippy began to feel that his attention was elsewhere. He looked disappointed and turned towards the lift.

  “She won’t be long,” he said. “She—”

  “Look, Slippy,” said Jeremy. “I know that two quid doesn’t buy more than half a dozen cigarettes these days, but—”

  “That’s all right,” said Slippy, pocketing the notes. “I don’t smoke. Thanks, chum.”

  “Don’t,” said Jeremy, “let her know I’m here, will you?”

  It was Slippy’s turn to stare. He gazed at Jeremy with amazement in his small, pale blue eyes.

  “Coo!” he ejaculated. “You, too?”

  “The lift,” said Jeremy, and Slippy went slowly and unwillingly away.

  Jeremy stood in the hall for a long time without moving. Then, with an impatient and restless movement of his shoulders, he walked into the flat and closed the door behind him.

  He stood in the middle of the small drawing-room and looked about him. He felt over-sized, clumsy and stifled, and, walking to a window, he opened it wide and stood trying to cool himself and collect his thoughts.

  She wore no ring. There had been arguments, it had been difficult and now…some kept them, and some gave them back. When? he wondered. Slippy had not been specific. The other night…and the next day, she wore no ring.

  In spite of his efforts to think calmly, Jeremy found himself growing more and more confused. He put all thought aside and concentrated on the pattern of windows to be seen from where he stood. Big, modern windows, small ones, ones that opened up and down, those that pushed outwards…

  But even breaking with Hunter didn’t mean that she—

  A disturbance behind him made him turn. The draught from the window had blown open the bedroom door, and the door, in opening, had knocked over a small bedroom chair. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeremy walked into the room and, stooping, picked up the chair and placed it in position. He moved into the drawing-room once more but, on the threshold, came to a dead stop as the realization of what he had just seen reached him. It was probably, he told himself, something he had dreamt—something—

  He turned swiftly and re-entered the bedroom. One hand gripping the wooden rail of the bed, he stared about him at the articles lying neatly placed about the room.

  On the floor was a suit-case, open and half packed. Beside it lay a pair of shoes—Jeremy walked over and picked them up, holding them gently in his hands, turning them over and over, and looking at the name stamped inside them. Leather. Small, brown, neat... Stormers. Laid on the bed was a coat—impossible to describe as anything but a sensible country type of coat. A coat and skirt hung nearby and beside the suit-case was a mackintosh of the type that would, without doubt, keep out real rain.

  Jeremy went outside quietly and closed the door. He walked across to the telephone and, picking up the receiver, put a call through to his stepmother.

  Requested to hold the line, he held it and waited patiently. Soon there came the regular double buzz of Natalie’s telephone, and at the same moment Jeremy heard the sound of a key being inserted in the door of the flat.

  His back was to the door and he stood without moving. He heard his stepmother’s voice and spoke into the receiver.

  “Is that you, Natalie? This is Jeremy.”

  “Where are you?” asked Natalie.

  “I’m in the flat,” said Jeremy. “Yes, Helen’s here. She’s just come in.”

  “How does she look?” asked Natalie.

  “She looks,” said Jeremy, without turning, “wonderful. She looks very happy—and beautiful—and she says she loves me.”

  “Oh, Jeremy!” said Natalie.

  “I’m bringing her home,” said Jeremy. “We’ll get married and come down to the farm, and it’ll quite eclipse William’s homecoming.”

  “Oh, Jeremy!” began Natalie once more.

  Jeremy put his free hand behind him and, groping, found a coat sleeve. From this he got a grip on a slender arm and pulled Helen round gently to his side. He looked at her for a few moments and then addressed her mother once more.

  “You sound awfully far away,” he said. “And sort of shaky. Mrs. Rome, are you crying again?”

  “O—only a little,” said Natalie.

  “I see. Well, d’you know what?” said Jeremy.

  “No. W-what?” asked his stepmother.

  “Helen’s crying too,” said Jeremy, and put down the receiver.

  THE END

  The Lark Shall Sing

  There was no money, the family was scattered, and Lucille, who had mothered them all since she was sixteen, was going to be married. So the house must be sold; Lucille knew that was the only sensible things to do, but the family had other ideas.

  Home they came by whatever way they could, penniless and bedraggled but with certain new-found friends who were to help them to upset Lucille’s plans—all her plans for a calm, settled and sensible life.

  Behind him, Julia came on. She was riding, by now, in a dream—but not of the delightful kind that whiled away the minutes and the miles for Pietro. She had fallen off twice, and her clothes were torn and dishevelled. Her hat was gone, her elbows were showing through her sleeves, her face was tear-stained and mud-streaked and there was a buzzing in her ears. She had very little idea where she was—but this was the road and she had to keep on it. Somewhere along
it was home. She would come to it in time...perhaps.

  She saw a figure ahead, and then it became two figures, both dim, both hazy. She tightened her grip on the handlebars, but she was on a bicycle that had proved, more than once, to have ideas of its own. She steered for a point midway between the two figures, and plunged on.

  The next moment, something hit Pietro straight between the shoulders and sent him flying. His suitcase went one way, his hat another; Pietro himself went straight into the ditch, and on top of him came a large bicycle.

  “Mother of God,” he said in his own language. “Am I a cow that I should be—”

  He stopped. Wet, filthy, dripping clods of mud, he stared over the side of the ditch into a pair of frightened, streaming eyes.

  “Oh!” cried Julia, “Oh, are you...are you hurt?”

  Pietro said nothing, for suddenly his heart was too full for speech. He could only gaze at her, this thin little girl with the red stringy hair and the dirty face and the torn clothes—-this little girl on this huge bicycle which had plunged him into the ditch—this exhausted-looking, this dreary little miss, who—herself scratched, bleeding—could yet look at him and, forgetting herself and her troubles, cry out in concern for him, Pietro Faccini—could ask if he was hurt.

  He scrambled out and held out a muddy hand to help her up.

  “Me? Hurt? How can a toss into a ditch hurt me, a so-big fellow?” he asked in magnificent astonishment. “All that is for me is a little mud, yes? And I say to myself, how lucky for me that I had my bad clothes—that will not be spoilt. A hot sun to dry them, and then a brush—see, I have a whole box full of brushes.”

  There was not quite a boxful; the suitcase had burst open, and a good proportion of Pietro’s stock-in-trade lay in the ditch.

  “Oh,” said Julia, “you were selling brushes and they’re...I’ve spoiled them!”

  “You? No, no, no!” protested Pietro. “And nothing is spoiled—nothing. Now let me look and see if you have hurt your arm.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Julia, surveying a number of scratches and bruises. “That was the last time I fell off.”