“She’s the cat’s aunt,” said Fay loudly and clearly—and then she laughed in her usual explosive way.
Lancreste was brought up short. He looked at the children as if he had not seen them before.
“That’s what Dorkie says,” explained Simon. “Dorkie says it’s rude to say ‘she.’ Dorkie says, ‘She’s the cat’s aunt.’ That’s what Fay means. Don’t you, Fay?”
“M’hm,” said Fay, nodding.
“Drink your milk, darling,” said Barbara, who had learned this useful phrase from the faithful Dorcas.
There was silence—complete silence except for the sound of Fay drinking. She drank long and deep. Presently she withdrew her face from her mug and said, “Did you hear me? I was drinking like a pig.”
“We don’t do that when we have visitors,” said Simon with conscious rectitude.
“I do,” said Fay.
There was another silence, much more protracted and profound.
“You aren’t used to nursery tea, are you, Lancreste?” said Barbara brightly.
“No,” said Lancreste.
“And he doesn’t like it,” added Simon, looking at him thoughtfully.
“He could go home,” suggested Fay in hopeful tones.
“But perhaps he doesn’t get raspberry jam at home,” objected Simon, eyeing the large spoonful of preserve Lancreste was in the act of conveying to his plate.
Barbara did not know what to say. She could tell the children to be quiet, of course, but that would only make it worse…besides it did not seem fair on the children. Why should they be squashed just because Lancreste was too silly to see the joke? The children did not mean to be rude; they were just talking to each other in a perfectly natural way. Barbara decided that the only thing to do was to make Lancreste do all the talking. This was not a difficult feat to perform. The difficulty was to stop him…he was so dreary, poor soul, but she would have to bear it.
“Is Miss Besserton quite well?” asked Barbara.
“Oh yes,” said Lancreste. “She’s very well indeed. We had a good time when she was here. There was a dance at the town hall. Of course it wasn’t like the dances she goes to in London but she enjoyed it. She likes dancing. There was a fellow there she danced with a lot—I’m not very good, you see. He was very good, so of course she liked dancing with him.”
“Can she dance the hornpipe?” asked Fay.
“Er—no,” said Lancreste, looking at Fay in astonishment.
“Simon can,” said Fay with a complacent air.
“I’ll show you after tea,” said Simon.
“How much longer leave have you got?” asked Barbara, passing the buns to Lancreste.
“That’s just it,” said Lancreste miserably. “I mean I don’t know. I’ve been passed fit but I haven’t got my orders. It’s so upsetting not to know how long you’ve got. I might hear any day and that’s one of the reasons why I want to see Pearl. I mean if I get my orders I shall have to go, and how can I go without having all this cleared up? I mean the mess. If I just knew what I had done to offend Pearl—”
“Why don’t you ask her?” inquired Barbara.
“Oh, I did,” replied Lancreste. “She just said I knew, and I was being stupid on purpose. It made it worse, really. I hope I shall get my orders tomorrow. I can’t stand it. There’s nothing to do except think about her all the time. If only I could get my orders. Why haven’t they sent me my orders? D’you think the War Office has forgotten all about me, Mrs. Abbott?”
Barbara had no idea whether or not this was possible and was about to make a noncommittal reply, but Simon got in before her.
“Perhaps they don’t need you,” he suggested.
“Perhaps they think they can win the war without you,” added Fay.
The wretched Lancreste looked at Simon and then at Fay—and, being met by the stare of two pairs of large innocent eyes, he looked away again.
“Oh no, it can’t be that,” said Barbara hastily—far too hastily, for of course she had merely made it worse. She was really at her wits’ end by now and entertained wild thoughts of putting the children to bed, and getting rid of them. But I couldn’t make them go to bed, thought Barbara, looking at her offspring in despair. They haven’t been naughty—and they wouldn’t understand—and Simon argues so! (Simon argued—as Barbara knew to her cost—but Fay was really the more devastating of the two. Her voice was so clear, her enunciation so concise, her remarks so very much to the point.)
“I shouldn’t worry, Lancreste,” said Barbara, trying to find something that would put things right and soothe Lancreste’s injured feelings. “I expect the War Office is looking for a suitable job for you.”
“Perhaps they will give you four tanks, like Sam,” said Fay, imitating her mother’s comforting tones with ludicrous effect.
“I’m an observer,” said Lancreste rather crossly.
“He flies in an airplane,” Barbara explained.
“Like this!” cried Simon, seizing his mug and making wide swooping movements with it through the air.
“And he drops bombs on the Germans like this!” cried Fay, taking her bun and dropping it onto her plate with a thud.
“Simon! Fay!” cried Barbara. “That’s naughty. You must behave properly. I don’t know what Lancreste will think of you.”
“He doesn’t like us already,” said Simon, stating the fact without rancor.
“And we don’t like him,” added Fay.
***
Barbara felt a little depressed that evening; she had had a difficult time getting the children to bed. Having been baulked of their fun at the proper time they seemed determined to get their money’s worth before settling down to sleep. They had both been naughty—really naughty—but Simon had been very naughty indeed and Barbara had discovered to her dismay that she had practically no control over him. She had tucked him into bed twice, and each time he had leapt up again the moment her back was turned, and, pursuing her down the nursery passage, had “booed” at her in the dark and startled her considerably. The first time, Barbara had taken it as a joke—though not a very good joke—but the second time she had been really angry. She was tired and hot and disheveled and she could not manage Simon.
“It isn’t kind,” said Barbara, as she tucked Simon into bed for the third time. “It isn’t any fun at all to frighten people.”
“I like it,” said Simon frankly.
“You wouldn’t like someone to frighten you.”
“No, but that’s different,” said Simon.
“It isn’t, really,” said Barbara. “We ought to do to others what we should like them to do to us. That’s the golden rule, Simon.”
“You don’t,” said Simon.
Barbara was a little taken aback at this counterattack.
“I try to, Simon—” she began.
“But, Mummy,” said Simon, raising himself on his elbow and looking at her with wide eyes. “But Mummy, you wouldn’t like to go to bed now, would you?”
“Yes, I should,” replied Barbara with conviction. “It’s exactly what I should like to do. I’m very tired indeed.”
“I’m not tired at all,” declared Simon. “I’d like to get up and dance about and come down to supper with you and Daddy.”
“You know quite well—”
“Yes, but why?” asked Simon. “Why must children go to bed when they aren’t tired?”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” said Barbara, who was far too exhausted to enter into an argument with her son. “Shut your eyes and go to sleep like a good boy.”
“I can’t go to sleep like a good boy.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m naughty—you said I was naughty.”
“You’re good now,” said Barbara firmly and she turned out the light. There was a chuckle in the darkness from the
direction of Simon’s bed. “I don’t think I’m very good yet,” said an impish voice.
Barbara pretended not to hear. She was aware that if Simon lay still in the dark for two minutes he would be fast asleep and she would have no further trouble with him. She waited outside the door and listened but there was absolute silence—Simon had dropped off to sleep before he had time to plan further wickedness.
It was very worrying, of course, for Simon was getting out of hand. Barbara could not manage him at all and Dorcas was only a very little better at the job. Arthur could manage him, but Arthur was away all day and when he returned from his office in the evening Barbara liked him to enjoy the children—not to have to play the part of policeman. Something will have to be done, thought Barbara, as she tidied herself and washed her hands for supper. I shall have to talk to Dorcas. We shall have to be very strict with Simon…
Worrying about Simon made Barbara feel depressed so it was natural that her thoughts should turn to Jerry, for the cheering-up process worked both ways—there was nothing one-sided about it.
But I shan’t say a word about Simon, thought Barbara as she picked up the telephone receiver.
The two Mrs. Abbotts chatted of one thing and another and agreed that they had not seen each other for ages—not since Monday morning.
“Far too long,” said Barbara. “You had better come over to tea.”
“It’s your turn to come to Ganthorne,” said Jerry’s voice eagerly. “Come tomorrow and bring the children. I promised to have them one day.”
“I don’t think so,” said Barbara doubtfully. “I’ve had the children all day long. Dorcas went over to Camberley, and—”
“Come yourself, then,” said Jerry’s voice. “That will be lovely. I’ll ask Melanie Melton to come too. I told you about Melanie, didn’t I?”
“You said she was charming.”
“She’s a perfect dear, very young and pretty. You’ll love her, Barbara.”
“Would you mind if I brought Lancreste?” Barbara inquired.
“Lancreste!” exclaimed Jerry’s voice in amazement.
“Lancreste Marvell. He’s in the Air Force, you know. It’s very dull for him at home. I’ve been trying to—to cheer him up a little.”
“Why?” asked Jerry’s voice. “I mean why…”
“Perhaps you’d rather not have him…”
“Of course you can bring him if you want to,” said Jerry’s voice unenthusiastically.
Chapter Twenty
Jerry’s Tea Party
It was now Jerry’s turn to experience the growing powers of a tea party. She saw it as a snowball rolling down a hill, gathering size with every yard, and she said as much to Markie at the breakfast table next morning.
“Hardly a snowball, dear,” said Markie in doubtful tones. “I think one might find a better metaphor.”
“Well, anyhow, it’s a nuisance,” declared Jerry. “I meant to have Barbara. I wanted to talk to Barbara and now we shan’t be able to talk properly. I meant to have Barbara and then I thought of Melanie, and then Barbara suggested Lancreste—goodness knows why—and now Bobby wants to come. It is like a snowball, Markie.”
“Archie will be here, too,” said Markie. “You remember he said he would finish the trees today.”
“Eight!” exclaimed Jerry in dismay.
“Never mind,” said Markie. “I’ll bake some scones. I think we had better have tea in the dining room, and if any of the other officers happens to be there he can have a cup of tea with us. It is a pity that I used all the sugar we had saved to make damson jam—I cannot make a cake, I am afraid.”
“Oh, isn’t that lucky!” Jerry exclaimed. “There was a recipe for a sugarless cake on the Kitchen Front this morning and I scribbled it down just in case.” She produced a torn envelope covered with hieroglyphics and presented it to Markie with pride.
“Yes dear, how nice!” said Markie, assuming her reading spectacles. “Let me see now…where are we? ‘Turn the mixture into a greased tin—’”
“No, Markie, it begins on the other side. It begins there,” said Jerry, leaning over Markie’s shoulder and pointing with her finger. “You see, Markie—four ounces of scraped carrots, three ounces of margarine—and it goes on here and it ends on the other side of the envelope in the corner. I’m afraid it isn’t terribly clear.”
“I shall manage,” said Markie, turning the paper this way and that, and peering at it anxiously. “I think I can follow it…”
“They go so fast,” said Jerry apologetically.
“I know, dear. You’ve done splendidly. What’s this word, I wonder.”
“Rice, perhaps,” suggested Jerry, in doubtful tones.
“I scarcely think so.”
“Beans, then—it’s quite a short word, isn’t it?”
“Not beans,” said Markie firmly. “Beans are exceedingly useful but I feel they would be out of place in a cake.”
“Could it be bread?” asked Jerry. “Yes, I believe it’s bread crumbs. The crumbs are on the other side because there wasn’t any room for them there. Bread crumbs, Markie, that’s what it is,” said Jerry triumphantly and she gathered up her letters and swung out of the room whistling in a cheerful manner.
The tea party was a great success. It was held in the dining room and, as the latest joined subaltern happened to drop in at the right moment, nine people sat down to the table. Markie’s scones were excellent, of course—they always were—and the cake looked very nice indeed, though unfortunately it did not taste as nice as it looked.
“It is a trifle wersh,” declared Markie, anxiously. “I was afraid it might be.”
“It’s my fault, of course,” said Jerry hastily. “You see I heard the recipe on the wireless and I probably left something out—nobody need eat it, of course.”
“I think it’s excellent,” declared Bobby Appleyard, helping himself to another slice.
He really is in love with Jerry, thought Barbara in alarm.
Lancreste did not shine at the tea party. He was awkward and distrait but Barbara saw him looking at Miss Melton and her hopes rose high. Barbara was a believer in “the expulsive power of a new affection” and she had brought Lancreste here today with the idea that the charms of Miss Melton might help to cure Lancreste of his complaint. If anything could cure Lancreste Miss Melton should, thought Barbara. Miss Melton was all and more than she had been led to expect. Nobody who took the trouble to look at Miss Melton could find any pleasure in Miss Besserton—so Barbara decided.
“Have you caught your suspicious character?” asked Archie suddenly. His words fell in the middle of a silence and everybody looked around.
“You heard about that, did you!” said Bobby.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Oh, there’s nothing hush-hush about it.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jerry. “If there’s nothing hush-hush I suppose we may know the mystery.”
“Of course, but it isn’t anything much,” replied Bobby. “Several people have seen a strange man hanging about the place and we’ve been warned by the police to look out for him.”
“A spy!” exclaimed Jerry, opening her eyes very wide.
“Might be,” agreed Bobby.
“What harm could he do here?” Barbara inquired.
“Well, there’s us,” said Bobby smiling. “I mean a camp is just the sort of target the Bosche likes.”
“I suppose the fellow might signal to bombers with lights,” suggested Archie.
“That’s the idea,” agreed Bobbie. “It has been done in other places, you know. There was a camp in Essex; they had camouflaged it pretty neatly, but the Bosche came over and dropped some bombs in the very middle of it. Afterwards they found the fellow who had given it away. He had a wireless outfit and signaling lights…but I shouldn�
��t worry,” added Bobby, who had suddenly become aware that he was spreading alarm and despondency and was anxious to make amends. “Our fellow is probably just a tramp. They get these scares every now and then; they get the wind up and warn everybody.”
“The girls shouldn’t go out by themselves,” said Archie, anxiously.
“No, perhaps not.”
“You don’t really mean that, do you?” asked Melanie.
“Just for a day or two,” said Bobby. “Just until we’ve caught the fellow.”
“It would be all right if you had someone with you,” added Archie.
Melanie said no more but she looked somewhat downcast, for she enjoyed walking on the moor by herself.
As tea went on the conversation became more animated, there were only three people who made no contribution to the noise. Jane Watt never talked much, but she was a good listener, she looked happy and interested. Lancreste was completely silent and looked miserable. Markie was the third. She was debarred from taking part in the conversation because she could not hear what was being said—all that Markie heard was a confused noise punctuated with bursts of laughter. She could not hear, but she could see and she used her eyes to good effect, she watched her companions and was happy to see that they were enjoying themselves. Jerry had been rather silent for a bit (Markie noticed) but now she suddenly came out of her shell and began to talk hard…and the others were all listening and smiling so she must be telling them something funny, or at least telling them something in a funny way. The new subaltern was playing up to Jerry. He was leaning forward in his chair and talking back at her, and his eyes, which were extremely blue, were sparkling with mischief—he really was a very nice boy, Markie thought. But Bobby would not like it…no, Bobby was not liking it at all. Poor Bobby, what a pity it was! Could one say anything to Bobby? Would it be any use?
The Two Mrs. Abbotts Page 16