“Different people enjoy themselves in different ways.”
Celia nodded. The subject did not interest her much. “How do you like my dress, Johnson?” she inquired.
“It’s not bad,” he said. It was the height of praise, and Celia knew this and was suitably gratified.
“It’s cherry-colored,” said Celia, looking down at herself complacently. “I like cherry color; it makes me feel happy. I like nice new clothes.”
“See and not spoil it,” Johnson said.
Oddly enough, this warning was not really necessary, for Celia, although she was a bit of a tomboy and enjoyed romping and climbing trees, took good care of her clothes and scarcely ever tore them. Suddenly there was the sound of a car coming up the drive and Celia cocked her head and listened. She said, “That’ll be the Skenes.”
“I wouldn’t wonder,” agreed Johnson, adding a trifle regretfully, “You’d better get back.”
“Why?” asked Celia. “I mean, they won’t want me and I’m enjoying myself talking to you.”
“You’ll be wanted,” Johnson told her.
She strolled off, but instead of returning to the house she climbed into an old cedar that grew just outside the garden wall. There she sat like a large tropical bird, roosting in the branches. It was her favorite perch. The tree was so high that she could look over the tops of the smaller trees and see the terrace. They were all on the terrace; her long-sighted eyes picked them out quite easily: Mark, tall and lanky in his gray flannels, Tessa Skene in white. Another boy, taller than Mark, was sitting on the stone balustrade, smoking a cigarette and talking to Edith and Joyce—that was Oliver, of course. It was fun seeing them without being seen and Celia hugged herself with delight. What was the good of standing there talking! Why didn’t they play a game or explore? When Celia found herself in somebody else’s garden she wanted to run about and see things.
The Raeworths were arriving now, Angela and Andrew and Mildred. They came out of the house with Deb and shook hands all around. It looked so silly that Celia rocked with silent laughter.
“Hello!” exclaimed a voice just below her. “Hello, Monkey Face!”
It was Billy, of course. Billy disliked parties as much as Celia. He had managed to escape before the guests arrived.
“Come up!” called Celia. “It’s awfully funny. They look so silly shaking hands with each other.”
“They’d look sillier if they rubbed noses,” Billy declared as he climbed up beside her.
“They won’t find us here,” Celia said as she moved along the branch to let Billy past.
“He was smoking,” said Billy. “Oliver Skene was smoking.”
“I know. I can see him from here. He’s rather nice, isn’t he?”
“No, I don’t like him. Move up a bit farther.”
“He’s nicer than Tessa, anyway.”
“They’re both gumboils,” Billy said emphatically as he climbed onto a thick branch above Celia’s head and settled himself astride it in a comfortable position.
There was only two years difference in age between Billy and Celia, and the latter was so strong and wiry and bold that she made a good companion for a boy. They climbed walls and trees together; they dammed burns and sometimes went fishing. All these activities were quite legitimate, of course, but some of their activities were not. Celia was on for any kind of mischief Billy could devise—and Billy had a fertile brain.
While Celia and Billy were still sitting, perched in the branches of the tree, the party of children had moved from the terrace onto the lawn. They had decided to play hide-and-seek, but the details of the game still had to be settled.
“We’ll go in pairs,” said Tessa Skene, who always knew what she wanted. “We’ll toss for partners, shall we? Who’s got a coin?”
Oliver produced half a crown and began to toss, saying, “Heads I go with Edith, tails I go with Joyce…tails it is!”
“That’s not the way to do it!” cried Tessa.
Oliver took no notice of the objection. “Heads Andrew and Tessa, tails Andrew and Edith…heads this time,” said Oliver.
He continued to toss and to settle the fate of his companions; it was rather amusing and gave him a pleasant sense of power. Andrew and Tessa disliked each other, so he had arranged a pleasant afternoon for them. Edith could have little Mildred Raeworth as a partner; it would serve her right for being so high and mighty.
Mark and Debbie had been coupled by Oliver and were walking away together when Tessa ran after them. “Look here,” she said. “It’s better to divide up the family. I’ll go with Mark and Debbie can have Andrew as a partner. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” replied Mark.
Debbie said nothing, for she minded a good deal. It would have been lovely to have Mark as her partner.
“I’ll go with Andrew,” Edith said hastily. “Debbie can go with Mildred.”
“I don’t see what use there was in tossing,” Mildred Raeworth said crossly.
Oliver and Joyce went off together in the direction of the garden.
“It was heads really, wasn’t it?” Joyce asked with a slight chuckle.
“Was it?” Oliver asked in pretended dismay. “Was it really? I thought it was tails.”
“I don’t mind,” declared Joyce, smiling up at him.
He smiled back. Joyce was only a kid, but she was very pretty and most amusing, far more amusing than her stuck-up sister or the simpering Raeworth girl. That was why Oliver had chosen her, of course.
“Where are you going to take me?” he asked, for Joyce was leading him down a path in a purposeful manner.
“To the garden,” she replied. “There are plums on the south wall.”
“Lead on, Macduff,” Oliver said cheerfully.
Meanwhile, Mark and Tessa were making off in the opposite direction. He knew exactly where they would hide. He looked at her sideways as they walked along: dark shiny curls and a rose-leaf complexion and greeny sort of eyes. Her eyes were the color of green leaves with sunshine on them, thought Mark. She was smaller than Edith, for her head barely reached his shoulder, but somehow she seemed older than Edith, more poised and finished and controlled.
“Are you going to be here long?” Mark asked.
“Only a week,” she replied. “I’ve got to go back to school. Isn’t it sickening?”
Mark had to go back to school too, but a week was quite a long time. Perhaps she would come over again. He hoped she would.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Seventeen,” replied Mark.
“I’m sixteen,” said Tessa. “I wish I were older. My cousin is driving an ambulance in France. What do you like doing best?”
“Fishing, I think.”
“I like acting,” she declared. “We did a play at school. It was for the Red Cross. We did A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Mark had never taken part in school theatricals, but he knew and liked most of Shakespeare’s plays. “What part did you take?” he asked with interest.
“It was Helena,” she replied. “It was silly, wasn’t it? I should have been Hermia, of course.”
“Yes,” Mark agreed, looking at her. “Yes, you should have been Hermia.”
“I get so tired of girls,” continued Tessa. “Girls, girls, girls all day long. I expect you get tired of boys, don’t you?”
She chattered on and Mark answered as best he could. He was a little shy, for he was not used to girls—other than his sisters—and he was all the more shy because he wanted so much to make a good impression. They were in the woods now and the woods were quiet and full of shadow. The foliage of the trees was heavy; it hung drooping in the hot sun.
“Will you be here next holidays?” Mark asked. “Will you be here for Christmas? It’s always fun at Christmas, especially if there’s skating or tobo
gganing.”
“We might,” she replied doubtfully. “I don’t know. We generally go to our other grandmother for Christmas.”
Chapter Sixteen
Billy and Celia
The rain was coming down softly, filling the burns, washing the foliage of the trees, and sinking into the ground, where the roots of plants were waiting to suck it up. It was fine growing rain, Johnson decided, viewing it with pleasure. It would bring on the vegetables and revive the drooping flowers. Alice, also, was pleased to see the rain, for Dunnian depended upon a spring for its water supply and sometimes, in a long drought, the spring was insufficient for the needs of the big house. The children were not so pleased; rain was all very well in term time, but in the holidays it was a bore and they were aware that when it started to rain like this—slowly and gently and inexorably—it might go on for days without stopping. It was quiet in the nursery. Mark was working with his stamps; Debbie was curled up on the window seat, reading and listening to the distant voice of the Rydd Water—the Rydd was talking loudly today. Edith and Joyce had gotten out a box of scraps and were cutting them up on the nursery table, making new clothes for their dolls. They were still interested in dolls and enjoyed making new outfits for them. Billy seemed at a loose end. He wandered about disconsolately and then, after a hasty look around, he drifted out of the door. Celia followed him. She found him standing at the top of the stairs with his hands in his pockets. He smiled at her and said, “Shall we slide down the banisters or what?”
“Let’s explore,” Celia said eagerly. “Let’s explore the attic. We always meant to, didn’t we? This is just the sort of day.”
They went up the narrow little stair together and tried the attic door. It was locked, of course, but the door was warped, and by dint of a little manipulation on Billy’s part, they managed to open it.
“Gosh!” Billy exclaimed, looking around in surprise. “Gosh, what an enormous place!”
The attic stretched from end to end of Dunnian House beneath the large slate roof. It was low ceilinged and lit by small windows that peered out under the eaves. The whole of the floor space was filled with furniture that had been discarded by various generations of Dunnes over a long period of years, discarded in favor of newer and more modern furniture. Some of the stuff was broken and some of it was worthless, but other pieces were in good condition and would have rejoiced the heart of a connoisseur. There were chairs and cupboards and dressing tables, there were chests and boxes and trunks, there were rolls of carpet that exuded a pleasant smell of moth cake. There were two four-poster beds and any number of pictures framed in heavy gilt leaning against the walls. The place was not really very dirty, for Becky looked after it herself, coming up at intervals to clean and open the windows.
Celia began to push her way between the furniture, looking at it with interest. She found a spinning wheel and set it in motion. “Look, Billy!” she exclaimed. “Look, it’s like the picture in the Sleeping Beauty. It’s a spinning wheel.”
Billy had found a music box. He wound it up and it emitted a thin, sweet tinkling tune.
For a while the two children were intent and busy. They opened chests and peered in at old forgotten finery, at tiny shoes and fans and lace; they opened cupboards and found albums full of photographs of people they had never seen or heard of: ladies in crinolines and poke bonnets; gentlemen in striped trousers, with whiskers on their cheeks; children with smoothly brushed hair and frilly drawers that showed beneath their voluminous skirts.
“Aren’t they funny!” cried Celia, laughing delightedly.
“Look at this one, Billy. It’s a boy and he’s wearing petticoats!”
There were pictures of Dunnian too, but instead of the big trees that surrounded the house now, there were small, thin trees and shrubberies.
Presently this employment palled on Billy and he looked around for something else to do. “There’s a lot of wood, here,” he said. “It’s a waste, isn’t it? I could make a lovely boat out of it—a model boat to sail on the Rydd…”
“Make one for me too, and we can have races,” Celia said eagerly.
They had found tools in one of the chests and, although the tools were a little rusty, they were still serviceable. Billy made another tour of the attic (this time with a definite object in mind) and presently he found exactly what he wanted. There were half a dozen chairs piled up in a corner, chairs with thick wooden legs that would suit his purpose admirably.
“I suppose Mummy doesn’t want this chair,” Celia said with momentary anxiety as the saw bit into the wood.
“It wouldn’t be here if she wanted it,” Billy pointed out.
This was true, of course, and Celia abandoned care and took her part in the work of destruction with an easy mind. The first model boat was not very successful, but the second and third were better. Celia was now quite as keen as Billy. She sawed off the legs and helped to shape the hulls.
“We won’t bother about the details,” Billy declared. “But we must have masts and sails.”
“We can cut up a handkerchief for sails,” Celia said happily.
Although they were not actually conscious of wrongdoing, they kept their activities a secret, for grown-ups had such funny ideas about things. The boats, when not in use, were kept in Billy’s drawer beneath his underclothing and they were conveyed to and from the river hidden beneath coats and jerseys. Celia and Billy obtained a great deal of pleasure from the boats. Various adjustments were necessary, but when these were made the boats sailed none too badly on a pool below the waterfall. They were named after His Majesty’s battle cruisers: the Lion and the Tiger and the Princess Royal.
One day when Billy had been sent with Becky to Edinburgh to pay a visit to the dentist, Celia was sailing her boat by herself. It was an admirable day for sailing; the breeze was light and the Tiger responded to it gracefully. Suddenly Celia looked up and saw Edith standing on the other side of the pool, watching her.
“What are you doing, Baby?” asked Edith.
Celia hated being called Baby—nobody ever called her Baby except Edith—so she did not reply. She made a grab for the Tiger, but it eluded her and sped across the pool to the opposite bank where Edith was waiting for it.
“What an extraordinary-looking thing!” exclaimed Edith, picking it out of the water and examining it.
“It isn’t extraordinary,” declared Celia. “It’s my boat. It sails beautifully.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I made it, of course,” cried Celia, and she ran around the edge of the pool and seized it out of Edith’s hands.
Edith went away after that, and Celia continued her game, but somehow or other the fun had gone out of the game; somehow or other Celia was a little worried, a little anxious.
When she went up to the house for dinner, Nannie was waiting for her at the door with a curious expression on her face. “What have you been up to now?” Nannie wanted to know. “Where’s that boat? Give it to me, Celia; your mother wants to see it.”
“But, Nannie, it’s my boat—”
“Yes, I daresay. You come along and tell your mother about it.” Nannie took the boat and ushered Celia into the drawing room. “Here she is,” said Nannie. “And here’s the boat.”
“It’s mahogany!” said Alice, taking it and looking at it in amazement. “Celia, where did you get this piece of wood?”
“In the attic,” Celia replied shortly.
“What were you doing in the attic?”
“Looking about.”
“It looks to me as if it was a leg of a chair,” said Nannie.
“It was just an old chair,” Celia said hastily. “Nobody wanted it.”
“Did you cut the leg off a chair?” Alice asked in horror-stricken tones.
“It was just an old chair,” repeated Celia, but with much less assurance, for she was beginning to realize
that she and Billy had perpetrated a major crime.
“Oh dear!” said Alice, turning over the wood and looking at it more closely. “It’s the leg off one of those valuable mahogany chairs. How could you have done such a thing! You naughty little girl!”
“Just an old chair,” said Celia, swallowing hard. “Just a silly old chair nobody wanted—”
“It’s Daddy’s chair. It’s one of a set. We put them up in the attic because there wasn’t room for them, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want them. Oh dear, how naughty you are! Daddy will be very angry when he hears about it.”
“Did Billy help you?” Nannie asked with sudden suspicion.
“I sawed it off myself,” Celia replied in quavering tones. “I sawed it off with a saw…”
“You must never do such a thing again,” Alice said sternly. “It’s very naughty indeed; it’s destructive. You must go straight to bed and stay there for the rest of the day. Put her to bed, Nannie.”
Nannie hesitated. She said, “Celia, are you sure you did it yourself? I don’t see how you could have done it yourself—sawed it off and all.”
“I did,” declared Celia. “I sawed it off with a saw.”
Nannie led her away and put her to bed. She peeled off Celia’s clothes and folded them up and put them on a chair. No words were exchanged until Celia was arrayed in her nightgown and had climbed into bed.
“I’m glad you’re going away,” Celia said as she turned her face to the wall. “I hope that baby will cry all night…. I hope it will be sick…”
Nannie gave a muffled snort of laughter and hurried away.
Billy and Becky returned at teatime. Billy came up the stairs and along the passage whistling cheerfully; his visit to the dentist had been painless and he had bought a new knife. Celia heard him and called to him as he passed her door, for she was exceedingly anxious to have a word with him before he spoke to anyone else.
“Hello!” said Billy, looking into her room. “Hello, Monkey Face. Are you ill?”
“It’s the boats,” Celia replied in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ve found out about the boats and they’re awfully cross. Those chairs belong to Daddy and cost a lot of money.”
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