Celia's House

by D. E. Stevenson

  Suddenly there was a scratching noise on the door and Celia looked in. “You aren’t asleep, are you?” she asked in a low voice.

  “No, of course not—”

  “Hush,” she said, coming in and closing the door softly. “We’ll have to be very quiet. Douglas is using the room next door as a dressing room. He would think it awful—”

  “He’s an old woman, isn’t he?” asked Billy, chuckling. “Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink…but I notice he eats plenty. Here, wrap yourself up in the eiderdown. I want to talk to you.”

  She took the eiderdown and wrapped it around her and curled herself up on the end of his bed. To Billy she looked exactly the same as she had looked as a small child. Her eyes were as bright, her dark hair as shiny and curly. Celia had come into his room often, when Becky believed her to be sound asleep in bed, and had sat for hours talking to him just as she was doing now. But, whereas in the old days Billy had accepted her merely as his very best friend, without regard for her appearance, he now perceived that she was extremely good-looking and attractive. He had always called her Monkey Face, for there was something in her bright glance that had reminded him of a small monkey. There was still the same eager, slightly mischievous look…

  “What do you think of them?” Celia asked.

  Billy told her his opinion of the family without fear or favor and Celia nodded and agreed with all he said.

  “It’s a pity people can’t get what they want,” Celia said thoughtfully. “Deb wants a baby awfully badly…it’s hard, isn’t it? Edith wants a son.”

  “They want an heir for Sharme, I suppose,” said Billy. “If she goes on trying long enough she’ll probably get one.”

  “You needn’t be horrid about it.”

  “I didn’t mean to be,” returned Billy. “It’s only that Edith always used to get all she wanted so easily. So I can’t feel very sympathetic somehow.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” agreed Celia. “Things work out in a queer way, but I’m awfully sorry for Edith. I think she has paid enough.” Celia hesitated and then added, “Mrs. Rewden is so nasty to her—she’s a foul old witch.”

  “Celia!” Billy exclaimed, pretending to be shocked.

  “Well, she is,” declared Celia, smiling. “I wish Edith could have a son—just to be even with her. It seems hard that Joyce should have two—and a much nicer husband into the bargain.”

  Billy asked about the Skenes and learned the reason for the slight embarrassment that had been caused by the mention of their name. Oliver was the culprit, of course. He had blotted his copy book by running away with a married woman. Her husband had divorced her so that she and Oliver could be married and they were coming to live at Ryddelton House shortly. Now that old Lady Skene was dead the place belonged to Oliver and required his care.

  “The county is in a buzz,” said Celia, chuckling. “It can’t make up its dear little mind whether to call or not. I shall call. I always liked Oliver.”

  “I didn’t,” said Billy. “He was always chipping me in that supercilious way of his.”

  “He was very keen on Deb at one time. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, of course, but there was such a kerfuffle that nobody except a born idiot could have failed to know. Tessa has made what is usually called ‘a good marriage’—she would, of course.”

  “I thought she had her claws into Mark,” said Billy, stifling a yawn.

  “What about you?” asked Celia. “All this talk about marriage…but I notice you don’t say much.”

  “Neither do you,” replied Billy, grinning.

  “I haven’t seen anyone I like better than you,” Celia said gravely.

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Celia nodded.

  “Same here really,” declared Billy. “Of course I’ve been in love once or twice, but it wasn’t devastating. Sometimes I think it would be nice to marry someone and have a home to go back to—if you know what I mean.”

  “Your home is here, Billy.”

  “Yes, as long as Dad is here—”

  “Always,” declared Celia. “Dunnian is mine after—after Dad. I suppose you thought it would go to Mark.”

  Billy was very much surprised and interested—so much so that he felt no more inclination to yawn—and he questioned Celia eagerly until he had heard about Aunt Celia’s will and everything connected with it.

  “So you see,” Celia said at last. “You see Dunnian will always be your home—whether you’re married or not—whether I’m married or not. Dunnian will be your home as long as I’m alive.”

  She unwrapped the eiderdown and prepared to take her departure. “Good night, old thing,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

  “Good night, Monkey Face,” Billy said affectionately.

  Part Five

  War Measures in the House

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  June 1942

  Celia rolled over in bed, stretched out her hand, and turned on the radio. She was just in time to hear Big Ben—and this was lucky because she liked to start the day with Big Ben. Whether the news was good or bad Big Ben was always the same. His voice was strong and sure and comforting, ringing out over London and, through the agency of the BBC, over most of the civilized world. Celia liked to think of all the other people who were listening to him: soldiers and sailors and women like herself with a prayer for their loved ones in their hearts. Celia thought of her brothers. They were both at sea—Mark had given up his practice at the very beginning of the war and had obtained a post as surgeon-commander in one of the big ships. Billy was in a cruiser in the Mediterranean. She prayed for them night and morning, using the beautiful words in the Book of Common Prayer, for these words seemed to express her hopes and feelings perfectly. In fact, the prayer seemed to have been made for Celia, it fit her so well.

  “Oh, Almighty God, whose way is in the sea and whose paths are in the great waters. Be present, we beseech thee, with our brethren in the manifold dangers of the deep. Protect them from all its perils. Prosper them in their course, and in safety bring them, with a grateful sense of thy mercies, to the haven where they would be…”

  Celia listened to the news as she dressed, then she slipped into her overall and ran downstairs to see about breakfast. There were changed days at Dunnian now, for, instead of seven experienced servants, there were two little girls of fifteen and sixteen—and they only came in by the day, for they were afraid of sleeping in the big house, which felt so empty and quiet. Deb had come back to Dunnian when Mark went to sea, and she and Celia and Humphrey kept house together.

  Celia’s first job was to light the boiler fire to warm up the water for her father’s bath. When she had begun this job it had caused her endless trouble, but she had the hang of it now. The fire was going strong when Deb appeared on the scene.

  “You wretch!” exclaimed Deb. “Why didn’t you waken me?”

  “I hate waking people,” replied Celia. “It always seems such a frightfully cruel thing to do…besides I can manage the fire beautifully now.”

  Deb began to bustle about the kitchen. She took the porridge pot out of the hay box and put it on the electric stove. “Where are the flowers?” she asked. This was the generic name Deb and Celia had bestowed upon the two girls who came in to help them.

  “They haven’t come yet,” replied Celia. “At least I haven’t seen them—they get later and later every day.”

  “Jasmine isn’t bad,” Deb said as she took a wooden spoon from the drawer and began to stir the porridge.

  “Lily is awful,” Celia said with a sigh. “Lily doesn’t like scrubbing or peeling potatoes…she doesn’t like doing things she doesn’t like, if you know what I mean…”

  “Badly brought up!”

  “Queerly brought up,” Celia amended in a thoughtful tone. “She can’t go through life doing only the things she likes
, can she?”

  “She’ll be luckier than most people if she can!”

  “Have you wakened Dad?”

  “He doesn’t need wakening,” said Humphrey, stalking into the kitchen attired in a large brown woolen dressing gown with a red cord around his waist.

  “Hello, admiral dear. How are you this morning?” asked Celia, standing on tiptoe to kiss her father’s cheek.

  “All the better for seeing you,” replied Humphrey, smiling.

  Deb’s greeting was more conventional but no less cordial. They were all three the best of friends.

  “Your tea’s just ready,” said Celia. “Your shaving water is in that jug. Perhaps you would take it up with you when you go.”

  “I’ve decided to stop having tea in the morning.”

  “Why?” cried the two girls in chorus.

  “Because I don’t need it.” Humphrey took his shaving water and went away.

  “Celia, he must have his tea,” said Deb.

  “Yes, if we can make him,” agreed Celia. She added, “You know the reason, don’t you? It’s because he’s a ‘useless mouth.’ He said yesterday that people who couldn’t help in the war effort ought to have less food. I said what about us, and he said we were young and the country needed us, but he was no use to anybody.”

  “Oh, Celia, that’s why he’s stopped eating meat!”

  Celia nodded. “That’s why. It’s ridiculous, of course, because he did his bit in the last war—and a very big bit too—but he doesn’t see that. I’m sorry for Dad. I wish to goodness they would have him in the Home Guard or something.”

  Deb had put the frying pan on the stove. She had found a small packet of bacon and was disentangling the rashers and piling them into the pan.

  “Here, I say! Go easy with the bacon,” Celia adjured her. “That little lot has got to last us till Monday.”

  “We can have Spam tomorrow,” Deb replied. “I like Spam. I know there are all sorts of jokes about it, but, personally, I think it is extremely good. It has such a nice, hammy flavor.”

  “Do you remember how we used to have whole hams?” asked Celia in awed tones. “Whole hams sitting on the sideboard every morning—just as a side dish!”

  “Don’t! You’re making my mouth water,” said Deb, laughing.

  “This war is making me greedy,” Celia continued gravely. “I never used to think about food very much—but now I yearn for all sorts of things I can’t have. The first thing I want is a roast of beef—with lots of fat on it—and then I would like peaches and ice cream.”

  “Will you shut up!” cried Deb, laughing more than before.

  They were moving about the kitchen as they talked, so the conversation was disjointed and punctuated by the rattle of pans and the chink of crockery.

  “Sometimes I feel quite glad Aunt Alice isn’t here,” said Deb.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I believe Mother would have taken all this in her stride; Becky would have minded far more—us doing things, I mean. Becky would have seven fits if she could see my hands when I’ve finished wrestling with the boiler flues…and Mrs. Drummond! Oh, Deb, can you imagine Mrs. Drummond coping with the flowers?”

  Deb could not. She said with a slight chuckle, “You know, Celia, when I began to come into the kitchen and scratch about I had an uncomfortable feeling that Mrs. Drummond was watching me. I half expected her to pop out of the cupboard in one of her rages.”

  “She was here,” declared Celia. “I felt the same thing. She knew when I let the potatoes burn and ruined the pan.”

  “You’ve done awfully well,” Deb said quickly.

  “Oh yeah!” returned Celia, smiling.

  “But you have,” urged Deb. “That fish soufflé last night—”

  “It wasn’t bad, was it? I just did exactly what the book said and, lo and behold, it happened. It seemed like a miracle when I opened the oven door and saw that the thing looked like a soufflé! All the same I feel a bit of a worm; that soufflé cost me hours of tense anxiety. Look at the soufflés Mrs. Drummond made without turning a hair!”

  “With an experienced kitchen maid to wait on her, hand and foot.”

  “Could you manage without me?” Celia asked after a short pause.

  “Oh, Celia!”

  “Well, I feel I ought to do something,” said Celia, shaking her head. “Of course, I’ve been exempted because of Dad and the house and everything, but I don’t feel I’m pulling my weight.”

  “You’re running the Worldwide Veterinary Service in Ryddelton—”

  “I know,” agreed Celia, “but that isn’t much really. Here am I, an unattached female, aged thirty-two, strong and fit and reasonably intelligent…”

  Deb had been expecting this for some time. It was natural that Celia should want to do real war work, but she was quite certain she could not carry on at Dunnian without her. Deb said slowly, “We could shut up the house, of course; that would be the only thing to do—”

  “Would it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. The fact is I’m going to have a baby, so you see—”

  “Deb!” Celia cried in amazement.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Deb, how perfectly marvelous!”

  Suddenly Deb felt Celia’s strong arms around her and Celia’s kisses on her cheek. She was moved almost to tears.

  “Darling!” cried Celia. “Darling pet, of course I shan’t leave you—don’t worry about it anymore—I had no idea—it’s heavenly, isn’t it? It’s what you always wanted—a son for Mark! Does he know about it?”

  “Not yet,” Deb said huskily. “I would have told him in my letters, but I don’t know where he is and I thought it would just worry him.”

  “My dear, he’ll be delighted—he’ll be as pleased as Punch. Oh, Deb, isn’t it lovely!”

  “I don’t know that it is,” Deb replied in sober tones. “I think it’s rather idiotic, to tell you the truth.”

  “It’s lovely—”

  “After all these years,” continued Deb. “After all these years when I was almost crazy because I wanted to have a baby so much—and then to start having one in the very middle of a war! It seems quite idiotic.”

  “No—”

  “Yes, it does. I’m frightened, Celia. Supposing there’s an invasion or something…Celia, I’m frightened!”

  “For heaven’s sake don’t cry,” said Celia, hugging her. “It’s lovely—just fix your mind on that. I’ll take care of you. I’ll look after everything—”

  “Oh, Celia, talk about worms!”

  They were still hugging each other, somewhat hysterically, when the kitchen door opened very slowly and a head appeared around the corner of it. “Good heavens!” exclaimed a well-known voice.

  “Mark, where have you come from!” Celia cried in astonishment.

  Deb was dumb with surprise and delight. She ran to Mark and flung herself into his arms. This was the moment the porridge chose to boil over. It rose like a volcano in eruption and poured down the sides of the pan and spread itself over the top of the stove, sizzling and spluttering.

  “Damn!” Celia cried, rushing at it. By the time she had rescued what remained of the porridge and wiped up the mess the excitement of Mark’s return had died down a little.

  “Didn’t you get my cable?” asked Mark. “I cabled to you from Gib that I was on my way home…what can have happened to the cable, I wonder. And what on earth are you two doing in the kitchen?”

  “We’re trying to prepare the breakfast,” Celia replied.

  “Where’s the cook?”

  “My dear!” exclaimed Celia. “Are you Rip van Winkle by any chance? The cook is probably making boiling lead for Hitler—or the modern equivalent of boiling lead—”

  “Do you mean you haven’t got a cook?” Mark asked incredulously.

&nb
sp; “We have two flowers,” Celia replied patiently. “We have Lily and Jasmine; they exude sweet fragrance in the house, but they can’t be trusted with food. Food is precious. If it’s burned you have to go without. As a matter of fact the porridge is burned—but that was your fault, not mine.”

  “I like that cereal stuff you get in packets—” Mark began.

  “That takes points.”

  “Takes points?” Mark asked in a bewildered voice.

  “Coupons, you know. Tickets out of the pink books. We can’t squander coupons on breakfast cereals; we need them for prunes and tinned meat and things like that.”

  “I’d rather have breakfast cereals than prunes—” Mark began.

  “You wouldn’t if prunes was the only kind of fruit you could get,” retorted Celia.

  Mark left that subject. He still did not understand the position. “I never knew you could cook,” he said.