“Maybe it would be about the peas?” suggested Mr. Gray.
“It’s all right,” said Nell, trying to speak casually. “It isn’t anything important.”
She was turning away when Mr. Gray stopped her. “I’m hoping you’ve got good news of Mrs. Selby?” he inquired.
For a moment Nell did not know whom he meant.
“She’ll always be Miss Anne to me,” added Mr. Gray. “But it’s the right thing to give folks their proper titles. You’ve good news of her, I hope?”
“Oh — yes — at least — I haven’t heard — lately,” stammered Nell.
“You’ll be hearing,” said Mr. Gray nodding. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Miss Nell. Maybe it’ll all come right sooner than you’re expecting.”
Nell gazed at him. She wondered how much he knew — but there was no time to say any more for Mrs. Ayrton was coming down the path.
“There you are, Nell!” she exclaimed. “Have you asked Mr. Gray about the raspberries?”
“There’s none left,” replied Mr. Gray. “I was just telling Miss Nell they’re finished.”
“Oh, what a bother! Mr. and Mrs. Lambert are coming to dinner.”
“There’s peaches, m’m. Mrs. Lambert likes peaches. I’ll send up a nice dish of peaches for dessert.”
Mr. Gray did not wink at Nell (as he had done long ago when he had saved the children’s treasures from the bonfire); Nell was too old to be winked at now, but he gave her an understanding look which comforted her a little.
2
There was nothing unusual in the Lamberts coming to dinner at Amberwell; they came often, and Mr. and Mrs. Ayrton just as frequently dined at Merlewood. They were “nearest neighbours” and they all four liked a game of bridge. When Nell heard the Lamberts were coming she was pleased in a mild sort of way for anything was preferable to the usual family dinner, when the three of them sat round the table talking about everything except Anne. Besides Nell liked Mrs. Lambert; she was so small and gay. Admittedly Mrs. Lambert was mischievous and made somewhat startling remarks in her pretty tinkling voice, but her remarks did not hurt, for they were not malicious, they merely made you sit up and blink. Of course Mrs. Lambert had aged since the day of the Fountain Party but she was still very pretty and still like a fairy — like a middle-aged fairy if such a creature were possible.
When Nell went downstairs the Lamberts had arrived and the four friends were having sherry in the drawing-room. The conversation ceased suddenly as Nell appeared, so of course they had been talking about Anne. Naturally the Lamberts would have to be told something about the affairs of their son’s sister-in-law. She wondered how much they had been told.
“Hallo, here’s Nell!” exclaimed Mr. Lambert cheerfully. “Why don’t you lend us Nell for a bit. I’ve always wanted a nice little daughter, and Poppet produced a great big clumsy son.”
“It was very clever of me,” said Mrs. Lambert smiling.
Everybody called her Poppet and (although she was not silly but quite the reverse) the silly name seemed to suit her.
At dinner Nell sat next to Mrs. Lambert and listened to the conversation in silence; she was “the odd man out” of the party but it did not worry her. They talked about Connie and Gerald and about the baby which was expected in November; there was a good deal of laughter upon the subject of Grandpas and Grandmas and Mr. Lambert offered to buy little lace caps for the two ladies the next time he was in Glasgow … and then quite suddenly they were grave and were talking about Hitler.
Everybody was talking about Hitler that summer of 1939.
“It’s nonsense to think of another war,” declared Mr. Ayrton. “Hitler doesn’t want war — he’s bluffing, that’s all — he’ll climb down pretty quickly if we take a firm line.”
“Have you read Mein Kampf?’ asked Mr. Lambert. “Well, I have. Hitler’s all out for war. Besides I happen to know …” He hesitated.
“What?” asked Mrs. Ayrton.
“Oh well, it’s our job to build ships. I don’t suppose it matters telling you that we’re working like blacks to finish two destroyers for the Admiralty.”
“You mean — they want them — quickly?” asked Mrs. Ayrton in alarm.
“Mh’m,” said Mr. Lambert nodding significantly.
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Mr. Ayrton. “That only means we can bluff too. Mark my words, Johnnie, there will be no war. This tension will blow over in a few months’ time.”
All this was new to Nell. She had been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had not read the papers nor listened to the news on the wireless. The whole thing seemed unreal.
The argument continued and became so heated that Mrs. Ayrton was obliged to intervene and she did so with her usual tact by asking about the shooting prospects. Had the grouse come on well, and what was “Johnnie” doing about pheasants? When this comfortable subject was well under way she sat back and allowed it to continue.
“You can play Bridge instead of me, to-night,” said Mrs. Lambert to Nell.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Nell.
“Nell can’t play Bridge,” said Mrs. Ayrton. “Connie plays but —”
“Since when?” asked Mrs. Lambert raising her eyebrows. “Nell often played when she came to Merlewood and she played a very good game.”
“It was just nursery-bridge,” said Nell hastily. “The boys liked playing — so they taught us — so that they could have a four —”
“The boys were lucky,” declared Mr. Lambert smiling.
“Oh, we liked it,” Nell said. She remembered as she spoke what fun they used to have, sitting round the nursery table playing Bridge. There were five of them of course so one of the girls had to cut out. Naturally the boys both played — nobody ever thought of anything else. They had played for pennies (which would have horrified Nannie if she had known) and sometimes when they had been playing for hours on a wet afternoon as much as three pennies changed hands. Nell could remember those pennies now. If they came out of the boys’ pockets they were warm when you touched them … and somehow you hated taking them from the boys.
“A penny for them, Nell,” whispered Mrs. Lambert.
Nell looked at her in astonishment. Was she really a fairy?
“A penny for your thoughts; or are they worth more?”
“Not as much,” replied Nell, trying to smile.
“Oh well, perhaps I can guess,” nodded Mrs. Lambert; then she abandoned the subject and leaning forward addressed her host. “William, I want to see the fountain.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes, if you’ve finished your port. Nell wants to see it too, don’t you, Nell?”
“It’s too cold to stand about outside, and there’s no moon,” objected Mrs. Ayrton.
“Oh, Marion, you are a spoil-sport!” cried Mrs. Lambert. “I want to see it. I can’t think why you don’t have it on more often. If I had a pretty toy like that I should play with it all day long.”
“Come along, Poppet, you shall have your toy,” said Mr. Ayrton smiling indulgently. He rose as he spoke and they went out together.
3
Nell loved the fountain and agreed with Mrs. Lambert that nowadays it played all too seldom. It was Mr. Ayrton’s privilege to turn it on and he never seemed to want it. To-night it was to play at Mrs. Lambert’s special request but Nell felt that she had been invited to attend the private view so after a moment’s hesitation she followed her father and Mrs. Lambert out of the room.
The night was still — which was all to the good — and although there was no moon it was not very dark. The sky was ablaze with myriads of bright stars, like diamonds. By this time Mrs. Lambert and Mr. Ayrton were in the garden beside the lily-pool … Nell leant upon the stone balustrade of the terrace and looked down.
The fountain had not yet been turned on. Mrs. Lambert and Mr. Ayrton were standing beside it talking.
“What nonsense, Will,” Mrs. Lambert was saying in her light clear voice with a suggestion of mischief in it. “If your
heart was broken it mended very quickly. You consoled yourself — twice!”
“Wicked Poppet!”
“Oh, I know. But it’s fun to be wicked … and I’ve always wondered, why twice?”
“For safety, of course.”
“The door was bolted already!”
“Safer to be bolted on both sides.”
Nell was astonished. She was so astonished that she was rooted to the spot. She ought not to be listening, but the conversation did not seem to be private for they were both speaking quite loudly and if they had looked up they would have seen her standing there. It crossed her mind that they were talking like people in a novel — saying serious things in an amusing manner — but whether it was just banter or they were really in earnest she could not tell. Mrs. Lambert was often amusing, but Nell had never heard her father talking like this before. She could hardly believe it was her father talking.
“I suppose you really want that thing, Poppet?” said Mr. Ayrton, looking at the fountain.
“Don’t you?” asked Mrs. Lambert. “Don’t you like it, Will?”
“I’m rather bored with it,’’ said Mr. Ayrton frankly. “It’s rather a silly toy, Poppet. Don’t you think so?”
“I think it’s fascinating, she declared.
“Do you mean you really want to see it playing?”
“Of course I want it. Why do you suppose 1 asked for it?”
He did not answer that. “I shall get wet,” he complained.
“Only a very little wet,” she told him in a wheedling tone. “Surely you’re not afraid of a few drops of water.”
“What will you give me to turn it on for you?”
Mrs. Lambert laughed. “All right,” she said. “But you’d better hurry up or Johnnie and Marion will come out to see what we’re doing.”
Mr. Ayrton put his arms round her and kissed her. The kiss was by no means a casual embrace and it lasted several moments.
Then Mrs. Lambert disengaged herself and sighed; “You always were good at it,” she said gently.
It was now quite obvious to Nell that she should not be there — she should have gone away before — but it had happened so quickly that there had been no time to think and it had happened quite naturally. In fact it had seemed so natural that Nell was not shocked. She left her vantage point and hurried back to the house thinking how strange it was that you could live all your life with a person, under the same roof, and never know him; wondering what had happened all those long years ago, and what it would have been like to have Mrs. Lambert as one’s mother.
Before Nell got to the french windows of the drawing-room she heard the splashing sound of the fountain.
4
A few days later when Nell was returning from the town she met Mr. Orme outside the gate of the Rectory. Nell would have smiled at him and passed on, but Mr. Orme stopped her.
“If you have a few minutes to spare I’d like to speak to you,” he said.
There was nothing for it but to go in.
Nell had been to the Rectory before (she and Anne had attended Confirmation classes in Mr. Orme’s study) but the morning was so fine and sunny that instead of taking her into the house he led her to a seat in the little garden.
He was going to talk about Anne. Nell was sure of this. She felt she could not bear it. She did not look at Mr. Orme as he sat down beside her on the seat, but stared across the garden to a little platform, raised upon a post, with a coconut dangling from it.
“You’re looking at my bird-table,” said Mr. Orme. “I made it myself and although it isn’t a very good job from a carpenter’s point of view I’m rather proud of it. The birds appreciate it, which is the main thing. It’s amazing how many birds come to dine at my table. I love to watch them.”
Nell was beginning to feel better. There was something about Mr. Orme that made you feel better. It was not so much what he said. There was a warmth in his deep voice which radiated comfort.
“Mr. Orme,” said Nell suddenly. “People aren’t always kind, are they?”
“Not always,” he agreed rather sadly.
“You know about Anne, don’t you?”
“I know a little. I should like to know more if you feel able to tell me.”
“You probably know more than I do,” said Nell, trying to control her voice. “I hoped — perhaps — you knew. Of course Anne has been — very silly — but — but I love her so much.”
“Of course you do, my dear. It would be dreadful if we stopped loving people because they were silly.”
There was a little silence in the garden and then Mr. Orme added, “I should like to write to Anne if you will give me her address.”
“But I don’t know it!” cried Nell. “I want to write to her too — I don’t know where she is — I don’t know what she’s doing — I don’t know anything.”
There was quite a long silence after that. Nell, glancing at Mr. Orme’s face, saw that it was very grave and stern. She had a feeling that he was angry and was trying to control himself before he spoke … and when he did speak it seemed as if he were talking to himself rather than to her.
“How helpless one is,” he said, gazing across the garden at a tit which was hanging upside down upon a coconut and eating voraciously. “I should have done something before — but what could I do?”
“Before what?” asked Nell.
“Long ago, when you were children. I did try to get in touch with you, but I failed. Perhaps I should have tried harder — taking a strong line — but at the time it seemed to me that I should be doing more harm than good.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nell in puzzled tones.
“No,” he agreed. “It’s just that I feel I could have helped if I had been allowed to.” He hesitated and then added, “The Good Shepherd knew His sheep, so when one of them strayed and was lost upon the hills He was able to find it.”
“You mean — you don’t know — us?”
“Not as well as I should like to,” replied Mr. Orme turning his head and smiling at her. “And you don’t know me very well, do you? Perhaps if you knew me better you would trust me.”
“I’m beginning to know you,” said Nell in a low voice. “I thought you would be angry with Anne — but you’re not, are you?”
“No, just very sorry.”
“And yet you don’t know Anne — like I do,” continued Nell thoughtfully. “I mean I know her so well that I can understand in a vague sort of way how it happened. It was because — because she didn’t feel — safe.”
“Safe,” he repeated nodding. “Yes, so few people feel safe. When the storm blows up they get frightened and yet all the time the Pilot is there, ready to guide them into the harbour.”
Mr. Orme said no more about that and Nell, reminded of the Lamberts by mention of ships, asked him if he thought there was going to be another war. He replied sadly that he thought it was inevitable.
“Oh, Mr. Orme!” cried Nell. “Surely not! It seems so dreadfully wicked. It seems as if we were going back instead of forward — it seems as if we were no better than savages.”
“Yes, it does seem like that, but as long as there are bad people in the world we must have policemen … and we’re not going back,” declared Mr. Orme earnestly. “Never think that. It’s a terrible thought. If you read history you can see that we’re improving — or at least trying to improve. It’s the trying that matters. R. L. S. put it like this: ‘Let it be enough for faith that the whole creation groans in mortal frailty, strives with unconquerable constancy. Surely not all in vain.’”
Nell asked him to repeat the quotation but instead of doing so he wrote it down on the back of an envelope. She thought about it very seriously as she went home — through the wicket-gate and up the hill. There was something brave and comforting in the words.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The war was several weeks old when a letter was received from Roger to say that he had got a few days’ leave and was coming home. He would arrive on
Sunday evening after dinner.
They were having coffee in the drawing-room when the door opened and he walked in. He was in uniform of course and looked fit and well, and he had an air of confidence about him which was good to see. Nell thought he was like a fresh breeze blowing into the room, which to her seemed stuffy with unexpressed feelings.
“Roger!” exclaimed his father in surprise. “We didn’t expect you so soon. Have you had dinner?”
“I stopped for it on the way,” replied Roger smiling. “The little old bus was going like a bird.” He kissed Mrs. Ayrton and Nell and shook hands with his father.
“How did you get away?” asked Mrs. Ayrton who obviously thought the war could not proceed without her stepson.
“Embarkation leave,” replied Roger, sitting down and accepting a cup of coffee. “Everybody gets it — if possible — before they go abroad. We’re off to France one of these days.”
“Perhaps you’d like some shooting while you’re here,” suggested Mr. Ayrton.
Roger hesitated. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t got very long and I want to have a look round Amberwell … and I shan’t be sorry to have a rest; the last fortnight has been pretty hectic. How are Connie and Anne?”
“Connie is very well,” replied Mrs. Ayrton. “She didn’t like Glasgow at first but now that they have moved into their new house she is settling down and feeling much happier. They have got to know some very nice people and they seem to go out a lot.”
“But hasn’t Gerald been called up?” asked Roger.
“Called up!” exclaimed Mr. Ayrton. “Certainly not. Gerald is much too valuable. You seem to forget he’s in a shipbuilding firm.”
“Isn’t it lucky?” said Mrs. Ayrton. “I mean if he were in any other sort of business he would have to go and I don’t know what Connie would do — they’re so devoted to each other. As it is the war won’t affect them at all, except that they’ll have to build more ships, and that means more money of course.”
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