At six o’clock it was still dark and raining heavily but in spite of the weather conditions everybody in the place had gathered round the door to see Tom depart (everybody except Mrs. Ayrton who was still in bed). The group consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Gray and the Land Girl, Mrs. Duff and Nannie and Stephen. Even Margaret, the daily help, who was not due to arrive at Amberwell until nine o’clock, had limped up from Westkirk through the rain to say good-bye.
Tom was in tearing spirits — or at least appeared to be — he kissed everybody with the single exception of Mr. Gray and leapt into the car beside Nell.
They shouted “Good-bye!” and waved.
“Haste ye back!” cried Mrs. Duff, bursting into tears.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
All this time Mr. Gray had been doing his best with the gardens but except for the Land Girl he had nothing but casual labour to assist him and things were going from bad to worse. Nell would have helped if she had had time but her days were too full already. Amberwell was very quiet, there was no social life in the district because people could not use their cars to go about and visit their friends.
One streaming wet day in November Nell met Mary Findlater coming out of the butcher’s. They were both thoroughly mackintoshed and hung about with baskets and bags.
“Nell!” exclaimed Mary. “Goodness, what years it is since I saw you! Have you got time for a cup of coffee?”
Nell decided to make time, for as Mary said it was years since they had met and Mary looked so tired and depressed that it would have been unkind to refuse her invitation.
They went into the little hotel together and sat down in the comfortable lounge before the fire.
“I’m just home for a fortnight’s leave,” said Mary. “I’m in the Wrens — but I expect you knew that.”
“Do you like it?” asked Nell.
“Yes, it’s fun,” she replied. “The only trouble is I ought to be at home. I wish I were twins,” she added with a sigh.
Nell understood this somewhat peculiar wish for she herself had often thought that there would be ample occupation for two Nells. She accepted a cup of coffee and sympathised.
“It’s awful,” said Mary. “It makes me miserable to come home and see the poor darlings looking so old and tired. When I saw Daddy washing up the dishes I almost cried — and Mummy beating up horrible potatoes in a little bowl! Oh dear!”
Nell tried to imagine Sir Andrew and Lady Findlater engaged in these unwonted pursuits but it was impossible. Her imagination boggled at the idea.
“I shouldn’t have left them,” continued Mary. “I wouldn’t have if I’d known what was going to happen. I feel a perfect beast …”
She went on talking about it and Nell continued to listen and sympathise. They talked about other things too. They exchanged family news and reminisced about their childhood. They had never been great friends (Nell had never wanted any friend except Anne) but to-day it seemed different. She’s nice, thought Nell, looking at the small piquant face, framed in curly brown hair. She really is a dear. I wonder why I didn’t like her better.
Suddenly the clock struck twelve and Mary sprang to her feet.
“Goodness, it’s twelve!” she cried. “I’m keeping them both in bed to-day so I must rush back and cook their lunch. It’s been awfully good of you to listen to my moan. I feel a lot better — if that’s any consolation. Remember me to Roger when you write — and Tom of course. You’re lucky,” she added as she put on her mackintosh hat.
Nell was aware that this was an oblique reference to Ian’s death. “I know I’m lucky,” she agreed. “We were terribly sorry. Where is Andy?”
“Quite safe at the moment, thank goodness,” replied Mary with a sigh. “He’s got a job as instructor — training commandos — not far from Inverness. I’ll tell him you asked for him, shall I?”
“Yes, do,” said Nell.
“You’ve changed,” declared Mary as they said good-bye. “You used to be so — so shy — and — and —”
“Stupid,” suggested Nell.
Mary laughed. “No, not stupid, but just — not very interesting if you know what I mean.”
The compliment pleased Nell and as she toiled home up the hill with her heavy basket she thought about it seriously and realised that what Mary had said was true. The hard work and all the responsibilities and grinding anxieties had changed her from a colourless nonentity into a useful sort of human being who had a definite place in the world. Perhaps Stephen had been the principal factor in the metamorphosis of Nell; Stephen had become the most important person in Nell’s life. “Listen, Nell, he’s yours,” Roger had said. “He’s not to be messed about by other people.” Nell could still hear the tone of Roger’s voice as it had sounded on the telephone — a desperately urgent tone of voice, quite different from the flat weary voice in which he had told her of the tragedy. At first it had been quite easy, for all Stephen had needed was love and care, but now that he was older — he was nearly four — there were other things to be thought of. Nannie was inclined to spoil him (which was odd, because she certainly had not spoilt Connie and Nell and Anne) so it was left to Nell to bring up Stephen in the way he should go, to teach him to be considerate and kind … and above all to be obedient. In one way the job was simple enough, for Stephen had a delightfully happy nature, but in another way it was difficult because Stephen’s charm was hard to resist. Nell would have liked to give him everything he wanted — and more. It seemed odd to Nell that although she was strict with Stephen he loved her better than Nannie, who was lenient.
All this time Roger had not been home to Amberwell. He had had leave on two occasions, but had gone to South Africa instead.
“Perhaps you think it queer,” wrote Roger. “But I don’t want to come home until we’ve finished the job.”
Nell did think it “queer,” and at first she was surprised and hurt, but after some thought she saw that Roger had a right to do as he pleased. Tom had come to Amberwell to steep himself in its atmosphere and be healed, but Roger wanted to “finish the job” before he returned. He loved Amberwell in a different sort of way.
2
Occasionally the peace of Amberwell was broken by a visit from Connie and her family but unfortunately these visits were not entirely enjoyable and became less welcome and more upsetting to the household as the family grew older; for Gerry and Joan were being brought up in the modern manner and were allowed at all times to “express their ego.” This curious phrase, which Connie had culled from a book on child management, was always upon her lips and excused the most unsocial behaviour on the part of her offspring.
They came for a fortnight in the early spring of 1945 when Gerald was obliged to leave home on business.
Mrs. Ayrton had been looking forward to having Connie, and although she was not fond of children she was prepared to love Gerry and Joan for Connie’s sake. She had become a great deal older in the last few years and she was lonely. She and Nell had never had anything in common but Connie was different.
Mrs. Ayrton had looked forward to long comfortable chats with Connie about matters which interested them both … but alas Connie was now “all mother” and was interested in nothing except her children. If they were present they claimed her full attention and if they were absent she talked about them all the time. Mrs. Ayrton did her best to make friends with Connie’s children but they did not respond and they were so wild and rough that she was actually frightened of them.
Nell bore the “expression of ego” as patiently as she could, reminding herself from time to time that the days were passing and the visit would soon be over. She was obliged to remind Nannie too, for Nannie suffered severely — especially at meal-times.
“It’s just awful,” Nannie told her. “The nurse is quite a nice sort of woman but she’s not allowed to check them. If she checks them they go straight off and tell their mother.”
The afternoon was fine and Connie proposed that she and Nell should take the children and hav
e a picnic on the bowling-green. Nell suggested that they might go to the shore instead, but Connie would not hear of it.
“The bowling-green is more peaceful,” said Connie. “I want them to have a very peaceful afternoon.”
Peace was obtained by allowing the young Lamberts to do exactly as they wished; Gerry rode Stephen’s tricycle round and round the lawn; Joan played with Stephen’s wheel-barrow. Nell had brought a toy roller for Stephen to play with but after a few minutes Joan wanted that too, and Stephen surrendered it meekly. Stephen had learned that it was better for everybody if his cousins got what they wanted.
They had tea on the grass stage; it had been a favourite place for tea when Connie and Nell were children and it reminded them of bygone days. “Do you remember …” is a fascinating game to play, especially with a sister, and Connie became quite human. She was so interested in the conversation that she actually stopped worrying about her children.
“You’re not talking to us, Mummy,” complained Joan.
“Mummy is talking to Aunt Nell,” said Connie. “Oh, Nell, do you remember —”
But Nell was fated not to hear this memory for Joan took immediate action; she leant forward and emptied her mug of milk into her mother’s lap.
For a moment Nell thought — and hoped — that Connie would lose her temper but Connie had trained herself too thoroughly to do anything so crude.
“Oh, Joanie, you are a funny little girl,” said Connie, taking out her handkerchief and trying to mop up the mess.
“You wanted Mummy to talk to you, didn’t you? Naughty Mummy to talk to Aunt Nell!”
Joan was delighted of course for she had achieved her object but Gerry was not so pleased. Gerry was being neglected, nobody was taking any notice of him. Gerry’s ego prompted him to seize a stick, which happened to be handy, and hit Stephen on the head.
The unexpected assault alarmed Stephen and he opened his mouth and howled.
“Don’t do that, Gerry!” cried Nell.
“It was only in fun,” declared Connie.
“It’s fun!” said Gerry, laughing with glee and hitting his cousin again.
Nell leapt to her feet and snatched the stick from his grasp, and in a moment there was pandemonium. Gerry shrieked at the top of his voice, Stephen sobbed loudly and Connie added to the din by rounding upon Nell.
“It’s horrid of you!” she raged. “You should never use violence to little children — it’s a dreadful thing to do — you’ve upset poor little Gerry frightfully. He was just having fun with Stephen — that’s all. Stephen shouldn’t be such a baby. He’s completely spoilt —”
All three children were now screaming so the remainder of Connie’s diatribe was lost and Nell was so angry that she picked up Stephen and carried him into the house.
When Nell discovered that there were no wounds upon Stephen — not so much as a red mark — her rage died down and she was able to smile, but all the same a quite unmistakable chill developed in the relationship between herself and her elder sister and she was thankful when Friday came and the family packed up and went home — nor was Nell the only person who was thankful.
It isn’t fair, thought Nell as she waved them away (but without the usual valediction). It really isn’t fair to them to allow them to make themselves so unpopular.
The visit had been an ordeal, and yet it was useful, for at least Nell had been given an object lesson on how not to bring up the young. Nannie had had an object lesson too, and was not quite so indulgent with Stephen as she had been before.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Amberwell was in Tom’s thoughts as he stood on the bridge of the destroyer, Starfish, with Dennis Weatherby. He often talked to Dennis about Amberwell and Dennis listened and understood for he had a home in Yorkshire and loved it in much the same way. Dennis was some years older than Tom (he was a Lieutenant Commander and due for promotion) but in spite of the difference in age the two were firm friends.
The Starfish had had a pretty thin time all winter for she had been on convoy duty in the north but now she was making for Rosyth and her crew was looking forward to a well-earned spell of leave.
It was early April, but the night was warm — or at least it seemed warm to men who had braved the blizzards of a northern winter — there was no moon but the stars were so bright that it was not really dark. There were millions of stars to be seen and for a while the two young men looked at them in silence. Tom had always loved stars.
“I suppose you’ll be going home,” said Dennis at last.
“Yes, what about you? I mean would you like to come to Amberwell for a few days? It would be grand if you could.”
“I’d love to, sometime. But they’re expecting me at home, and — well, you know how it is. I mean one doesn’t get home too often.”
“Of course,” agreed Tom quickly. “I just meant if you could manage to come —”
Silence fell. They understood one another and their silences were companionable. What a splendid fellow Dennis is, thought Tom. You can depend upon him whatever happens … just as you can depend on Roger. The fact was Tom had always needed someone like that, someone solid and rock-like, to give him stability, to make him feel safe.
Tom leaned on the rail beside his friend and watched the stars dipping up and down to the gentle movement of the ship as she surged along through the dark water. Amberwell! thought Tom. Soon he would be there. Perhaps he should ring up from Edinburgh and say he was coming. Nellie would be pleased … and he would see Stephen … a nice kid, Stephen …
“Look, there’s the Bell Rock!” said Dennis.
The rock was a thin dark streak on the starboard bow. It was so low in the water that one would not have noticed it but for the fringe of white lace where the sea broke upon the rocks. From the middle of the reef a finger stood pointing to the skies.
“You’ve seen it lighted of course,” said Tom.
“Haven’t you?” asked Dennis in surprise. “Oh no, of course not. I always forget you aren’t a real sailor. It’s wonderfully cheering to see the beams sweeping round the sky on a cold dark night — must have been a job building it, I must try to find out about it.”
Tom knew quite a lot about the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse for although he was not “a real sailor” he had always been interested in everything to do with the sea. “The reef is only uncovered at low water,” said Tom. “They worked at it night and day whenever the tide went out. At night they used torches; there was no other form of lighting in the early years of the nineteenth century. The tower was designed by Robert Stevenson and he was on the spot himself to superintend the work.”
“So it has stood there, battered by storms, for over a hundred years,” said Dennis thoughtfully. “You know, Tom, I’d like to do a job like that — a constructive job that would last after I was dead.”
Tom was silent.
“It would be good to make something permanent,” continued Dennis. “Something worth-while — so that in the year two thousand and forty-five two chaps would look at it and say, ‘Dennis Weatherby built that.’”
“We can’t all do that sort of job,” said Tom. “We’ve helped to beat Hitler. That’s something, isn’t it?”
They were now approaching nearer the reef; soon they would be swinging westwards up the Firth of Forth. Dennis began to talk about the Firth in the days of peace, which seemed so long ago, when the lighthouses from the May and the Bass and Fidra flashed their welcoming beams, and the little towns on the shores of the wide estuary glittered like handfuls of jewels. To-night there was not a light to be seen; the land which they were approaching might have been an uninhabited desert.
“Soon we shall see the lights again,” said Dennis cheerfully. “We’re coming to the end of the tunnel. They can’t hold out much longer. You know, Tom, I feel as if the war had been going on for about twenty years. It will be queer when it’s over. Difficult to believe.”
“Frightfully difficult,” agreed Tom. “I’ve got a br
other who has been all through the Desert and the Italian campaigns. He’s all right so far — thank Heaven! Well, I think I’ll turn in now.”
“Wish I could,” said Dennis enviously. “You wouldn’t see me up here if I didn’t have to be.”
Tom paused at the top of the ladder and looked back. He said jokingly, “Keep a good look-out, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry,” replied Dennis laughing. “You can go off to your nice comfy bed and dream of Amberwell.”
Tom waved and turned away — and at that moment there was a terrific shattering crash. The ship seemed to leap into the air and a sheet of flame burst from beneath her bows. A burning blast of hurricane force swept Tom from the ladder as if he had been a withered leaf and hurled him into the water. He felt himself sinking down — and down — into the dark icy depths.
The shock was so severe that only his instinct for self-preservation made him struggle wildly to the surface — it seemed an eternity before he saw the bubbles breaking above his head and was able to fill his bursting lungs with air.
The disaster had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Tom was dazed. He could think of nothing — there was nothing in his mind but the determination to keep his head above water. He was a strong swimmer but his sodden clothes were dragging him down and fortunately he had enough sense to struggle out of them, kicking off his shoes and trousers and struggling out of his jacket. It was easier now to keep afloat — but how cold it was! How bitterly cold! Already his legs were beginning to feel paralysed.
The sea had looked calm from the bridge of the Starfish but it is never really calm in these uneasy waters and there was enough swell to make swimming extremely exhausting and to make it very difficult to see for more than a few yards. When he was on the crest of the waves he tried to look round for the ship, but he had no idea where to look — and the next moment he was down in the trough and could see nothing but dark green water.
Amberwell (Ayrton Family Book 1) Page 16