Amberwell (Ayrton Family Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Well, I just thought” said Mr. Steele. “I mean of course it’s pretty hard work for a lady, but you could stay in the cottage and the little girl could run about the place —”

  “It would be splendid,” declared Anne. “It’s very good of you — very kind indeed. I expect you’ll find me rather slow and stupid but I’ll do my best.”

  Mr. Steele was pleased. It was almost impossible to get a man; any man he was likely to get would be old or unfit, a strong young woman was infinitely better value. Mr. Steele had not liked Martin Selby, who was a troublemaker and extremely difficult to deal with, but he liked young Mrs. Selby immensely. He thought it unlikely that he would find her slow and stupid.

  “Well, that’s all right,” said Mr. Steele. “You start as soon as you feel inclined — the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ll start to-morrow,” said Anne.

  4

  Working in the gardens was tiring at first but quite soon Anne got used to it and her back ceased to ache. She had always loved flowers and it was fun learning how to grow them; vegetables were interesting too and how satisfactory it was to see them coming up in orderly rows and to know that one had helped to produce them! Emmie was very happy, she ran about the gardens all day long and made friends with everybody, for although Emmie was like her mother in most ways the shyness which had afflicted little Anne was completely absent in little Emmie.

  The war went on but there was peace at Harestone, even the bombs did not bother them very much. Occasionally when there was a big raid on London the planes would come over the gardens and they would hear the guns firing but that was all.

  Anne’s only worry was money: she had got a fright, for she had realised that she had nothing behind her, nothing to fall back upon if she became ill. She saved money carefully and put aside a little every week; she saved upon everything except food — good food was necessary. Their clothes became more and more shabby — carefully patched and mended until there was little of the original garment left — and the furniture in the little cottage became more and more ramshackle.

  Emmie had no toys (except what Anne could make from scraps of cloth and empty reels of cotton) but Emmie did not need toys when she could go out and play. In winter when the darkness came early Anne got out her mending and lighted the lamp and told Emmie stories. She retold all the old nursery favourites: Cinderella and Goldilocks and Jack the Giant Killer: and when these came to an end she told Emmie stories about Amberwell. Anne could talk about Amberwell for hours and Emmie never seemed to grow tired of listening.

  “Tell me more about Ponticum,” she would say. “Tell me about when you danced on the bowling-green; tell me about the mermaid fountain.”

  Soon after this Anne began to notice something a little odd in Emmie’s manner. She had always watched over the child very carefully for in spite of Dr. Frome’s assurance there was still a lurking dread at the back of her mind. If Emmie so much as sneezed she would look at her anxiously; if Emmie coughed she was nearly beside herself with terror. But this was not a cold, that was something different and in its own way equally alarming; Emmie had begun to talk to herself — or, if not to herself, to some invisible companion. The more Anne watched Emmie the more frightened she became. When Emmie went out of a door she would wait for a moment, as if there were somebody following her, before she shut it. When Emmie was called in to bed she would wave cheerfully and kiss her hand — to nobody.

  One day when Anne was busy she asked Emmie to lay the tea and when she came in there were three places laid on the table.

  “Is somebody coming?” asked Anne in surprise.

  “It’s for Nell,” explained Emmie.

  “For Nell!”

  “Yes, she said she’d like to come. You see she plays with me in the garden like she played with you at Amberwell when you were little.” Emmie hesitated and then added in a lower tone: “Of course she’s not real, but I like having her for a little sister and playing with her. You don’t mind, do you, Mummy?”

  Anne did not mind. It was all right as long as Emmie realised that it was make-believe. She looked at Emmie’s round chubby face and her calm, widely-spaced eyes and realised she had been worrying herself unnecessarily. Emmie was as sane as a judge and as wholesome as an apple.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” repeated Emmie.

  “Of course not,” replied Anne. “It will be lovely to have Nell to tea. You can give her half your chocolate biscuit.”

  Emmie’s chocolate biscuit was the one luxury allowed in that frugal household.

  After that Nell often came to tea and sometimes stayed and went to bed with Emmie; they played “owls” together and talked themselves to sleep. Anne could hear them as she sat sewing in the other room and she had an odd feeling that it really was Nell — the Nell of long ago — who came and played with Emmie in Harestone Gardens.

  Now, once again, Anne began to wonder if she should write to her parents … but although Martin was dead he still prevented her. Somehow she felt it would be a betrayal of Martin — he had hated Amberwell and all it stood for. That was one reason why she did not write; but there was another reason as well, far stronger and more practical. All her life Anne had been in subjection to other people and now, for the first time, she was free. She was independent, earning her weekly wage and spending it as she pleased. Nobody had any right to order her about or to disapprove of what she did. It was wonderful to be free. Anne knew very well that she would be free no longer if she crawled back to Amberwell as a humble suppliant.

  So the days and months passed and Anne did not write.

  5

  When Emmie was five she went to the school in the village with several other children whose parents worked in Harestone Gardens. She liked school and learnt very quickly and soon she was clamouring for picture-books. The other children had books about rabbits and squirrels and Emmie wanted some too. It was natural of course but Anne grudged the money to buy picture-books; she had made toys for Emmie so why not a book? She bought a large exercise-book with firm cardboard covers and a child’s paint-box and began her task.

  At first Emmie was not very interested (she was a trifle disappointed, for this would not be a “proper” book) but quite soon she changed her mind and decided that it was much more fun to make your own book than to buy one in a shop. Miss Clarke had taught Anne the rudiments of water-colour painting and now, with a brush in her hand, Anne discovered that she had not forgotten the art.

  Of course the book was all about Amberwell; it was all about Roger and Tom and Connie and Nell and Anne. It was all about what they had said and done and the fun they had had in the gardens. Anne and Emmie worked at the book every evening all that winter, Anne painting industriously and Emmie sitting beside her offering encouragement and advice.

  “You must put in about finding the little saucer,” said Emmie. “I like that story best of all … and you must put in about the mermaid. D’you think we could have a little picture of the mermaid?”

  Anne thought they could.

  It was fascinating to watch the book grow and take shape. The coloured pictures were very simple but Emmie was delighted with them. It was all such fun that they were both quite sorry when their task was finished.

  The little book was so enchanting that Emmie could not part with it; she took it into the garden and showed it to Nell and one morning she took it to school with her. At lunch-time she returned home bursting with pride and importance.

  “Mummy!” she cried, rushing in like a whirlwind. “Mummy, where are you? Mummy, listen, I showed it to Miss Haines and she says it ought to be made into a real book to sell in a shop so that lots of other children can read it.”

  “But that’s nonsense, Emmie!”

  “It isn’t nonsense. Miss Haines really means it. She says she knows a man in London who makes real books. She says you’re to let her know and she can arrange it.”

  “But we can’t!” cried Anne. “It’s Amberwell.
They’re real people.”

  “We’d get money for it,” declared Emmie. “We want money, don’t we?”

  Most certainly they wanted money. Anne’s life was a constant struggle to make one shilling do the work of two. “Perhaps if we changed all the names —” she began doubtfully.

  “That’s what she said!” cried Emmie, hopping from one foot to the other in her excitement. “Miss Haines guessed it was all real but she said we could change the names. Oh, Mummy, do let’s! Think what fun it would be if it was made into a real book! Oh, Mummy, please!”

  It was the money that tempted Anne. What a relief it would be to have a few pounds in the bank, to have something to fall back on if anything went wrong!

  “You will, won’t you?” cried Emmie who had been watching her face. “I’ll tell Miss Haines.”

  “Well, we can try,” said Anne reluctantly.

  Miss Haines was extremely helpful. She helped Anne to alter the names, and showed her how to prepare the manuscript, and she took it to her friend in London who happened to be a well-known publisher.

  Anne had heard about the wicked ways of publishers and expected to hear no more of the little book for months (and then possibly have it returned) but her experience was different, for in ten days’ time the book was accepted and six months later it appeared upon the bookstalls. It did not make Anne’s fortune by any means, but it sold reasonably well, and continued to go on selling, for a great many people (who were sick to death of books about piggies and pussies and darling little mousies) were only too glad to get hold of a sensible book about real children to read to their offspring. Anne was able to buy some new clothes for herself and Emmie and to put some money in the bank as well … and that Christmas they had a feast of chicken and plum pudding and a small Christmas Tree and there were real presents in Emmie’s stocking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The war was over now, it had been over for eighteen months and the men who had fought in it were being demobilised and were coming home to the jobs they had held before being called up. Several men who had worked in Harestone Gardens were returning and Mr. Steele was obliged to take them back. He explained this to young Mrs. Selby and said regretfully that he was afraid he would need the cottage; he was afraid he must ask her to leave. Mr. Steele was unaware of Anne’s circumstances; she was obviously “a lady” and therefore (in Mr. Steele’s opinion) she must be quite well-off. He thought she had been working in the gardens as a war job, as an alternative to joining one of the Services, and now of course she would go home — to whenever her home might be. It never struck Mr. Steele for a moment that young Mrs. Selby was homeless and completely dependent upon her weekly pay.

  “Yes, of course,” said Anne, trying her best to smile. “Of course you must take back your men — that’s only right. When would you like me to go?”

  “Oh, perhaps in May if that would suit you,” muttered Mr. Steele. The fact was he did not want young Mrs. Selby to go at all; it had suddenly occurred to him that he would miss her dreadfully.

  Anne was to leave in May — and it was now the end of February — so she had three months to find another job. What could she do? Where could she go? If she had been alone it would not have mattered — any sort of job would have done — but there was Emmie.

  Anne tried to get a post as housekeeper in a place where she could have her child; she answered advertisements until she was sick and tired of answering advertisements but nothing seemed to suit. Some people offered her a home without pay — or with so little pay that she knew it was hopeless — other people suggested that she should come to them herself and put her child into a home. There was one place which sounded as if it might suit her until she discovered that she and her child were expected to live in a basement. This would not do for Emmie. There were several posts in London — quite well-paid posts — but she was determined that Emmie must have country air.

  The three months were passing and Anne had begun to feel quite desperate, so desperate that she was considering the possibility of swallowing her pride and asking Mr. Steele if he could let her stay on a little longer. She had a feeling he would. She had a feeling that he did not want her to go. Sometimes Mr. Steele looked at her in an odd sort of way which made her feel uncomfortable. Mr. Steele was very kind … he was rather too kind. She decided that whatever happened she would not ask Mr. Steele to allow her to stay on … but if she left the cottage where was she to go?

  These thoughts went round and round in Anne’s head. She lay awake at night, frightened and miserable.

  2

  One afternoon Anne was working in the garden of the cottage waiting for Emmie to come home to tea. She was planting out lettuces, a job which she usually enjoyed (for it was delightful to pick out the tender seedlings and tuck them up securely in their bed) but to-day she was not enjoying it for she would not be here to watch them grow. Where would she and Emmie be when the lettuces were ready to eat?

  Anne had planted one line and had started another when she heard the squeak of the gate and Emmie’s voice prattling gaily. Emmie was talking to Nell. Emmie was bringing Nell to tea, thought Anne smiling indulgently.

  “Mummy is digging in the garden, I expect,” Emmie was saying. “Mummy will be awfully pleased to see you.”

  The child’s shrill excited voice carried very clearly in the still air … and then, as Anne listened, she heard the rumble of a man’s voice in reply. It was not Emmie’s invisible companion. It was somebody real — a man! Who on earth could it be? Anne’s smile faded; she rose from her knees and as she did so Emmie came round the corner of the cottage dragging her visitor by the hand. He was a big man, tall and thin, with a head of silvery hair which shone in the afternoon sunshine.

  “Here she is!” cried Emmie. “Here’s Mummy, come and talk to her!”

  Anne’s heart gave an odd sort of leap; it was Mr. Orme.

  “Anne, my dear child!” cried Mr. Orme, stretching out his hands.

  “My hands — are dirty —” began Anne in a choked voice.

  Mr. Orme took no notice, he strode across the lettuce-bed and seized both her hands in his. “I’ve found you,” he said. “Thank God I’ve found you!”

  Anne was speechless. Tears were pricking behind her eyes.

  “Isn’t it lovely!” cried Emmie, almost delirious with excitement. “Isn’t it marvellous! He can stay to tea, can’t he, Mummy? We’ve still got some of that lovely goodgy gingerbread you made yesterday and there’s one chocolate biscuit. He can have that, can’t he? Shall I go and put on the kettle? Shall I, Mummy?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Orme. “You go and put on the kettle. It will do us all good to have a cup of tea.”

  Emmie sped off, bounding like a ball.

  “Oh dear,” cried Anne, trying to control her tears. “This is a funny way to — to welcome you. It’s just that — I’m so — glad.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Orme. “Perhaps I should have warned you I was coming, but I was afraid you might run away.”

  “Run away?”

  “Well, I didn’t know whether you would be pleased to see me — or not.”

  “Did they send you?” asked Anne in a trembling voice. “Did Father — has Father — forgiven me?”

  “Your father died,” said Mr. Orme. “He died some time ago. It was Nell who sent me to you. Nell saw your little book and knew it was yours and brought it to me.”

  “Nell,” said Anne in a low voice. “Yes, of course Nell would know.”

  “Nell loves you dearly, she has been very unhappy about you.”

  “Oh poor Nell — all these years —”

  “All these years. We tried to find you before, but you seemed to have vanished. Why didn’t you write?”

  “How could I?” she asked, looking up at him with brimming eyes. “I had been told not to write — and I had been so — so foolish — and — and —”

  “But I’ve found you,” said Mr. Orme.

  “How?” asked Anne. “How did yo
u know —”

  “Through your publishers,” he replied. “I went to see them and got your address. It wasn’t very difficult.”

  They talked for a few moments longer and then he put his arm through hers and they went in to tea. Mr. Orme did not bother her with questions for he realised that his sudden appearance had been a shock; later, when she had recovered a little, they would talk and he would hear Anne’s story. He noted the poverty of the cottage; the mean little room, the threadbare piece of carpet on the floor, the poor shabby clothes which had been darned and mended so carefully — all these things told a story — but he noted too that everything was spotlessly clean and there was a little bowl of primroses on the well-scrubbed table. Anne looked thin and worn but the child was plump and bonny. She was so like the little Anne of long ago that he had picked her out from the other children as they crowded out of the school, and had asked her name. What other child except Anne’s could have looked so like the “fairy” who had danced on the bowling-green in the thin grey overall? There was a difference of course. Anne had always been shy and silent (he had tried so hard to make friends with her and to win her confidence, but without success) but little Emmie was not frightened of him and certainly was not silent. It was Emmie’s gay excited chatter that gave him an insight into their life.

  “Wasn’t it funny that you knew me?” said Emmie.

  “Fancy knowing me amongst all the others because I was like Mummy when she was little and lived at Amberwell! We talk about Amberwell a lot, you know. We wrote a book about it and drew pictures — at least Mummy did. I just helped. It was made into a real book that you can buy in the shops. We got money for it. So I could have a new dress for school and new shoes as well — and we had a Christmas Tree for Christmas. You see Mummy only gets just enough money to buy food — she gets it from Mr. Steele for working in the gardens — so it was very useful to have a little extra, wasn’t it?”

  “Mr. Orme doesn’t want to hear about that,” said Anne, trying to quell her excited little daughter.