(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn

by Miss Read

She decided to stay. Holly Lodge might seem rather large for one widowed lady, but her children and grandchildren would need bedrooms when they visited, and she did not want to part with much-loved possessions.

  But the annex, she decided, must be let. It was quite self-contained, and would make a charming home for some quiet woman in circumstances such as her own, or for that matter, for a mature woman with a job.

  The Caxley Chronicle carried an advertisement in early June. Several people came to see Joan Benson but nobody seemed really suitable.

  It was Henry Mawne, the vicar's friend and a distinguished ornithologist, who first mentioned Miss Quinn.

  "She's secretary to my old friend Barney Hatch in Caxley," he told Joan. "I know she needs somewhere. Her present digs are noisy, and she likes a quiet life. Nice woman, thirtyish, keeps old Barney straight, and that takes some doing. Like me to mention it?"

  "Yes, please. I would be grateful."

  And thus it came about that Miriam Quinn, personal private secretary to Sir Barnabas Hatch, the financier, came to look at Holly Lodge's annex one warm June evening, breathed in the mingled scent of roses and pinks, and surveyed the high hedge which ensured privacy, with the greatest satisfaction.

  "I should like to come very much," she said gravely to Joan Benson.

  "And I," said that lady joyfully, "should like you to. Shall we go inside and settle things?"

  Chapter 2

  MISS QUINN ARRIVES

  MISS QUINN MOVED IN on a still cloudless day in July. Fairacre was looking its best, as all downland country does, in summer heat. all downland country does, in summer heat.

  Wild roses and honeysuckle embroidered the hedges. The cattle stood in the shade of the trees, swishing away the flies with their tails and chewing the cud languorously. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the diminishing river Cax, and a field of beans in flower wafted great waves of scent through the car's open window as Miss Quinn trundled happily towards her new home.

  Before her the road shimmered in the heat. It was almost a relief to enter the shady tunnel of trees at Beech Green, before regaining the open fields which led to Fairacre at the foot of the downs.

  Her spirits rose as she left Caxley behind. Miriam Quinn had been brought up in a vicarage in a lonely stretch of the fen country. Space and solitude were the two things which that windswept area had made essential to her happiness. Sometimes she longed for the great Cambridge sky when the canyons of some city streets drove her near to claustrophobic panic, and even the pleasant tree-lined road in Caxley, where she had lived since taking up the post with Sir Barnabas, she found stuffy and oppressive.

  Now she would live in open country again. The encircling holly hedge, which gave her new abode its name, would not worry her. The windows of the annex, she had noticed swiftly, looked mainly upon the flank of the downs. She reckoned that she could see seven or eight miles to the distant woods to the south of Caxley from her sitting room window.

  She reached the signpost saying FAIRACRE 1, and began to look out for the hidden drive on her left which ran beside the high holly hedge to the main gate of Holly Lodge. It was propped open ready for her, she was grateful to see, and her own garage had its door hospitably open.

  Miriam Quinn shut the car door and stood for a moment savoring the peace and the blessed coolness of the downland air. Bees hummed among the lime flowers above her, and a tabby cat rolled luxuriously in a fine clump of catmint in the sunny border.

  Some distance away, Miriam discerned the figure of her new landlady. She was asleep in a deckchair, her head in the shade of a cherry tree, her feet propped up on a footstool in the sunshine.

  Intense happiness flooded Miriam's being. The atmosphere of country tranquillity enveloped her

  like some comforting cloak in bitter weather. Here was home! Here was the peace she sought; the perfect antidote to the hectic atmosphere and pace of the office!

  Very quietly, she picked up her case and made her way to the annex door.

  ***

  Joan Benson woke with a start and looked at her wrist watch. Almost four o'clock! Good heavens, she must have slept for nearly two hours! Since her mother's death she had found herself taking cat naps like this, and friends told her that it was nature's way of restoring her after the stress of tending the invalids of the family for so long.

  She became conscious of faint noises from the annex. Of course, Miss Quinn would have arrived! How shameful not to be awake to greet her!

  She struggled from the deckchair, and hastened towards the house to make amends. Miriam Quinn received her apologies with a smile.

  "I am going to make tea," said her new landlady. "Do join me in the garden. You know that I want you to look upon it as your own. Please feel free to use it whenever you like. I have put up a little washing line for you, behind the syringa bushes. But I will show you everything after tea."

  She was as good as her word. Tea had obviously been prepared with some care. There were homemade scones, and tomato sandwiches, and some delicious shortbread. Miss Quinn could see that Joan Benson was glad to have company, and was equally anxious to be hospitable. She chattered happily as she took her lodger round the garden, pointing out new improvements which Ambrose had made, and the herb patch which she herself had laid out.

  "Take what you need," she urged. "There is plenty here for both of us."

  "You are very kind, Mrs. Benson."

  "Oh, do please call me 'Joan," " she cried. "We surely know each other well enough for Christian names."

  "Then you must call me 'Miriam,'" she responded.

  "That's so much more friendly," agreed her landlady, leading the way back to the house. "You'll come in for a sherry later on, I hope."

  Miriam chose to treat this as a question rather than a statement.

  "I think I ought to get on with my unpacking, if you don't mind," she replied. "And I have one or two telephone calls to make."

  "Of course, of course," agreed Joan warmly. "I think you'll find the extension telephone convenient in your sitting room. I very rarely use the one in my hall."

  She bustled off to collect the tea tray and Miriam returned to the peace of her own small domain. She sat looking at the distant view from the window, and marshaling her thoughts.

  She could be happy here, and Joan Benson was extremely kind and welcoming. Nevertheless, a small doubt disturbed her peace of mind.

  Here they were, within one hour of her moving-in, on Christian name terms, and her head already throbbing with the pleasant but interminable chatter of her hostess. She was experienced enough to realize that a recently bereaved woman must be lonely and more than usually grateful for company. The thing was—was she willing to give the time and sympathy which Joan so obviously needed at the moment?

  She recognized her own limitations. She liked her own company. She liked the tranquillity of her natural surroundings. She had more than enough people around her during office hours, and Holly Lodge she hoped would be her refuge from them. It would be sad if her contented solitude were shattered by the well-meaning overtures of her landlady.

  She stood up abruptly, and began to sort out her books. She was going too fast! Of course, Joan would be extra forthcoming at their first meeting. She would be anxious to put her lodger at ease. She must respond as well as her more reserved nature would permit. Joan deserved much sympathy, and was tackling her difficulties with considerable bravery, Miriam told herself as she tried to come to terms with her new situation.

  She lay in bed that night feeling the light breeze blowing across the miles of downland and cooling her cheeks. Somewhere a screech owl gave its eerie cry. A moth pattered up and down the window pane, and the fragrance from Joan's stocks scented the bedroom.

  Miriam sighed happily. How quiet it was, after the noise of Caxley! What bliss to live here! She had not felt so free and relaxed since her far-off days in the Cambridgeshire vicarage.

  It was all going to be perfect, she told herself sleepily. Quite perfect!
Quite perfect—unless Joan became too—

  She drifted into sleep.

  ***

  She woke early and went to the window to savor the unbelievable freshness of the morning. Nothing stirred, except a pair of blackbirds busy among the rose bushes. A blue spiral of smoke rose in the distance. An early bonfire, the girl wondered? Or, more probably, the smoke from the chimney of a cottage hidden from view in a fold of the downs?

  She bathed and dressed, relishing the privacy of her little house, and sat down to her toast and coffee soon after seven. There was no sound from next door, and she chided herself for feeling so relieved. Her need for solitude was even greater than usual first thing in the morning, and she sipped her coffee in contentment, looking around the kitchen and making a note of things yet to be done.

  A rattling at the front door disturbed her train of thought. A letter lay on the mat, and as she picked it up she heard the postman pushing the mail through Joan's letterbox.

  Her own sole missive was from Eileen, her sister-in-law, and consisted of two pages of good wishes for Miriam's future happiness in the new home, and news of the three children and Lovell, her husband and Miriam's only brother, two years her senior.

  It was good of her to trouble to write, thought Miriam, but really, what an appalling hand she had, and why so many underlinings and exclamation marks? She poured out her second cup of coffee, and pondered on her sister-in-law's inability to buy envelopes which matched the writing paper, and to use a pen which wrote without dropping blots of ink. Such untidiness must irk Lovell as much as it did herself, for they were both neat and methodical, and had been so since childhood.

  They had always been devoted to each other, and she remembered her grief when he had gone away to school. He had written regularly, in his neat small handwriting, so different from the untidy scrawl now before her.

  From Cambridge he had followed his father into the Church, and was now vicar in a large parish, not far from Norwich, in the East Anglian countryside they both knew so well. Here he had met Eileen, soon after his arrival, and ever since then a certain bleakness had entered Miriam's life.

  The old warm comradeship had gone, although no word was ever uttered. Miriam could understand her brother's love for the girl who so soon became his wife, but she could not help resenting her presence, try as she would.

  Eileen was small and pretty, with an appealing air of fragility. Her fluffy fair hair was bound with ribbon. Her tiny shoes were bedecked with bows. She liked light historical novels, chocolate mints, deckle-edged writing paper, and pale blue furnishings. She chattered incessantly and laughed a great deal. There was an air of teasing frivolity about her which would have earned her the title of "minx" in earlier days. She was a complete contrast to the sober and dark-haired Miriam and Lovell, and their earnest parents. It was hardly surprising that Lovell was captivated. He had never met anyone quite so adorable.

  On the whole, the marriage had turned out well, despite the Quinns' private misgivings. Eileen had produced three attractive children, the youngest now almost two years old, and although they were allowed far too much license by their grandparents' standards, Miriam recognized that Eileen was a natural mother, quick to notice ailments and danger, although slapdash in her methods of upbringing. Her innate playfulness made her a good companion to the young things, and if discipline was needed—and often it was, for they were high-spirited children—then Lovell reproved them with due solemnity.

  Yes, things could have been much worse, Miriam told herself, stacking the breakfast things neatly. Lovell seemed happy enough, although one could not help wishing that he had found someone with a depth of character and outlook to match his own. But would she have liked such a woman any more than she liked Eileen?

  She washed up thoughtfully, and was honest enough to admit that any woman whom Lovell married would have caused the same secret unhappiness. She had been supplanted, and it rankled. It was the outcome of unusual devotion between brother and sister, and she had now learned to live with this unpalatable fact.

  She took a last look at herself in the long looking glass in her bedroom. Her thick dark hair was knotted on her neck. Her navy blue linen frock suited her slim build perfectly, and the plain but expensive shoes made an exact match. She looked what she was—an attractive, efficient business woman in her thirties.

  "I wonder why she never married?" she had heard people say.

  She wondered herself sometimes. There had been young men in her life, friends of Lovell's, for instance, when he was at Cambridge. Young and friendly, some of them ardent, they had been glad to visit the austere vicarage in the fens and to enjoy the homely hospitality offered there, and the company of Lovell's quiet young sister.

  But, cool and farseeing, Miriam found none of them as attractive as the prospect of a life free of domestic responsibilities, free of children, and free of a lifelong partnership, which she doubted if she could sustain. With her upbringing, marriage would be for life, and sometimes, watching her hard-working mother, she wondered if she would ever be as selfless.

  Single life had its compensations. If she had to stay late at the office, or decided to go straight from there to see a play in London, or to visit friends, then there was no one to inform or to consider. Her decisions needed no discussion with another. Everything was under control.

  No one stirred next door as she drove her car towards the gate. The road was empty. The horizon as clear as her own mind. The day was mapped out. She knew exactly what would be happening at any given time. It was good to know where one was going.

  Miriam Quinn was very sure of herself.

  ***

  Within the next few weeks, news of the efficient paragon who lived in Mrs. Benson's annex had flashed round the village bush telegraph. Henry Mawne was largely to blame.

  Gerald Partridge, the vicar, was in sore need of someone to look after the books of the Church Fabric Fund. Henry Mawne, honorary secretary and treasurer to a score or more village concerns, stated flatly that he could not take on any more.

  "But what about that nice Miriam Quinn?" he asked of his friend. "We met her the other night at Joan Benson's."

  "But she must be very busy with her job," protested the vicar.

  "She's home by about six. Why not ask her if she would like the job? She might be glad to meet people."

  The same kindly thought had occurred to other people in Fairacre, particularly those on committees needing secretaries, treasurers, and that vague amorphous quality called "new blood." Here was a clever woman, obligingly free of family ties, in good health and possibly lonely, who could prove a godsend to the various organizations in need of help.

  Henry Mawne was the first to approach Miriam on behalf of the short-staffed Church Fabric committee. She welcomed him to her shining house, gave him coffee, sparkled at his jokes, and declined the invitation in the most charming manner. Henry retired, hardly realizing that he had been defeated.

  The Brownies needed a Brown Owl, the Cubs an Akela. The Women's Institute needed a bookkeeper as the last one still worked in shillings and pence, and in any case had lost the account book. The Over-Sixties' Club could do with a speaker on any subject, at any time suitable to Miss Quinn.

  The Naturalists' Association, the Youth Club, the Play Group, the Welfare Clinic, St. Patrick's Choir, and the Sunday School were anxious to have Miss Quinn's presence and support, and Miriam soon realized, with amusement and resignation, that much more hummed beneath Fairacre's serene face than she had imagined.

  Her tact, her charm, and her intelligence, backed by her formidable resolve to keep her life exactly as she wanted it, enabled her to stay clear of any of these entanglements.

  Baffled, and slightly hurt, the villagers retired worsted.

  Mrs. Pringle summed up the general feeling about the newcomer.

  "No flies on Miss Quinn! She knows her own value, that one, but she ain't for sale!"

  Chapter 3

  NO HOLLY FOR MISS QUINN
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br />   AS THE WEEKS PASSED, Miriam's pleasure grew. Holly Lodge was all that she had hoped for—peaceful, convenient, and set among the great windswept countryside for which she had craved.

  She took to strolling for an hour each evening before her supper. The air blew away the little tensions and annoyances of the office, and she always returned refreshed.

  Sometimes she explored the village of Fairacre, stopping to talk politely to all who accosted her, but as Mr. Lamb at the Post Office said: "She don't make the running. It's you who has to start the conversation, though she's as nice as pie once you get going."

  Henry Mawne and his wife she knew through her employer, and had been invited to their Queen Anne house at the end of the village on several occasions. The Hales at Tyler's Row, the Partridges at the vicarage, Mr. Willet, and Mrs. Pringle all were known to her, and she was on nodding terms with the majority of Fairacre's inhabitants.

  But, on the whole, she preferred to ramble in the immediate vicinity of Holly Lodge. There she was unlikely to meet well-meaning folk who engaged her in conversation. She reveled in these solitary walks, noting the nuts and berries in the hedges, the flight of the downland birds, and the small fragrant flowers which flourished on the chalky soil.

  She skirted the field of barley behind the house when she set off for the downs. Since her coming, the crop had turned from green to gold, fine and upstanding, with heavy ears. She watched it being harvested in August, and listened to the regular thumping of the baler as she ate her simple evening meal in the sitting room or carried her tray to some quiet corner of the garden.

  Joan Benson had quickly realized that the girl preferred to be alone, and she sympathized with her feelings. After all, she told herself, Miriam arrived home tired, having dealt with people and their problems all day.

  She had met Sir Barnabas Hatch at the Mawnes' and had summed him up astutely as the sort of man who, endowed with twice the average amount of energy and intelligence, expects other people to be equally dynamic. Miriam could well hold her own, and her cool disposition would enable her to cope with any outbursts from her employer. Nevertheless, he must be a demanding person with whom to deal, and it was no wonder that the girl needed the peace of her little home at the end of the day.