Certainly this is not an Eskimo—more like a bear!
“That man was right,” she repeats, opening her paper and shaking it out impatiently. “You’ll be off back to London in a fortnight.”
“I can always go up to London for a day’s shopping.”
“You can’t,” she snaps. “The train service to Old Quinings is deplorable. It used to be bad and now it’s worse. Only the slowest trains stop at Old Quinings. In fact the place has nothing to recommend it.”
“Where do you live?” I enquire, for it seems to me that it is my turn to ask questions.
“At Old Quinings of course,” says the little old lady with a sudden and quite unexpected cackle of laughter.
I laugh, too, and decide she is not such a bear after all.
“Oh well,” says the old lady. “Perhaps you’ll be able to survive. You’ll be quite comfortable—that’s one thing. The Small House has been well looked after and the chimneys don’t smoke. He was wrong about that. Who was he?”
“Who?” I enquire in surprise.
“That man who saw you off.”
“He’s my brother.”
“That accounts for it. Brothers have the right to be disagreeable—or think they have. I quarrelled with mine off and on for years. Yes, I might have guessed it was your brother. Your husband is in Africa, of course.”
“How did you know?”
“I know everything,” she declares with a twinkle of her beady eyes. “You’d be surprised at all the things I know. It amuses me to hear all that goes on and put two and two together. I’ve always been good at arithmetic so I usually get the right answer. If you want any information about your neighbours just come to me: perhaps I’ll tell you and perhaps I won’t.” She cackles again, this time so heartily that she chokes and coughs asthmatically.
“You know my name, of course,” says the old lady when she has recovered from her spasms.
“No, how could I?”
She points to a green label which is dangling from a suitcase in the rack. “Use your eyes,” she says. “Miss Crease, Walnut House, Old Quinings. Our gardens are back to back with a high wall between. You can have the apples and walnuts that fall into your garden, but your son is not to climb my walnut tree.”
“He wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing!”
“Well, he must be an odd sort of boy, that’s all I can say.”
She is silent for a few moments and so am I.
“It’s no good your taking the huff,” says Miss Crease at last. “I’m old so I can say what I like—that’s one of the advantages of being old—though, to be honest with you, I’ve always said what I liked and done what I liked. Of course if you want to quarrel it’s all one to me.”
This seems a bad beginning to my new life and I reply hastily that I have no desire to quarrel—my nature is peaceable—and I promise to warn Bryan not to trespass upon Miss Crease’s property.
“I never said that,” she retorts. “I said he wasn’t to climb my walnut tree. As a matter of fact I like boys, especially if they’re good-looking. Your son is practically certain to be good-looking,” adds Miss Crease, staring at me in an impersonal sort of way.
We continue to chat as the train dawdles through the country. We pass woods and streams; we see cows in meadows; we stop at little village-stations and dawdle on again. Sometimes I feel I like the old lady quite a lot, and sometimes I feel I dislike her intensely but one thing is certain: her worst enemy could not call her dull.
As we approach Old Quinings Miss Crease begins to fuss. I am kept busy, taking down her suitcase from the rack, stowing away her cushion, folding up her papers and putting them into her bag.
The train slows down and crawls into the station and I am overjoyed to see my dear Annie standing upon the platform waiting for me.
Part II
Quiet Days at The Small House
Wednesday, 27th June
I open my eyes sleepily. The sunshine is streaming through the wide-open window and making pools of yellow light upon the floor. There are sounds of movement in the house: I can hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner and the chatter of subdued voices. Outside there is the clatter of heavy boots on cobblestones and the clank of a pail.
For a few brief moments I wonder where I am (for I have been in so many places during the last fortnight that my brain is somewhat muddled) and then I remember all that has happened and realise that this pleasant apartment is the best bedroom in the Bull and Bush.
It was my intention to go straight to The Small House and settle myself there but Annie had arranged otherwise. (“You’ll be tired,” Annie had explained as she helped me to collect my luggage and conducted me to the taxi. “Well, of course you’ll be tired after all that long journey. You’re coming to the Bull for a nice rest; we’ve kept the best bedroom for you. There isn’t any hurry about getting settled in The Small House—it won’t run away.”) So here I am, an honoured guest, at the old-fashioned inn.
The Bull and Bush is delightful; it is an old English hostelry standing a little way back from the village street with a cobbled space in front; and there are green tubs, full of geraniums, at either side of the door. The door opens straight into the dining room which is set with small tables and has a brick floor and a doorstep of black oak which is hollowed by the passage of many feet. This curious old room is the hub of the house, passages radiate from it and lead to other rooms and to corkscrew stairs and narrow corridors which slope up and down in a disconcerting manner. At the back of the house there is a yard, flanked with out-buildings which once were stables but now are garages.
The place, though old, has been brought up to date as much as possible; it is well-kept and the paint is in good order. In fact it gives the impression that its owners are thriving, that they are comfortably settled and doing a good trade.
How interesting it is to see old friends in new surroundings! Annie and Bollings are just the same as ever . . . but with a difference. There is a new dignity about them, a new assurance, and their characters seem more defined. I did not expect this change, but now I see that I should have expected it. Responsibility is a forcing house for human beings, it makes people grow and develop. For years Annie and Fred Bollings were looked after by us; all their problems were solved for them and they had no responsibilities. Now they are standing upon their own feet and are obliged to think for themselves. Annie has always been the stronger character and sometimes I have felt a little worried as to whether their marriage would be a success . . . but I need not have worried for Annie has mellowed and Bollings has blossomed forth and the two have become partners in their new venture and are making good. I had always thought Fred Bollings a typical batman but recently he has put on a little weight and, with his round cheery face and the white apron tied firmly across his middle, he might easily play the role of “mine host” in a dramatic presentation of The Canterbury Tales.
I am lying in bed thinking of all this and feeling happy about it when the door opens softly and Annie peeps into the room.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says. “I hope all that noise didn’t waken you. I told them to be quiet but they will chatter, no matter what you say, and you daren’t be too hard on them or they just walk off and leave you stranded—no sense of responsibility, that’s their worst fault. Now you just stay where you are and I’ll bring up your breakfast.”
“But, Annie—”
“It’s no trouble,” says Annie firmly. “It’s less trouble than you coming down. The mornings are a bit of a rush and you’ll be much better in bed till the place is cleaned and tidied. Later on, when I’ve got through, I’ll take you to see the house.” She hesitates and then adds, “It’s small, of course,” and before I can reply goes out and shuts the door.
Naturally I had expected the house to be small.
The main street of Old Quinings is wide, there are trees on either side and little old-fashioned houses, some of which have been turned into shops. There is a sleepy feeling about the p
lace and the people we meet look pleasant and comfortable and leisurely. Annie knows most of them, and greetings are exchanged, but only greetings in passing, for now that we are actually on our way to The Small House Annie is showing signs of strain.
“Supposing you don’t like it!” she says, hastening along at a rapid pace which is quite out of keeping with the atmosphere.
“Of course I shall like it,” I reply.
“It’s here,” says Annie, turning into a narrow, bumpy lane marked NO THOROUGHFARE. “Well, if you don’t like it we shall have to re-let it, that’s all.”
Halfway down the lane we come to a holly hedge with a little green gate in it. “This is the place,” says Annie in trembling tones.
Somehow I had expected The Small House to be old (perhaps because most of the houses are old in this drowsy little village) but the house certainly is not more than twenty years old. It is a white house, square and two-storied, with a red-tiled roof; there is a large double window on each side of the door and three large windows above. The front garden is gay with flowers and a flagged path leads up to the door. Annie opens the door with a key and we go in.
All houses have their own particular atmosphere which can be perceived with a sixth sense. I have lived in houses that made me happy and in houses that made me miserable. This little house is the happy kind. As I walk into the hall I feel welcomed and soothed. I feel as if I had arrived at the house of a friend and she was glad to have me.
The hall is square, and although it is not large there is a feeling of space about it; doors on the right and left lead to a small dining room and a good-sized drawing room—the latter stretches from the front to the back of the house with windows at each end and a glass door which opens into the garden. There is a brightness and airiness which comes of clean white paint and polished floors and gaily patterned cretonnes; and there is not too much furniture but just a few good pieces, pleasing to the eye.
“It’s a bit bare,” says Annie doubtfully.
“It’s lovely!” I exclaim. “It’s a perfectly lovely little house. I wonder how its owner could bear to let it!”
“She didn’t really. It belonged to a Mrs. Stroude and she died quite suddenly so Miss Stroude went off for a cruise. Mrs. Stroude was a nice lady, everybody liked Mrs. Stroude. She was pretty and smiling and always said good morning when you met her in the village. It was lucky her dying like that,” adds Annie cheerfully.
“Lucky!” I exclaim in surprise.
“We’d never have got the house,” explains Annie.
Now that her mind is set at rest Annie takes a pleasure in showing me everything and displaying the amenities of The Small House. Everything is beautifully arranged, every detail has been carefully thought out to give the maximum of comfort and the minimum of work.
“You’ll be having this room,” says Annie. “At least that’s what I thought . . .”
I think so too. It is a charming room with a window looking out over the garden. I can see fruit trees and flowers and a wide sloping lawn and a couple of shady beech trees. Beyond is a high brick wall and, beyond that, more trees decked in their summer greenery.
“That Miss Crease lives there,” says Annie. “An old horror, she is. I wouldn’t have nothing to do with her if I was you. She’d worm secrets out of an oyster.”
“But I have no secrets,” I reply, smiling at Annie’s description of my travelling companion.
The rooms are all pleasant and the kitchen is no exception to the rule; there is a red-brick floor, a small Aga and a fine row of cupboards with glass doors. The sink and draining-board are of gleaming metal and the table has a plastic top.
“Oh dear,” says Annie looking round. “It seems awful you being here and me at the Bull and Bush. I’ve got a woman to come in daily—quite nice she is—but you’ll have to get your own supper. Of course you’ll be staying at the Bull till the holidays begin; there’s no sense in you living here alone.”
But I want to live here alone. The Small House is entrancing and I want to move in tomorrow. I try to explain this to Annie and to get my way without hurting her feelings but the task is not easy.
We are still arguing (standing at the window of the room which is destined to be Betty’s, and which looks out over the lane) when the noise of a motor-bicycle approaching at speed disturbs the peace of Old Quinings. The bicycle comes lurching down the lane and stops at the gate with an ear-splitting explosion, and two tall figures (clad in filthy mackintosh suits and goggles) dismount.
“It’s the exhaust again,” says one in a loud bass voice. “I told you it would bust if you came over those beastly bumps full speed.”
The other does not reply. He pushes open the gate, removes the goggles and looks up. “Hullo!” he cries joyfully. “Hullo, Mum, it’s me!”
“Bryan!” I shriek, almost falling out of the window in my excitement.
Bryan waves and dashes into the house. I rush to the door. We meet on the stairs and embrace in wild abandon.
“I had to come!” cries Bryan. “We came on Hedgehog’s bike. It’s sixty miles and we did it under two hours which isn’t bad going for a crazy machine like that. How are you, darling? You look all right. Oh Lord, I’m afraid that smear on your blouse is oil or something! This coat is absolutely foul.”
I hug him again and tell him it doesn’t matter and enquire a little anxiously how they have managed to get away. I am aware that, although the Cambridge term is over, Bryan and his friend are taking a course in dairy-farming and are kept hard at it from early morning to dewy eve.
Bryan does not answer directly. He says, “Sixty miles—that’s all. Well, when I found it was only sixty miles—and it’s eighteen months since I saw you! Oh, here’s Hedgehog! You know him, don’t you?”
I have known Bryan’s friend for many years, partly by personal contact but more by repute. Bryan has always talked a great deal about Hedgehog and although they have quarrelled now and then their friendship has survived and they have walked shoulder to shoulder since Prep-school days. Hedgehog’s parents died when he was a child and, as he has no brothers or sisters, he is rather a lonely soul. His only relation is his grandfather—a somewhat irascible old baronet—who lives in solitary state in his ancestral castle. Bryan has visited the castle several times and made the acquaintance of its owner, Sir Percy Edgeburton. I am aware of all this of course and also aware of the fact that “Hedgehog” bears the same name as his grandfather, but according to Bryan he dislikes his name so much that he is liable to become violent when addressed by it. This being so it is difficult to know how to address the tall, broad-shouldered young man who has just entered the hall.
“You can call him Perry, if you like,” says Bryan who has perceived my difficulty. “Quite a lot of people do. He doesn’t mind being called Perry; do you, Hedgehog?”
“It might be worse,” says Hedgehog—or Perry—without enthusiasm.
As we shake hands I remember the first time I saw him. It was when he and Bryan were at Nearhampton School. In those days Perry was exceedingly small for his age and not very particular in the matter of washing his ears. I have seen him at odd times since then but, even so, it seems incredible that the small, dirty and rather pathetic child should have grown into this large, good-looking young man. Some children grow up and still look much the same, but Perry has changed out of all recognition; his face is square and determined with well-defined features and hazel eyes set unusually wide apart. His mouth is large and mobile—and at this moment it is smiling a trifle shyly.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming, Mrs. Christie,” he says in his deep voice (the voice which I heard at the gate, raised in tones of expostulation). “You see I thought at first I’d let Bryan come alone but the bike isn’t awfully reliable and I know it better than he does.”
“I get the best speed out of it, but Hedgehog is good at repairs,” Bryan explains.
I assure Perry that I am delighted to see him.
“So this is The Small
House!” Bryan remarks, looking round the hall. “Not very big, certainly.”
“It’s nice,” says Perry. “Awfully pretty and cheerful. I like small houses much better than big ones.”
“You’re a nice one to talk of small houses!”
“I know,” agrees Perry. “That’s just why. Our place is far too big. Grandfather and I roll about in it like peas in a drum. This house feels like a home.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come and stay,” suggests Bryan. “I mean we could come over together when we’ve finished the course. Is there room for him, Mum?”
Fortunately there is. (Perry and Bryan can share the double-bedded room which I had intended for Betty and she can go into the smaller room next door to mine); so I second the invitation and Perry accepts with alacrity. “I can go on to Grandfather afterwards,” he says.
“There won’t be much to do,” I warn him; for Perry’s leisure is usually spent riding and shooting on his grandfather’s estate.
“Hedgehog doesn’t mind,” says Bryan. “He’ll have his bike and we can go for picnics and play tennis—or else do nothing. Personally I’m all for doing nothing at all.”
Perry says doing nothing will suit him admirably, especially after their strenuous time at Wycherley Farm. “We get up at five,” says Perry. “We milk cows and clean out byres; then, when the regular farmhands go to the pictures or have a good snooze, we attend lectures on Milk Production.”
“I say, Mum,” says Bryan. “Is there any food going? It sounds a bit greedy but we really ought to get back. We’ve cut out the afternoon work and they might be a bit ratty if we didn’t roll up in time for the lecture.”
This is Annie’s cue. She appears on the top landing and announces that there is steak-and-kidney pie for lunch at the Bull . . . so, Bryan having greeted her affectionately, we lock up The Small House and proceed to the Bull forthwith.
The steak-and-kidney pie is a masterpiece and there is cider to wash it down. Bryan and Perry and I sit at a little table in the window of the dining room which looks out onto the village street. It is lovely to see Bryan, to see him looking so fit and strong and full of good spirits, but unfortunately I cannot enjoy his visit with an easy mind. My feelings are mixed. Naturally I am only too happy to provide my guests with all that they desire, but cider is a heady drink and they have to ride sixty miles . . . and, although I am thoroughly enjoying their company, I am so afraid they may have trouble on the way back and arrive too late for the lecture that I am longing for them to go. I endeavour to disguise my inhospitable feelings but Bryan is difficult to deceive; he looks at me from time to time with a twinkle in his eye.
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