“Mother sold the house,” continues Edmond. “That seemed the end of everything. I shall never forget my feelings when I saw the house dismantled and all the furniture carted away . . . all the things I knew . . . even my bed and the cupboard where I kept my toys. Since then we haven’t had any home; we’ve just moved about from place to place. The only time I had any settled existence was when I was at Rugby and even then I never knew where we would be for the next holidays. Mother had nobody else except me. It used to frighten me to think of it. Sometimes it still frightens me. If we had a settled home it would be different—or so I believe.”
“I think it would,” says Susan softly. “I think it would make a difference if you had a settled home. It would make you feel safer, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s rather cowardly to want safety,” declares Edmond frowning.
“But we all want it!” cries Susan. “We all want it, don’t we, Mrs. Christie? We want some sort of anchor—somebody to lean on. I’ve got Daddy, of course. With Daddy behind me I can go forward and be as brave as a lion.”
She looks at me to see if I understand—and of course I do! I can go forward and be brave for I have Tim behind me. Presently Susan rises and says she must go. Edmond goes too and I watch them walk down the lane together, talking earnestly. Perhaps they are arranging another meeting; it may be that they will meet by that fateful gate. Susan’s horse will crop the grass while Susan and Edmond lean upon the gate and talk to one another.
It is no good worrying about them and wondering about the future. What is to be will be. I have helped them to meet, it is true, but if I had not helped them they would have met in some other way. There would have been another gate for Edmond to open. Edmond would have seen to that.
Part IV
Busy Days at The Small House
Friday, 27th July
Betty is arriving tonight and the two boys tomorrow, and this influx provides a problem for the housekeeper. I am puzzling out ways and means of feeding my prospective visitors when Mrs. Daulkes appears, laden with parcels: rabbits, eggs, an oxtail and a pound of country butter are unpacked upon the kitchen table.
“There,” says Mrs. Daulkes with satisfaction. “That ought to keep us going for a bit and Mr. ’Igginbotham ’as promised me a tongue for Monday.”
“How marvellous!” I exclaim. “It is kind of you to take so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. It’s a pleasure to do things for some people,” declares my faithful Eskimo. “And ’ow could I look Mrs. Bollings in the face if we didn’t ’ave enough?”
This argument is unanswerable of course. I am aware by this time that Mrs. Daulkes is slightly scared of Mrs. Bollings and that one of her chief objects in life is to be able to meet the glance of Mrs. Bollings without fear.
The Small House is full of bustle this morning; beds are made up, furniture is polished and a magnificent cake is baked.
All day long my excitement grows and when I reach the station, twenty minutes too early, to meet Betty’s train I am in a perfect fever. I walk up and down; I stand still; I go and look at the clock. Then I find a seat and sit down for a few minutes and go and look at the clock again.
“Meeting someone?” enquires the porter sympathetically. “Yes, I’m meeting my daughter. She’s coming from Edinburgh, but of course she had to go to London and change.”
“Not coming by ’erself surely?” asks the porter.
“Only from London,” I reply. “She is travelling with friends to London and then coming on here alone.”
“You didn’t ought to let ’er travel by ’erself,” says the porter shaking his head reprovingly. “No, you didn’t ought to. There’s all sorts of ’orrible things can ’appen. Why, you can’t never pick up a paper but you see something ’orrible ’as ’appened to a little girl—not nowadays you can’t.”
“She’s sixteen,” I tell him, trying to defend my callous behaviour.
“Ah, sixteen! That’s a bad age, that is. That’s the age they likes to get little girls—sixteen, and pretty, with fair ’air like ’er Mum—that’s the kind they likes to get ’old of.”
I walk away to the other end of the platform but I can’t walk away from the fears which his warnings have awakened in my breast. He is right, of course—absolutely right. Why on earth was I such a fool as to allow Betty to travel from London by herself? Why didn’t I go and meet her? What shall I do if she doesn’t arrive? “All sorts of ’orrible things can ’appen”—yes, of course he’s right. Some horrible man . . . or an accident . . . anything might happen.
But at last the train arrives and Betty steps out of it and flings herself into my arms. My first impression is that Betty has not changed at all; she is as big and bouncing as ever with rosy cheeks and fair curls, but later, when I have time to look at her properly—when we are sitting together in the dining room having supper—I begin to realise that my daughter has changed a good deal. She is taller than she was eighteen months ago; her figure has lost its school girl plumpness and her movements are more graceful and less puppy-like. She is older in other ways too; although she is still a chatterbox, her chatter is not so scatter-brained.
“This is fun,” says Betty smiling at me across the table. “At first I was a little disappointed when you wrote and said you’d taken a house in England. I thought Scotland would be nicer; I know it so much better, you see. But I’m glad now. It’s so different, isn’t it? It looks different and it feels different and the people are the most different of all. In fact it’s like a foreign country . . . and it’s ages since we had a real house of our very own. I’m looking forward to seeing Bryan terribly much. I haven’t seen him properly for ages.”
I tell her Percy Edgeburton is coming too.
“Oh good!” says Betty. “I always liked Percy—and that will be three for tennis. Is there anybody here who would make a fourth?”
“We mustn’t call him Percy,” I warn her.
“No,” agrees Betty smiling. “Do we call him Hedgehog?”
“We call him Perry.”
“Rather nice,” nods Betty. “Easy to remember. Goodness, I am eating a lot! Of course I didn’t eat much in the train. I wasn’t sick but I felt a bit queer now and then . . . you know, Mummy, I’m a bit sorry for Erica, she’s awfully disappointed that we aren’t going to Tocher for the holidays—she really is. I think perhaps I’d better go there for a few days on my way back to school; she’s been so decent to me, hasn’t she?” This indeed is a new and older and more thoughtful Betty. I agree she must go and see Erica and add that I might come with her myself as I want to see Erica again.
“That would be gorgeous,” says Betty happily.
Saturday, 28th July
The boys arrive soon after mid-day upon Perry’s motor-bicycle; which to my mind is a miraculous machine. Indeed when I see the pile of miscellaneous luggage in the hall I can hardly believe that all this, plus two large youths, has been transported sixty miles upon its ancient frame.
Betty is of the same opinion. “However did you manage it?” she enquires. “I thought you said in your letter only two people could go on the bike, but if it can take all this as well—”
“All this doesn’t weigh as much as you,” replies Bryan brutally.
The inference is obvious and I begin to feel a little sorry for Betty and to wonder what I shall do if the two boys go off together for expeditions and leave Betty at home; but there is no time to think of that now for the whole atmosphere of The Small House has changed. It is no longer a quiet peaceful spot but is full of movement and the chatter of young voices. People run madly up and down the stairs; the hall is strewn with caps and waterproofs, cluttered with tennis rackets and hob-nailed boots . . . and the succulent smell of rabbit stew pervades all.
“The ’ouse ’as come alive,” says Mrs. Daulkes, smiling at me as she carries in the heavy tray of food.
The afternoon is warm and is spent sitting peacefully in the garden, myself in the long cane-chair and the
young people lying stretched out upon rugs in the shadow of the tree. Betty suggests tennis (already she has discovered the tennis club and ascertained that for a reasonable subscription anybody can join) but Bryan and Perry show no enthusiasm.
“This craze for exercise!” says Bryan wearily.
“Another day,” says Perry.
“You like tennis, don’t you?” asks Betty in anxious tones.
“Of course,” replies Perry. “We’re tired today, that’s all. We had to get up terribly early, you see.”
Although they are unwilling to exercise their bodies they are quite ready to exercise their tongues and I find the conversation interesting and revealing for it ranges over a wide field of subjects and, apart from a little mild banter, it is sensible and polite. They are anxious to hear about one another’s doings and are content to listen as well as talk. Time was when Bryan and Betty both talked at once at the top of their voices and had no wish to hear one another’s point of view.
Perry talks less than the others but what he says is worth hearing and he has a stabilising effect upon his companions. I realise that although he and Bryan are almost the same age, and have had exactly the same education, Perry has developed and matured more quickly than my son.
When they have finished talking about their doings there is a short silence.
“The Small House,” says Bryan, breaking it. “Wait a minute—I know—Anthony Trollope lived here, of course. I’ve been trying to think where I had heard about it.”
“It isn’t old enough,” Betty objects. “I mean Anthony Trollope was long, long ago, wasn’t he?”
“He didn’t live in The Small House, he wrote about it,” declares Perry.
Bryan says, “Well, you know, of course. I won’t argue about it. I had to read one of his books once for a holiday task. It was called He Knew He Was Right and it was the most awful tripe—all about a man who thought his wife was carrying on with another man, and of course she wasn’t at all. The whole misunderstanding could have been cleared up in a few words, but He Knew He Was Right so it went drivelling on until he’d wrecked everything. A ghastly book!”
“You haven’t much use for the classics,” says Perry, stating the fact dispassionately.
“They’re such small print and much too long,” explains Bryan. “Take Redgauntlet, for instance. I had to do it for my Cert—”
“Redgauntlet is good,” says Betty quickly.
“Oh, it’s a good enough yarn,” agrees Bryan. “I’ll grant you that—but it’s far too long. It wants cutting down a lot.”
“You mean you would like it re-written!” I exclaim, horrified at the thought.
“Why not?” asks Bryan. “I bet Kenneth Hardy, or somebody like that who writes modern thrillers, could make a jolly good tale of it. He could keep the plot and the characters, but make it go quicker and put some pep into it. I believe I could do it myself if I had time . . . and you needn’t laugh like that,” adds Bryan, looking up at me with a grin. “You don’t know what I could do if I put my mind to it.”
“Perhaps you could help me to make some tea,” I suggest.
Bryan is quite willing to undertake the task and we are about to go in and boil the kettle when I hear the squeak of the side gate and Susan Morven appears.
“Oh bother, it’s a girl!” exclaims Bryan sotto voce.
Susan advances down the path and I am interested to note that she looks much younger than usual. She is wearing a blue cotton frock and her pretty mouth is innocent of lipstick.
“This is Susan Morven,” I tell them. “Susan and I met at the library . . .”
“Yes,” agrees Susan demurely. “As a matter of fact that’s why I’ve come. Miss Carlyle found a handkerchief and she thought it must be yours, Mrs. Christie.”
Oddly enough it is my handkerchief—with the initials H.C. in the corner—but I feel pretty certain I did not leave it at the library all the same. The excuse for Susan’s visit is a little too good to be true and the bland look in her eyes, as they meet mine, is a trifle overdone. Someday, when I get her alone, I shall find out how Susan became possessed of my handkerchief. I shall accuse the young woman of theft.
Meanwhile Susan has taken her place on a rug beside Betty and is answering a rapid fire of questions. Yes, she lives here . . . at the Manor House. Yes, she plays tennis. Yes, she is quite willing to make a fourth. No, unfortunately she hasn’t any brothers or sisters, nor has she been to a boarding-school.
“I don’t know why Mummy never mentioned you in her letters,” says Betty in a surprised voice. “Why didn’t you, Mummy? You told me all sorts of things about Old Quinings but you never said anything about knowing any girls.”
This is a little difficult to answer so I rise rather hastily and say I must see about tea.
“Susan must stay to tea!” cries Betty. “Mummy, Susan must stay to tea, mustn’t she?”
I agree that she must.
Saturday, 4th August
The days fly past very quickly; contrary to Richard’s gloomy prophesy there is plenty of entertainment in Old Quinings and Bryan and Betty and Perry seem completely happy. They have played tennis, they have been to tea at the Manor, they have gone over to Wandlebury in the bus. Occasionally Bryan suggests that he and Perry might have a run on the motor bike—“to Chevis Green or somewhere”—but for some reason or other the expedition has not yet taken place. Susan makes a fourth at tennis or, if she is not available, Joan Meller is co-opted. Betty explains that “Susan doesn’t like to neglect her father, and of course she rides a lot.” There is no mention of Edmond Alston nor has he appeared and I cannot help wondering what has happened to poor Edmond and whether he has been opening gates for his golden-haired angel. Mrs. Alston, who has been to see me once or twice, reports that Edmond is working very hard, but Mrs. Alston does not know everything.
Mrs. Alston is not a very cheerful visitor (my young friends vanish into thin air when they see her coming) but she is much less tiresome than Miss Stroude, who is a pest. Miss Stroude has called on two occasions and spent several hours hunting for her valuable letters in the box-room. I have not seen her to speak to (she walks in without the formality of ringing the bell) but we can hear her moving boxes about overhead. Mrs. Daulkes is of the opinion that Miss Stroude should not be permitted to search for her letters and that the General should be summoned “to turn ’er out like ’e did before” but I do not feel justified in forbidding Miss Stroude to enter her own house and, having won the victory of the lease, I can afford to be magnanimous. It is not very pleasant to have Miss Stroude dropping in unexpectedly and I wish with all my heart that her “grey cardboard folder” with its valuable contents could be found.
In addition to these visitors we have had Tony to see us several times and of course he is always welcome. He has known Bryan and Betty since they were small children and holds the rank of Honorary Uncle. Sometimes he teases them unmercifully, but as they both have a healthy sense of humour they take it in good part and like him all the better.
Today Tony arrives soon after breakfast and is welcomed as usual with cries of delight and with enquiries as to whether he can take us all to Wandlebury in Belshazzar.
“No, I can’t,” replies Tony. “I’m a busy farmer.”
“What have you come for?” Betty demands.
Tony sighs and says Betty’s manners are hideous. He has called in for a few minutes to ask us what we think about a dance. His sister and niece are staying at Charters Towers and with so many young people about some sort of junketing seems indicated.
“Of course it will be a primitive affair—quite informal,” says Tony. “It’s impossible to feed one’s guests properly nowadays, but we’ll do what we can.”
“You mean a dance at Charters Towers!” I exclaim.
“That was the idea.”
“Oh, Uncle Tony, it will be gorgeous!” cries Betty in delight.
“It will not be gorgeous,” replies Uncle Tony gravely. “It will be an austerity
dance. And I can’t think why the fact that I am giving a dance should interest you in the slightest. I said a dance, not a children’s party.”
“Darling Uncle Tony, you are a pet!” declares Betty rapturously. “I’ve never been to a real, proper, grown-up dance before. I shall have to get a new dress. Oh, joy!” cries Betty, starting to whirl round the room. “Oh, won’t it be fun! Do you think anybody will want to dance with me?”
Tony repeats that it will not be a real, proper, grown-up dance and she has not been invited to it; but of course if she likes to get a new dress and gate-crash that’s her look out.
“You’ll dance with me, won’t you, Perry?” says Betty. “And there’s Bryan, of course . . .”
“Will Lady Morley like it?” I enquire (for Lady Morley is rather an alarming person in my estimation).
“Mother is all for it,” replies Tony. “She is now convinced that it is entirely her own idea and is doing her best to overcome my reluctance, so you may take it as fixed.”
It is very good of Tony to think of it and I tell him so. He agrees that his benevolence is phenomenal and adds that it is all the more phenomenal because he, himself, will derive no pleasure at all from the entertainment—not even the pleasure of seeing his guests eating good food. I point out that he should derive pleasure from giving pleasure to others and if he were really benevolent he would do so. Tony replies that he is not as benevolent as all that.
Bryan now chips in and says, will it be all right to come in a dinner-jacket, because he has no tails.
Perry says he has tails, but not here. Does General Morley think he should write for his tails or not? Perhaps it will be better just to come in a dinner-jacket and then he will be the same as Bryan.
Bryan says, “Will it be soon?”
Perry says, “I do hope it will be before the sixteenth, sir, because I’ve promised to go home.”
I say, “You’ll ask Grace and Jack MacDougall, won’t you? They could easily come over from Biddington.”
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