Parson's Nine

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mrs. Cary got to her feet.

  “All right, I will, I’ll think of nothing else, and the moment I have an idea I’ll come and tell you.”

  She came back two days later. She found Catherine reading a novel over the fire.

  “I’ve just seen Susanna go down the street in full regimentals as a guide or scout or one of those things, so I thought this was a safe moment to catch you alone.”

  Catherine pulled up another armchair.

  “Well?”

  “Do you mind lying a little?”

  “I don’t personally, but my husband can’t, he’s quite incapable of it.”

  “How laudable.”

  “No, tiresome.”

  Mrs. Cary lit a cigarette.

  “I’ve an aunt who needs a sort of secretary-cum-companion, the sort of person erroneously described as being ‘a daughter in the house.’ I drove over and saw her yesterday and told her about Susanna, and she’d like to have her. She has some appalling fête or bazaar in the offing, so would be glad of her right away.”

  “How do you suppose you’d get Susanna to go to her?”

  “That’s where the lying comes in. I realise Susanna would refuse at once, so I suggest you tell her you’ve lost some money, and it would be a great help if she could get a job.”

  “Heavens! Do you seriously think I could get my husband to say a thing like that? After all, he knows it isn’t true, and besides he’s very satisfied with Susanna; to him her behaviour is perfectly normal.”

  “Good God! Is he blind?”

  “No, it’s not blindness; she works hard, she goes regularly to the services, and remember the Church’s attitude, ‘a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.’”

  “I doubt the ‘contrite’; I should think at present she’s as hard as nails.”

  “All right, you needn’t rub it in. I know you think I’m letting things slide, but you don’t realise the difficulties. Susanna refuses to go away, and her father wants her to stay here. I’ve offered her travel with me, or her old governess, or anybody else she likes to suggest. Both her sisters have asked her to come and stay with them: Judith, in fact, would like to entertain for her. Tobit, my eldest boy, who is living with his grandfather as a sort of estate agent, begged her to go there for a bit; said he couldn’t get about quickly—he has only one leg and would be glad of her help—but she refused us all; indeed, she got bad-tempered when I tried to press her. The truth is, poor child, she’s filled up every minute while she’s here, and she dreads having time on her hands. At least that’s how I read her.”

  The two women fell silent, gazing into the fire.

  “You must send her to my aunt,” said Mrs. Cary at last. “It’s only a temporary arrangement, but it will serve as a lever to get her away from here. Tell her the tale about your money, and tell her you’ve kept it from her father, then advise her to come and see me about finding something to do, and after a decent interval I will suggest my aunt.”

  “It seems cruel; Susanna obviously doesn’t want to be uprooted. If only I could be sure it would be the best thing for her in the end.”

  “Would you have her operated on if she needed it?”

  “Yes, I suppose that is the answer.” For a moment Catherine sat in silence, staring at the coals, and twisting and untwisting her fingers; then she threw up her head. “Right, I’ll try it.”

  Susanna raced into the house, and slammed the front door, and started up the stairs.

  “I want you a moment,” called Catherine.

  “Oh, do you, Mummy? Must it be just now? I’ve got to dash out of my uniform and go to folk dancing.”

  “All right. I’ll come up to your room and talk to you while you change.”

  Susanna unwillingly pulled forward a chair.

  “I’m in an awful hurry.”

  Catherine switched on the electric fire.

  “I don’t believe you ever light this.”

  “I always forget.”

  “What a Spartan! Susanna dear, I’m going to take you into my confidence; I’ve lost a good deal of money lately.”

  Susanna threw her guide uniform on to her bed and took a dress out of the cupboard.

  “Poor Mummy,” she said coldly. “How tiresome for you; but we have plenty, haven’t we?”

  “No, not with what I’ve lost.”

  “Well, we must eat less and have no new clothes.”

  “I want more help from you than that; I want you to be able to support yourself, earn your own living.”

  Susanna was pulling her frock over her head; now her face came through startled and frightened.

  “Oh, Mummy! Must I? I don’t want to go away.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. It’s only for a time, I hope, till things right themselves.”

  “But what could I do? I’m not trained for anything.”

  “There must be jobs you could do. I thought perhaps that friend of yours, Mrs. Cary, might help you; she lives in London, and seems to know a lot of people.”

  “I could ask her. But, Mummy, I don’t eat much, and I’ve heaps of clothes; I needn’t have any more for ages, and I really am a help to Daddy. Couldn’t you possibly keep me here? I’d hate to go away.”

  Catherine hesitated. Must she be cruel? Then she pulled herself up as she remembered Mrs. Cary’s “Would you have her operated on if she needed it?”

  “That’s not quite the point, darling. I could manage to keep you here, of course, as far as food is concerned, but I feel you should be able to earn, in case things get worse. I might manage to have you trained if there is anything you’d like to do.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like to do.”

  “Well, will you go and talk to Mrs. Cary?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will keep all I’ve told you to yourself, won’t you, darling? I’m not telling Daddy—I don’t want him to be worried—and I shan’t tell the others at present, as I don’t want Esther to be bothered before the baby arrives.”

  “All right, I won’t tell them.” Susanna was dressed. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” But Catherine still lingered, fidgeting with the arm of her chair. At last she said lamely: “I’m so sorry, darling.”

  “Oh, well, I shall get used to it; it doesn’t really make much odds where one lives, I suppose.”

  A week later Susanna was staring at her boxes. Maud had packed her clothes, but had left her to contend with her books and other belongings. She looked round her room, and picked up her clock and her fountain pen, but couldn’t see anything else that she could be bothered to take with her. She pulled open all her drawers; the top four were empty, but in the bottom one lay a brown-paper parcel, at sight of which a spasm of pain crossed her face. It was the bundle of exercise books in which Baruch had written “Our Land.” Catherine had given her one book, saying, “This is some private writing of Baruch’s; I found it in his box.” The others she had taken from under the trunk in the attic. She had been surprised at what a lot of books there were, but had shuddered wincing away from the sight of them, and had tied them up in brown paper, together with some snapshots and one photograph of him, and had never looked at them since. Now, gingerly, she untied the string. The photograph was on the top and gazed up at her. She gave one look at it, then moaned, and hurriedly tied the string again and threw the bundle into her box.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mrs. Denvel was given to good works, not so much to that giving which concerns the cheque-book as rather to that giving which concerns service, and not so much to that service which is seen more than heard as rather to that service which takes chairs and presides. During the war she had presided at all of the war societies formed in the neighbourhood. She had shaken hands with Royalty, while hard-working V.A.D.’s cheered in the background. She had had her hands smot
hered in the kisses of grateful Belgians, while those who housed them looked on in surprise. She had given tea to immense parties who made splints, and later received a medal for it. In fact, there was no end to her war activities; so peace arriving when it did made things feel a little flat. Finding that now the war was over everyone save herself was tired of committees, she decided to organise an enormous fête in aid of babies and the blind, and other suitable charities with obvious appeal, to stimulate interest. She formed a committee to discuss plans, and said at once, as she took the chair:

  “Now none of you people have got to worry; I’ve a clever little secretary coming who’ll see to everything.” And later: “Of course, we must have a flower show; I’ll put my little secretary on to it right away; such a dear child, granddaughter of old Lord Bristone’s. Lost her twin brother in the war—really too sad.”

  Susanna arrived at teatime. Mrs. Cary came with her and stayed the night. Susanna was barely allowed to remove her things before she was told about the fête.

  “It’s in June, dear, and there’s to be a flower show, and a play, and dancing on the lawn, and fireworks; we shall be terribly busy.”

  Susanna had not been in the house a day before she realised that the “we” was a mistake. She was going to be terribly busy, but not Mrs. Denvel. As Mrs. Denvel’s secretary, she attended one of the fête committees, and was horrified to hear all that lady had undertaken to do.

  “Don’t you think,” she suggested cautiously, when the committee had gone, “that you might let them do a bit more? You see, you’re lending your garden, getting up the play, arranging the food, managing the car parking and tickets, hiring the bands, and fixing the dancing and fireworks. You’ve said you’ll do it all, in fact.”

  “Oh no, they are seeing to the stalls and sideshows. When you get to my age you will have learned that if you want a thing done well you must do it yourself.”

  “I see. What play are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know; something jolly with plenty of music and dancing, I think, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but what?”

  “Oh, you must think of that.” Mrs. Denvel shook her finger at her. “Aren’t you here to save my poor old brain?”

  “Yes, of course I am.” Susanna looked worried. “But I don’t know an awful lot of plays, and when I’ve found it, who’s going to act in it and rehearse it?”

  “Oh, there’s no need to worry about that yet; you find the play first. After all, it’s only January.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Susanna thankfully. “Now, about fireworks?”

  “Well, I hear there is a man called Brock does those.”

  “Can one send off fireworks just anywhere without asking anybody?”

  “Certainly; just buy plenty, and give them to one of the gardeners.”

  “Oh, I see. How does one get a band?”

  “Dear child, you are an impatient person; one would think it was May, not January.”

  By March Susanna was getting anxious; everything seemed very behindhand. True, the play was in rehearsal, scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But so few of the actors turned up to rehearsals, it was very difficult to say how it was going. A curate from a nearby church was producer.

  “Such a nice young man,” Mrs. Denvel had said, “and they say quite clever and very well connected. I’m so glad to have him; it ensures a nice clean tone.”

  She showed her approval of him by watching every rehearsal, and calling out each time she caught his eye:

  “Charming, Mr. Browne, charming.”

  Susanna, clasping a notebook, haunted Mr. Browne, hoping to get an accurate list of his requirements. But he was vague.

  “Oh, one doesn’t want much out of doors, just the things used in the clown’s play. Let me see, a dog and a lantern, isn’t it? And, of course, a bank; we must have a mossy bank for Titania, and if it should be wet and we act in the flower show tent, I think fallen leaves would look jolly; but we can consider all that on the day.”

  “Are there fallen leaves in June?” asked Susanna doubtfully.

  Mr. Browne laughed.

  “That shows I’m no botanist. But I tell you what: we could cut them out of something, couldn’t we?”

  “Yes, I suppose we could if the rain begins early enough.”

  Mrs. Cary was disappointed in Susanna when she saw her.

  “I can’t say I see much improvement,” she confessed to Catherine. “She has a lot to do, and she never has a minute to herself, which is what she likes, but she feels just as detached as she did at Christmas: life is just so much time passed—nothing matters to her.”

  “We miss her terribly here; is it worthwhile?”

  “We’ve got her away, that’s something; don’t let’s go back on that. As soon as my aunt’s fête is over I’d like to take her to town; she can live in my flat, and I’ll try and find something amusing for her to do. I wish she had a definite bent.”

  By May her life had become so hectic that Susanna was almost happy. She never had a second to herself from the moment she was called till she rolled into bed some time after midnight. The various people assisting in the fête arrangements soon realised that she was the one person who knew what was happening. Mrs. Denvel trailed about, and told them it was “all going to be such fun,” but it was Susanna who knew where their stalls were to stand and who arranged about the gardeners to put them up. The fireworks, much to her relief, had been cancelled. The moment they had been advertised the police appeared, and said, though they were sorry to upset anybody, they really couldn’t allow fireworks in a neighbourhood so full of ricks and thatched roofs.

  “Tiresome fellows,” Mrs. Denvel grumbled. “I shall write to our Member about it, delightful man.”

  But she never had, and Susanna had been careful not to remind her. Teas were one of her major trials. In the early days of the fête committees Mrs. Denvel had said, “Leave the teas to me; I’ve a wonderful cook; she shall make everything.” And there the matter had been left. As the fête grew nearer, Susanna began asking if all was in order about the teas.

  “I’ve not told Mrs. Bird yet,” said Mrs. Denvel; “but I will one day soon. I always think cooks are such tiresome creatures.”

  A week later Susanna asked again, and since nothing had been done, she continued to ask two or three times a week, till in May she grew desperate.

  “May I talk to Mrs. Bird about it?”

  “Yes, dear, do. With everything on my shoulders I really haven’t time.”

  Susanna went down to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bird.”

  “Good mornin’, miss.”

  “I came to talk with you about the teas at the fête.”

  “What about ’em, miss?”

  “Well, did you know we were supposed to be doing them here?”

  “‘Oo do them?”

  “Well—I think the idea was, you.”

  “Was it? Well, they’ve got another think comin’. I’ve only one pair of ’ands, and a kitchenmaid more’n ’alf wantin’, and what’s more, I won’t do it, and that’s flat. I’ll leave first.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” said Susanna, horrified at the prospect of a cookless house. “I’ll get a caterer.”

  “That’s more like it; that’s sense, that is.”

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Bird can’t do all those teas,” Susanna told Mrs. Denvel. “We’ll have to get a caterer.”

  “She can’t! Oh, but she must; people hate those nasty bought cakes, and I’m sure Mrs. Bird has nothing to do all day.”

  “Well, she says she won’t do them.”

  “Tiresome creature. Oh well, you must do as you think best, dear. When one is in control of everything, one hasn’t time for small details.”

  The day before the fête was wet.

  “Can we turn the
flowers and vegetables out of the flower show tent? We want to hold our rehearsal there,” said Mr. Browne. “I explained this to the man, and he was quite unpleasant.”

  Susanna, having seen the carefully arranged exhibits waiting to be judged, sympathized with the man. “No, I’m afraid you can’t have it there.”

  “Well, where then?”

  The actors gathered round, a strange party, with Grecian dress hanging oddly on very British forms, and fairies in motley-hued fragments of crêpe de Chine.

  “Yes, where then?” they asked.

  Susanna felt as Alice must have felt in Wonderland, when the animals out of the pool asked, “But who is to give the prizes?” and the Dodo answered, “Why, she, of course.”

  “How about the hall?” she suggested. “It’s quite large, and the choir and orchestra could sit in the drawing-room door.” And even as she spoke, she said to herself, “I wonder what you’d all say if I told you I didn’t care if there never was a rehearsal or a fête.”

  The actors were charmed with the hall, little caring where they went provided they were allowed to perform. Susanna and Mrs. Denvel sat on the stairs and watched them. It was the oddest performance, Susanna thought, even allowing for the fact that the hall was quite a different shape from the slope on which they expected to appear. To begin with, very few of them knew their words. Oberon even held his book. Most of them, as they stammered through, remarked to Mrs. Denvel, “I’ll know it all right tomorrow,” and for those who didn’t, Mr. Browne apologised, saying, “Nerves! Knew it perfectly yesterday.” Then, for the choir and orchestra, it was a first rehearsal, and they made the most ghastly hash of the Mendelssohn music, and held quite different ideas about time, both to the dancers and to the local branch of the Women’s Institute, who were singing, “I know a Bank.” The only undisturbed people were the fairies, the incredibly small pupils of a dancing school, who stood quietly beside their teacher and her assistant, came on and off at the right moments, and danced charmingly, in spite of the fact that their music frequently failed, and the gaps had to be filled in by their teacher loudly humming. The precision of the children, together with the fact that Puck knew her last speech, brought the curious performance to a slick finish, which overcame the actors with delight, and they burst into applause, and patted the beaming Mr. Browne on the back. “Well done, old fellow.” “A beautiful show.” Susanna had her eye on the dancing instructress, who, having sent her children off with the assistant, stood crimson with rage waiting to be heard.