“I rather wish I hadn’t, myself,” he said, with a rueful grin. “But it’s true, Hazel. She and Archie ought to be on their own.”
CHAPTER 12
Montagu thought Miss Balfour’s scheme of asking Willow if she and her husband would like to rent the top floor of Number Four, once it had been converted, an excellent one, and told her so.
“It was really your plan in the first place, Montagu,” said Miss Balfour. “But I didn’t care for the thought of having strangers living in the house. It would be quite different in the case of the Harpers.”
“It certainly would be a great deal more agreeable,” he said. “But it was you, Dorothea, with your wonderfully practical brain, who saw at once where you might find someone to occupy the little flat.”
Miss Balfour reminded him that they did not know whether Willow and her husband would want to live at Number Four.
Mr. Milner’s buoyant optimism refused even to consider such a possibility. In his imagination the top floor was already a model flat and the young Harpers installed as tenants.
“The only thing is, Dorothea, we shall have to consult Ferrier,” he said.
“Oh, dear, shall we?” Miss Balfour’s face fell.
“Now, my dear Dorothea, don’t look so downcast as soon as I mention young Ferrier,” said Montagu. “It makes me feel very guilty, for I know you found him a pleasant young fellow until I appeared on the scene and he, quite rightly, had suspicions of me. We shall have to tell him about this project of making a flat because it is bound to cost something, though I hope not a great deal.”
“I’ve thought it all out, Montagu,” Miss Balfour said rather nervously.
“Perhaps it won’t be practicable, but I think it might.”
She told him about it, diffidently at first, but with growing confidence. The little room with the sky-light would be the kitchen, with a small electric cooker and a sink, for which the water could be heated by “one of those electric immersion things.” The big room to the back would be the sitting-room and dining-room combined, and they could have another electric water-heater in the bathroom so that the main hot-water supply of the house, run off a stove in the basement, would not be affected.
“Then there would be two bedrooms for them, or they could use one as a sitting-room if they liked. It has a divan bed which would do for a sofa,” said Miss Balfour, her cheeks pink with excitement, her brown eyes shining. “And really, the biggest expense would be the new sink, and the piping from the bathroom to it. And the electric contrivances, including the stove, of course.”
“I am lost in admiration, Dorothea,” Montagu said. “You are a wonderful woman. I’m sure young Ferrier will see that the expense involved will be reasonable, and ought soon to be covered by the rent.”
Once again Miss Balfour, though pleased by his praise, felt that she must remind him that so far they had not got a tenant for the flat-to-be.
“Ask young Mrs. Harper, then,” was Montagu’s advice. “And if she doesn’t want it, we don’t need to go any further in the matter. If she does, we can approach Ferrier with the news that we have a tenant ready for the flat.”
This was sensible, and Miss Balfour said gratefully, “You are such a help to me, Montagu. You always know just what to do.”
He looked pleased enough to purr, thought Miss Balfour, looking at him with mild affection, and with his round face and neat features he was not unlike a cat. A large contented cosy cat.
Miss Balfour was not a real cat-lover, but she had sometimes thought that a nice strokable cat would have been agreeable to have about the house. Belle, however, would not hear of it, even on the grounds that the cat would catch mice in the wine cellar.
Of course, there was nothing to prevent Miss Balfour from having a cat now, only she no longer seemed to want one. She had Montagu instead.
Their conversation took place at breakfast, and Miss Balfour, getting up from the table to go about her household duties, was struck suddenly by the dinginess of the dining-room.
“Montagu!” she exclaimed. “We have quite forgotten papering and painting!”
Mr. Milner, who had also moved and was now standing by one of the windows looking at the Scotsman, started and lowered the paper.
“Eh? What’s that? Oh, of course, my dear. You mean for the flat. Yes, it will have to be done.”
“When or if it is done, I really will not be able to endure the rest of the house as it is. The contrast will be too shocking,” said Miss Balfour in tragic accents. “Just look at this room! Have you ever seen anything so hideous? Except perhaps the drawing-room?”
“Not often,” he admitted, smiling to soften the blow. “But I supposed that you liked the house as it is. If you don’t—and I am thankful to hear you say so—there is no reason why we shouldn’t have it all done up. It will cost a good deal, but we can afford it. The furniture is good and handsome, if it had a proper background.”
“Could we get it done before the winter? Or at least this room and the drawing-room and the hall and stairs?” demanded Miss Balfour.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Then we must see Mr. Ferrier at once. Will you ring up and make an appointment, Montagu?” asked Miss Balfour.
“Certainly,” he said, in his obliging way. “But you will remember, won’t you, that having painters in the house will make it very uncomfortable?”
“Then we must stay in an hotel, and Edna can have her holidays. Her room could be done, too,” Miss Balfour declared. “Yes, that would be best. An Edinburgh hotel, of course, so that we can come in and see how the men are getting on.”
“My dear Dorothea!” said Montagu, throwing aside the paper and gazing at her in astonishment. “You are inspired this morning. I have never heard you make so many decisions before. And all at once!”
Miss Balfour laughed, a soft, youthful-sounding laugh all too seldom heard. “I know,” she said. “I have thought that some re-decorating ought to be done, but Eve always pushed the idea aside. Now—I don’t know what has happened to me. I think the worm has turned at last,” She gave him a quick, shy glance. “It never would have turned without your help,” she added.
Then, as the grandfather clock on the stair cleared its throat and began to strike: “Ten o’clock. I must go down and see Edna about the meals at once. You will ring up and ask Mr. Ferrier to see us soon, won’t you?” she begged.
She was gone, and Montagu Milner took a long breath.
“Well, I am—blest!” he muttered. “And she’s grateful to me.”
He sank into the chair by the window, conscious of its comfort, and stared at the ugly room. It was comfortable, too; the whole ugly house was comfortable, and he was as fond of his comforts as the cat he resembled. He owed it all to Dorothea. The money might be his, but if she had not agreed to let him live with her, it would not have done him much good.
“She shall have what she wants if I can manage it,” he vowed to himself. “She is a really good person, the only one I’ve met who has been kind to me. I won’t let her down.”
Meanwhile Miss Balfour was in the kitchen, seated at the round table which overlooked the back-green, and on which was an aspidistra in a pot, greatly cherished by Edna. In her hand she held a slate-pencil, and she was writing, with many nerve-jarring squeaks, on a child’s slate, the menu for the day’s meals.
Edna stood beside her in silence during this time-honoured ritual, making no suggestions.
“Have you any ideas for a pudding, Edna?” asked Miss Balfour, hopefully.
Edna frowned in an agony of concentration, moistened her lips, and said: “No’m.”
“Oh, dear! Well, what about a tart? Mr. Milner likes your pastry—and you make very good pastry.”
“A jam tart’m?” said Edna.
“Well—I did think a plum tart, or an apple one would be nice—”
“There’s no plums’m, nor apples.”
“I’ll get some when I go out.” Miss Balfour wrote “Plu
m (or apple) tart” on the slate so firmly that the pencil broke, and she stood up with a sigh of relief.
“Do you never look up some of the puddings in the cookery book, Edna?” she asked.
“Oh, no’m!” said Edna, in shocked tones.
Miss Balfour gave it up, smiled and said not to over-boil the potatoes, and left Edna to her work.
It was one of those mornings which look quite pleasant from inside the house, with the sun shining in a hard, almost colourless sky. But outside there was a dry wind blowing grit into the faces of everyone who walked down Linden Terrace towards the shops. Miss Balfour, purse in hand and basket on arm, walked along with her head lowered, trying to avoid the dust. The streets were quieter and emptier than they had been for several weeks, and she realized that the children must have started school again. How frighteningly quickly time passed as one grew older! It seemed only yesterday that the children began their holidays, and yet it was two months, the beginning of July, and now it was the beginning of September. A great deal had happened during those eight weeks: Belle dead, herself making friends with the Lenoxes, Montagu appearing. It was not given to many people on the threshold of old age to discover themselves with new friends and a place in the world for the first time, and needed by somebody, as she was by Montagu.
Full of humble gratitude, Miss Balfour raised her head, heedless of the flying grit, and looked down Linden Terrace to the dark squat shape of the church where she worshipped every Sunday. She had a great deal to be thankful for.
At this moment a piercing scream brought her to a sudden stop.
Down the steps leading from the house beside her a perambulator was hurtling, while the woman who had let it go stood with her mouth open screaming at the full pitch of her voice.
Miss Balfour had never moved so fast. She was not even conscious of moving at all, but she had sprung forward and caught the crying baby as the perambulator turned over, bounced across the pavement into the street, and was smashed to matchwood by a passing van.
A small crowd appeared as if by magic. The driver of the van, white and shaken, was calling everyone to witness that it was not his fault. Several message boys were peering at the wreck of the perambulator in ghoulish curiosity. The mother, now weeping hysterically, was being comforted by two friends in carpet-slippers and overalls, while neighbours were flocking out of their houses, full of pleasurable excitement.
Miss Balfour, with her hat over one ear, still held the baby. They both seemed completely forgotten, until an earnest young constable, pushing his way through the gaping throng with good-natured authority, spoke to her.
Excitement and shock must be making her peculiarly stupid, thought Miss Balfour, for the policeman seemed to be admonishing her in a fatherly way for being careless.
“Ye should keep a hold o’ the pram,” he was saying. “And not let it run away like that. The bairn might easy have been killed.”
“Let her alane!” shouted a voice, and a large woman wearing a man’s cap askew over a head bristling with hair-curlers, burst between two of the enthralled bystanders. “Let the wumman alane! If it hadna been for her the wee one wad be lyin’, bashed to bits in the prawm!”
She squared up to the constable in a menacing manner, and the female element in the crowd at once began to agree with her.
The most unconcerned person of the whole gathering was the baby, which, ignorant of its narrow escape, lay quite contentedly in Miss Balfour’s inexpert grasp, gazing up at her out of beady dark eyes like a young bird’s.
“Somebody’ll need to give me the facks,” said the perplexed constable. “The incident will need to be reported.”
He looked at Miss Balfour, and she, clutching the baby and feeling decidedly shaky, started to tell her short story, enlivened by a running commentary from her well-wishers.
“I was walking down the street, officer, when I heard a—a cry. . . .” (“Dod, ay! Ye never heard sic a yell as Maggie Dunlop let!”) “And the pram ran away. It came down the steps—” (“Silly bizzom, she should’ve kept a hold o’t!”) “And as it overturned I managed to catch the baby—” (“She was that quick! Ye’d never think a wee old body like her could ha’e done it!”) “And—and that’s all,” finished Miss Balfour. “But I do think the baby should be given to its mother. I’m afraid she thinks it was still in the perambulator when the van—” she broke off, shuddering.
Willing hands now seized the baby, which promptly set up a wail, and handed it to its mother, and both then wept in chorus.
“Thank you, madam,” said the constable. “It’s a mercy you were passing.”
“Ay, ye’ve changed yer tune now!” cried the lady of the hair-curlers.
The constable, wisely ignoring her, proceeded to take a statement from the driver of the van.
Miss Balfour, hoping that she would not faint, but aware that her legs felt very queer, set her hat straight and looked about for her basket.
“Here’s yer purse, hen,” said someone, thrusting it into her hand. “An’ yer basket.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” murmured Miss Balfour, wishing they would all go away.
“Miss Dorothea!”
“Oh, my dears!” Miss Balfour, seeing Rowan and Willow hurrying towards her, held out her hands. “I am glad to see you!”
“What’s happened?” asked Willow, taking the basket, while Rowan put her arm round Miss Balfour protectingly.
A chorus of voices took up the tale, and the hair-curlers said:
“She’s a hee-royne! But she’s got a shake, an’ no wonder!”
“Perhaps if she could sit down for a minute,” said Rowan. “I’ll put this paper on the steps, and—”
But they would not hear of it. She must come into the house—any house—and “get her breath”; and before Miss Balfour knew what was happening, she, with Rowan and Willow, was swept into the nearest ground-floor flat and pressed into a basket-chair. She had no idea whose flat it was, the little room was full of women who all seemed equally at home; but it was her defender, the wearer of the cap and curlers, who handed her a cup of tea so strong that it looked black as treacle. Timidly sipping it, Miss Balfour became aware that it closely resembled treacle in its sweetness also.
Nauseous though it was, she drank it rather than hurt the feelings of her hostess. Such goodwill and real kindness were being shown her that she would almost have swallowed poison to please them.
“What kind souls!” she said, as they went on their way down Linden Terrace, Miss Balfour privately thankful that the girls were with her.
Willow said: “But after all, Miss Dorothea, if it hadn’t been for you, that baby would probably be dead!”
“I did so little, and at no risk to myself,” said Miss Balfour.
“Well, I think it was wonderful of you,” Willow said firmly. “I wish I could be sure I’d have done the same in an emergency.”
“Of course you would, my dear. And now, do let us talk about something else,” implored Miss Balfour. “I wonder if they have cooking apples or plums at the Fruit Mart this morning?”
“I’m going there for vegetables,” Willow said, prompted by a look from Rowan. “Perhaps we could go together.”
For an instant Miss Balfour was faintly disappointed because Willow and not Rowan was to be her companion. Then she remembered the flat, and her conversation with Montagu, which the stirring events of the past hour had driven from her mind, and thought that here was the opportunity to sound Willow on the subject.
So she agreed that it would be delightful if Willow could come with her, because her stupid knees were still rather wobbly. Rowan, saying that she would go and change the library books, ran swiftly after a tram, sprang on board and was carried away up the hill and round a bend out of sight.
Miss Balfour and young Mrs. Harper did their shopping very happily together. The Fruit Mart had both apples and plums, and Miss Balfour turned to Willow for advice about them.
“I should think plums,” s
aid Willow. “You see, there will be cooking apples all through the winter, but the plums will soon be over.”
“Of course. How sensible of you,” said Miss Balfour. And to the bored assistant:—“Two pounds of plums, please.”
Willow was pleased to be consulted and told she was sensible. “If only Mummy weren’t so terribly competent,” she thought, as she looked at cabbages, marrows, and the late French beans. “I’m sure I’d be cleverer at housekeeping. I could do it for Archie and me because I wouldn’t have to wonder all the time if Mummy would approve.”
She bought a large cabbage and a small marrow, and the two went out into the glare of the street again.
“Are you going to stuff the marrow?” Miss Balfour asked. “It is very good like that—you stuff it with minced cold meat flavoured with a little onion and a pinch of herbs, and then bake it and serve a good brown sauce with it.”
Willow had not really thought what she would do with the marrow. It was cheap and she required a vegetable, so she had bought it. This suggestion of Miss Balfour’s offered a welcome change from the everlasting shepherd’s pie to which the ragged remains of the joint were doomed week after week.
“That sounds good,” she said. “I’ll try it for lunch tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Dorothea.”
Miss Balfour smiled and said she supposed that Willow was becoming a very good cook.
“Oh, we can all cook, even Holly,” said Willow. “It’s the housework and the—the organizing, that I’m so bad at. I expect it’s partly because I try to do things just as Mummy does them.”
“We are thinking of turning our top floor into a flat,” said Miss Balfour, carelessly. “Of course, whoever took it would have to use the front door and stairs, so I am not at all anxious to have strangers as tenants. But my brother-in-law is quite right when he says the house is far too big for us. Are you going into the baker’s?”
“No. He’s sending—Miss Dorothea!” cried Willow. “Do you really mean that about the flat? Could Archie and I have it? I’d have to ask him, but I know he’ll say yes. He comes home for a few days the week after next.”
Near Neighbours Page 12