“Oh, of course! We must arrange that.” She sank into a comfortable chair and added, “Now, I want to hear all about Charlotte.”
For a moment I thought she was addressing me, and referring to Lottie—some of Lottie’s friends called her Charlotte—but I was a little surprised, so I was slow in answering.
“Oh, yes, I must tell you, Elspeth,” said Miss Stewart eagerly. “It’s a tremendous joke. We never thought Charlotte would marry, did we?”
“She isn’t married yet?”
“No, but she’s thoroughly engaged.”
They both shrieked with laughter.
“Who is he?” inquired Mrs Loudon.
“George’s brother, of course. I thought you knew.”
“Not the one with the squint?”
“No, the other one, who went to South Africa.”
“Oh, Malcolm! He’s rather nice, isn’t he? I wonder what he sees in Charlotte.”
“Goodness knows!” exclaimed Miss Stewart. She added hastily, “Of course I adore Charlotte.”
“Oh yes, Charlotte is a perfect pet.”
“She’s one of my greatest friends,” said Miss Stewart impressively.
“Do you remember her at Sylvia’s coming-out dance at Melkington Castle, Vivian?”
“Do I not!” exclaimed Miss Stewart, smiling.
“That mustard-coloured frock!” exclaimed Mrs Loudon.
“And the blue shoes,” added Miss Stewart.
“Will you have some coffee, Mrs Reede?” asked my hostess.
“Yes, please,” I said.
“Poor Charlotte has no taste,” declared Mrs Loudon as she filled my cup (adding sugar which I disliked) and handed it to me.
“She really ought to do something about her skin,” said Miss Stewart, frowning thoughtfully.
“Has she still got that rather smelly bull-terrier, Vivian?”
“Yes, my dear! She dotes on the creature, it sleeps on her bed.”
“Vivian! What will she do? I mean——”
“I know exactly what you mean,” declared Miss Stewart, giggling. “As a matter of fact we’ve all been wondering . . .”
“Malcolm ought to be warned.”
“That’s what Freda says—but who’s going to warn him?”
“I haven’t seen Freda for ages,” said Mrs Loudon. “Not since she came to tea with us and brought a very queer man. They seemed rather keen on each other.”
“What was his name, Elspeth?”
“I can’t remember his name but he talked all the time without stopping. Nobody else could get a word in edgeways.”
“You don’t mean Patrick?”
“Oh, no! I liked Patrick. This man had yellow teeth and was definitely queer. Who could it have been?”
“My dear Elspeth, don’t ask me. Freda changes her men constantly—and they’re all queer.”
“Poor Freda,” said Mrs Loudon with a sigh. “She does have the most impossible friends!”
“Bertie, for instance,” suggested Miss Stewart, smiling slyly.
“Bertie!” exclaimed Mrs Loudon, laughing merrily.
“Wasn’t he awful?” said Miss Stewart. “I mean he was a bit off-beat—even for Freda. Of course I adore Freda, but really——”
“Oh, so do I! She’s a perfect pet,” agreed Mrs Loudon hastily.
“Elspeth, do you remember the picnic at Loch Leven? Bertie was larking about in his usual idiotic way . . . and suddenly there was a splash!”
They both laughed heartily at the recollection.
When Miss Stewart recovered she added, “It was enough to frighten all the poor little fishes out of their wits.”
“I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t help it,” chortled Mrs Loudon. “He looked so funny with his hair in wet streaks all over his face.”
Miss Stewart nodded. “We all laughed—except Freda. You remember what Freda said, don’t you, Elspeth?”
“I remember what Freda did.”
“Oh, Elspeth, you are awful!” giggled Miss Stewart.
It was rather a pity that I never heard what Freda did—it might have been quite interesting—but at that moment Charles and Colonel Loudon came in from the garden and said it had begun to rain.
“Have you finished your chat?” asked Charles.
“Yes,” I said, rising hastily. “It has been very interesting but we must go home now.”
“Don’t hurry away,” said Colonel Loudon. “I want to take Charles into the library and show him some of my books. You can stay to tea, can’t you?”
“Not today, I’m afraid,” I replied, seizing my coat which was lying on a chair, and putting it on. “We really must go, Colonel Loudon. I’m sure Charles would love to see your books some other day, when there’s more time. (I had noticed that Charles was about to accept the invitation and realised that unless I was firm there was no chance of escape. Charles could come another day—he could come as often as he liked.)
We said good-bye, thanked our host and hostess in the usual civilised manner, and came away.
“Well, how did you get on with Elspeth?” asked Charles, as we drove home. “She’s an attractive creature, isn’t she? Bob and I thought it was a good plan to leave you to have a talk so that you could get to know each other.”
“Yes,” I said vaguely.
“What do you mean, Sarah?”
“I mean your plan was good. Plans don’t always succeed.”
“This one succeeded,” declared Charles with a chuckle. “You’ll never guess what Elspeth said about you as we were coming away.”
“She said I was a perfect pet’,” I suggested.
“How did you know?” asked Charles in surprise.
Chapter Eleven
Soon after the Loudons’ lunch-party Mrs Mark Dunne rang up and asked me to tea. She came to fetch me in the doctor’s car and drove me over to Timperton. The doctor’s house stood at the end of the main street with a little garden in front. It was a Victorian house, solid and unpretentious but very comfortable. The drawing-room was delightfully furnished and had french windows with a loggia and a flight of stone steps leading to a wide lawn with several very fine trees.
Mrs Dunne made tea herself and we had it together beside the fire.
“I just have a daily help three mornings a week,” she explained. “You see the practice went down very badly when Mark was away—poor old Dr Anderson couldn’t cope with it—and it has been rather a struggle to pull things together. Now, however, Mark has got an interesting post as consultant physician in a Children’s Home in Edinburgh. He goes to Edinburgh once a week and gets quite a good fee, which is a help.”
“Is he especially interested in children?”
She nodded. “Yes, he always has been. These children are not ill; they’re from unsatisfactory homes, so there are all sorts of problems to be sorted out.” She paused for a few moments while she poured out tea and then continued, “I’m doing receptionist and secretary for Mark—that helps too, but it keeps me very busy. This is Mark’s day for Edinburgh so I have the use of the car and I’m off duty except for phone messages. I wanted to have you before, but I couldn’t manage it . . . you’re very gay, aren’t you?”
“Too gay,” I replied. “Charles and I would rather have a quiet time together.”
“It will ease off after a bit. In a place like this, where everybody knows everybody else, new people are always interesting.”
“It will have to ease off,” I told her. “Charles has got work to do, and I’m helping him. All these parties take up too much time.”
“What kind of work?” asked Mrs Dunne.
I told her about “Heinrich.”
“Oh yes, of course! Mrs Maitland said you were terribly clever at languages.”
“Not clever, just obstinate.”
“Obstinate?” she asked in surprise.
I laughed. “Yes, as obstinate as a mule. I met Charles for the first time when I was fourteen and I thought he was the most wonderful person in the
world so I made up my mind to learn to speak French and German fluently.”
“Because of Charles?”
“Yes. I badgered my parents so unmercifully that they allowed me to leave school and study languages. I had lessons from a Frenchwoman and went to France with her—and later I had German conversation with the organist of Larchester Cathedral. It was all sheer obstinacy.”
“Because of Charles,” repeated Mrs Dunne nodding. She added, “It’s delightful to come across that sort of love-story nowadays . . . but I can beat you, Mrs Reede. I’ve loved Mark since I was eight years old. You see my father died and my mother married again so Uncle Humphrey came and fetched me and I was brought up with my cousins at Dunnian House. When I was a child I loved Mark in a childish way . . . but, afterwards, differently. It isn’t easy to explain, but——”
“You needn’t explain! It was exactly what happened to me!”
There was a good deal of feeling in the simple words. We looked at each other and smiled . . . and, from that moment, we were friends. From that moment, almost without noticing, we began to call each other Debbie and Sarah.
I had been a little shy of her at first (she was a good deal older than myself, and her expression was thoughtful and reticent) but her smile was lovely; it lighted her small grave face like a sunbeam.
Now that we were friends we began to talk about matters which were important to us both.
“Mrs Maitland told me about your little niece,” said Debbie. “You’re devoted to her, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, Freddie is a darling.”
“Do you want children of your own, Sarah?”
“I can’t understand anyone not wanting children.” I hesitated and then added, “We’ve been married for more than a year but . . . but so far . . .”
“Goodness, don’t worry!” Debbie exclaimed. “Mark and I had been married for nearly eighteen years before Beric made his appearance on the scene.”
“Eighteen years!”
She nodded. “We had consulted specialists; I had swallowed all sorts of pills and potions, but it was no good. We had given up all hope of having a child . . . and then, in the middle of the war, I started to have Beric. In the middle of the war,” repeated Debbie emphatically. “At the most inconvenient moment possible! Poor Mark was hundreds of miles away, in the Mediterranean, worrying himself sick about me; I was at Dunnian, trying to help Celia to keep the home fires burning. Would you believe any woman could be so maladroit?”
I laughed. “But Beric arrived safely.”
“Yes. His arrival was rather unpleasant but he was all right.”
“Is ‘Beric’ a family name, Debbie?”
“No, it isn’t. The family was very much annoyed with us about that. He should have been Humphrey or Henry or William. Of course, if there had been any chance of his inheriting the property we should have had to give him a family name, but Dunnian House belongs to Celia.”
“Grandmama told me,” I said.
“It’s a curious story, isn’t it?” said Debbie, in thoughtful tones. “Old Miss Celia Dunne wanted the house to belong to another Celia . . . and now young Celia has a daughter called Celia, so I suppose, eventually, Dunnian will belong to her.”
“Celia the Third,” I said. “There’s something rather nice about it.”
“It may be nice,” replied Debbie. “But I can assure you that it’s extremely muddling to have two Celias in one family: you never know which one you’re talking about.”
“You called him ‘Beric.’ It’s a very unusual name.”
Debbie smiled. “Yes, very. Perhaps you’ll think this rather silly; when Mark was a small boy someone gave him a book called Beric the Briton. Mark loved the story, so of course I loved it too. Beric was our hero, he was real to us . . . we read about his adventures over and over again. Eventually the book became dirty and dog-eared, it was almost falling to pieces, so one day when Nanny was having a ‘turn out’ of the nursery bookcase she burnt it.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed in dismay.
“It was a terrible tragedy—we were quite inconsolable—and Nanny was very sorry about it, but the deed was done. We have often tried to get another copy of the book, but without success.”
“You might not like it now,” I suggested.
“Perhaps not, but Beric would like it,” said Debbie with a sigh. “Beric is very like Mark—when I first knew him.”
We talked some more about our favourite books; then Debbie said, “Your husband is a Roman Catholic, isn’t he? Do you find it difficult, Sarah?”
“Not really,” I told her. “When I promised to marry Charles we agreed that we would never interfere with each other’s religion. Sometimes I feel a little sad; we share everything else.”
“You can’t have perfection in this world.”
“Oh, I know!” I cried. “I’ve got Charles. I shouldn’t ask for anything more—and I don’t! When I think of all those terrible years during the war! Charles simply, disappeared! I didn’t know where he was nor what had happened to him.”
Debbie nodded. “Mrs Maitland told me; it must have been dreadful; I don’t know how you bore it.”
“I don’t know either,” I said gravely. “When I look back I really don’t know how I bore it.”
We were silent for a little while; it was a companionable silence.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I shall have to take you home now,” said Debbie at last. “I’ve got to meet Mark at Ryddelton station at six-fifteen. You’ll come again, won’t you? I can’t come to you, at the moment, because I have to be here.”
“I’ll ring you up,” I suggested.
“No, just come,” she replied. “Any time you happen to be free just come over and see me. There’s quite a convenient bus service if you can’t borrow your husband’s car.”
I smiled and replied, “I’d love to come, Debbie. It will be the bus for me. Charles likes driving the car himself, so I never borrow it.”
That was the beginning of my friendship with Deborah Dunne.
Chapter Twelve
Charles and I had been so “gay” that we hadn’t had one of our expeditions for several months; but one day when we happened to be free we had lunch early and set off in the car for an unknown destination.
“It’s a mystery tour,” said Charles. “We’ll keep on driving until we want to turn back. It’s lovely to be free.”
It was a typical March day with bright sunshine and a stiff breeze which sent the clouds sailing across the blue sky like a fleet of galleons. We went for miles, speeding along the open roads and dawdling through the villages. I didn’t bother to look at the sign-posts; I was perfectly happy to leave the direction of our mystery tour to Charles. The wind was cold but the car was pleasantly warm; it was so peaceful that I began to feel sleepy . . .
I was dreaming about Willy. Long ago, when I was a child, Willy had taken me for a spin on Lewis’s motor-bike; I sat on the pillion, clinging with both arms round Willy’s waist. We were rushing downhill, the hedges were flying past at a terrific rate, the wind was whistling in my ears . . . but now, suddenly, I awoke.
I awoke to find the car had come to a standstill.
“Where are we?” asked Charles.
“Where are we?” I echoed sleepily. “Does it matter where we are?”
“Yes, it does—rather.”
I sat up and looked out of the window: there was nothing to be seen except moors stretching up into bare hills, and piles of rock, and a small burn coming down a rocky gorge and diving under the road through a culvert.
“Just drive on and we’ll get to somewhere,” I suggested.
“Excellent advice but impracticable.”
“Impracticable?”
“The petrol tank is empty.”
“The indicator says it’s half full.”
“The indicator isn’t telling the truth.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m a fool,” said Charles, ruefully. “I noticed when we left h
ome that the gauge on the dashboard said ‘half full’ and I decided to stop at a garage. Then, when I looked at it again a little while ago, I saw that the indicator still said ‘half full’ so I decided that I must have made a mistake and we had plenty of petrol to take us home.”
“The indicator has stuck.”
“Yes.”
There was a short silence.
“It’s like this, you see,” said Charles. “You were asleep—and we had been for miles. We were beginning to get into less attractive country, an area of ribbon-development with hundreds of box-like houses, so I turned and made for home. We had no tea and I wanted my supper. We spun along quite happily until I saw a small side-road which seemed to lead in the direction of Ryddelton—a shortcut over the hills. It was a good road to begin with but it deteriorated. I had just made up my mind to turn at the first possible turning place when the engine stopped. You know the rest of the story.”
“Are we far from home?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “Some miles back, before the road deteriorated into a cart-track, we passed a sign-post which said ‘Timperton 5 miles’.”
“Timperton is ten miles from Ryddelton.”
“Yes. I didn’t take the turning because I was making for Ryddelton.” He sighed and added, “Sarah, if there was room in the car I would go down on my knees and ask your forgiveness for being such a fool.”
“I’ll take the will for the deed; you are pardoned.”
“Don’t speak too soon! You haven’t realised our predicament. I have brought you to a wild hillside; I don’t know where we are; there isn’t a human habitation within sight and the shades of night are falling fast.”
“Excelsior,” I murmured.
“Quite,” agreed Charles. “But where, oh where, is the Alpine village? I could get out and look for it, of course, (it might be equipped with a pump from which I could buy a tin of petrol) but unfortunately I don’t know where to look . . . whether to go forward or back. Meantime, as I said, the shades of night——”
“Don’t leave me alone!”
“I thought you might not like the idea.”
“We can spend the night in the car.”
“I’m hungry,” complained Charles.
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