Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

“You said something about a vegetable pie.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid it’s spoilt. It’s nearly ten o’clock,” I added. As a matter of fact I was disappointed. I had picked the vegetables and made the pie for Charles and I had been looking forward to watching him enjoy it. I know it sounds absurd but I think any young wife would have felt the same.

  “I forgot the time,” said Charles, looking at the cold meat and salad without enthusiasm.

  “Yes, I know,” I agreed, as cheerfully as I could. I was annoyed with myself for being annoyed but, in spite of my effort, there was a slight feeling of chill in the air as Charles sat down and began his meal.

  “Is the translation getting on well?” I asked.

  “No,” said Charles. “I mean it isn’t the translation. It’s an idea. It came to me this morning when I was out on the hills. I saw the whole thing quite clearly; then it faded like a Rainbow—or a dream—but there’s something left. There’s some sort of remembrance . . . I’m trying to catch it and put it down on paper.”

  It sounded exciting. “Can I help you?” I asked eagerly.

  “No, I’ve got to do it myself.”

  “But perhaps I could——”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Sarah,” said Charles firmly. He frowned and added, “If I find I can’t do it I shall put it in the fire . . . but I’ve got to try. I shall be working at it all the time; you understand, don’t you?”

  I didn’t really understand, but I saw that his new idea was important to him. “What about the translation?” I asked.

  “That must wait,” he replied. “There’s no hurry about it. I must get the Rainbow thing done while the remembrance is in my head. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I said I didn’t mind, but it wasn’t quite true. The translation was interesting; we had worked at it together and I was shut out of “the Rainbow thing.” I musn’t even talk about it.

  Chapter Twenty

  As the days went by I discovered that I was even more “shut out” than I had expected. Charles was so absorbed in his Rainbow that there was no companionship between us. He was not only shut away from me when he was shut up in his book-room; when he emerged for meals he was still shut away. He went for long solitary walks over the hills and then came back and wrote far into the night; he put up a camp-bed in his dressing-room and, more often than not, he slept there. When I remonstrated with him he said he didn’t like waking me at two in the morning.

  “I’ve got to do it, Sarah,” he explained. “I know it’s dull for you but I can’t help it. You can go out and see people, can’t you?”

  “You don’t mind my driving the Humber?” I asked.

  “What did you say?”

  I repeated my question.

  “No, just do as you like,” he replied, going into his book-room and shutting the door.

  Obviously he didn’t mind what I did as long as I didn’t interfere with the Rainbow.

  I was unhappy and lonely, especially at night. Charles had said he didn’t like to waken me but I rarely slept until I heard him come up and go to bed.

  There was another difficulty about Charles’s obsession: it was to be a dead secret; nobody was to know what he was doing—or trying to do—so when we received invitations I was obliged to find some excuse. It was difficult to find a reasonable excuse for the refusal of an invitation in a place like Ryddelton . . . and I disliked telling lies.

  One day when I was in Ryddelton I went into Miss Blake’s hairdressing parlour to have my hair shampooed and set. When I came out Bob Loudon was waiting for me.

  “Hallo, Sarah!” he said. “I wanted a word with Charles. Where is he?”

  “At home, working.”

  Bob opened the door of the car and I got in. “Can I give him a message?” I asked.

  “Tell him I haven’t seen him for weeks. He’s working far too hard at those translations; he ought to get out more. What about coming over to lunch with us some day? Any day you like.”

  “Oh, thank you, Bob! I’ll see what Charles says.”

  (We had seen quite a lot of Bob; he and Charles had had several fishing expeditions in the spring, and quite often he had come back to Braeside Cottage for supper, so we were “Bob” and “Sarah” to each other. I was not so intimate with “Elspeth.”)

  “What’s the matter with Charles?” inquired Bob.

  It was no good beating about the bush. “He’s working,” I explained. “He doesn’t like being interrupted. Once he has finished what he’s doing it will be all right; he’ll want to go about and see his friends.”

  “He’s my best friend,” said Bob seriously. “I’ve known other chaps much longer, of course, but you don’t measure friendship by length of time.”

  “No?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Depth of time,” explained Bob. “Misery endured together, long nights of talk, dangers faced and overcome! I know Charles better than I know my brother . . . and that’s saying a good deal.”

  I nodded.

  Bob continued earnestly. “Charles is a queer fish in some ways; he feels things more than other people; he takes things harder. You wouldn’t think it to look at him—a great big strong fellow and full of jokes—but he’s really much too sensitive. You know that, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “He nearly went mad when we were shut up in the Oflag,” said Bob with a sigh. “And when I say ‘mad’ I mean mad. Then, when we escaped, he was like a different being: he enjoyed the danger; he was full of beans. Some day I want to tell you the whole story of our adventures; it would make a jolly good thriller. If only I could write I’d do it—and make my fortune.”

  “Charles could do it, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Charles could make his fortune,” agreed Bob, smiling. “Charles can write; he’s got the gift—which I haven’t—but somehow I can’t see Charles writing the story of our adventures.”

  I looked at Bob . . . and wondered. Perhaps if he were to come up to Braeside Cottage, and peep in at the window of the book-room, he would see just that . . . or perhaps not. I had no idea what Charles was writing.

  “I didn’t know you could drive,” continued Bob. “This is the sort of car I should like to have; it can move pretty fast, can’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s Charles’s one extravagance.”

  Bob chuckled. “Well, you had better make the most of it while Charles is broody; you won’t get a chance when he comes out of retirement—but don’t go too fast. It’s a powerful machine for a woman to handle; I wouldn’t let Elspeth loose with a car like this.”

  Then he said good-bye and disappeared into the ironmonger’s.

  When I got home I went to the book-room (I rarely disturbed Charles but I had to speak to him). The table was littered with untidy sheets of foolscap, the waste-paper basket was overflowing with torn-up manuscript and Charles was sitting gazing out of the window.

  “I saw Bob,” I said.

  “Who?” asked Charles, coming back to earth.

  “Your friend, Bob Loudon. He asked us to lunch.”

  “I can’t, Sarah,” said Charles with a queer sort of desperation. “I couldn’t sit and talk to people—not even to Bob. I must get this book finished; I can think of nothing else.”

  “Are you going to publish it?”

  “Publish it?” he echoed in surprise. “Oh, I don’t think so! Nobody will ever want to read it.”

  “There would be no harm in trying.”

  “Oh, well . . . but I couldn’t publish it under my own name, of course. I could call myself Edward Fisher. He was in the Oflag with us: a nice chap with fair hair.”

  “But Charles, you couldn’t use the name of a real person!”

  “He was killed the night we escaped . . . but perhaps you’re right. I could call myself John Fisher.” Charles sighed and added, “But what’s the good of talking? The book will never be published. I’m just writing it for myself.”

  I said no more; I had put two and two together. It was eviden
t that Charles was writing the story of his escape and his subsequent adventures with Bob Loudon. Several books of this kind had been published recently and had done exceedingly well—everyone was talking about them—so there was no reason why Charles’s book shouldn’t be a success.

  It was Charles himself who reopened the subject while we were having lunch.

  He heaved a sigh and said, “It’s awfully dull for you, Sarah, but you understand, don’t you? I’ve just got to finish this wretched thing.”

  “You talk as if you hated it!”

  “Sometimes I hate it and sometimes I love it.”

  “You’re working too hard; you look quite ill.”

  “Yes, but I can’t stop. Oh, I know it sounds crazy! I’ll be better when it’s finished.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charles wearily. “Sometimes it rolls along quite easily and at other times it sticks. At the moment it has got completely bogged down.”

  “Charles, couldn’t you take a few days’ holiday? The Loudons have asked us to lunch—I told you that—and the Dunnes want us to go to their garden party; it seems so rude not to go. I can’t think of a polite excuse . . .” I stopped because he wasn’t listening; he was staring at the wall over my head; not seeing the wall, but seeing something else—something in the far-away distance. After a few moments he rose, leaving the food on his plate half-finished, and went back to his book-room and shut the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Until that talk with Charles I had been very patient; I had done my best to shield him from interruption . . . but his Rainbow had been going on for so long that my patience was wearing thin. I had made up my mind to stop worrying; it was foolish to sit at home and brood. Charles didn’t want me, he had made that quite obvious, so I would go about by myself and have a good time. Bob had told me to make the most of the car; he had said it as a joke, but there is often a good deal of sense in a joke. I couldn’t accept invitations to luncheons and dinners without Charles but there were plenty of other interesting things to do. I went to tea with Debbie; I went to a cocktail party at the Raeworths’; I went to Edinburgh for a day’s shopping and I went to the garden-party at Dunnian House.

  Celia Dunne had a good day for her party; it was a golden August day. The gardens were looking beautiful and all the people in the district were there in their best clothes.

  The scene was gay and colourful, dozens of little tables, laden with cakes and sandwiches, were set out under the shade of the trees . . . and Celia’s guests were wandering about admiring the flowers, chatting and laughing, or sitting at the tables having tea.

  I had gone to the party, not expecting to enjoy myself, but just determined to be sociable, so I was surprised when I found I was having a very pleasant time. Grandpapa was there, talking to his friends and having jokes with them; he was so popular that he was always the centre of a cheerful group. Mark and Debbie were there, and had brought Beric, who was making himself useful handing round tea.

  “Hallo, Mrs Reede!” he said cheerfully. “I had a letter from Froggie yesterday. I’d tell you about it if I had time . . . but I’m awfully busy, you know. I’ll get you some tea if you like,” he added, seizing a meringue off the table and cramming it into his mouth. Obviously he wasn’t too busy to eat.

  “Thank you, Beric; I’ll have tea later,” I replied.

  He nodded. He couldn’t speak, of course.

  There were several other people, whom I had met from time to time; they all seemed pleased to see me; they were all friendly and kind. Sir Humphrey Dunne took me to see his magnolia, of which he was very proud, and asked if “the translations” were going well.

  “Charles is very busy,” I replied.

  “He should have taken an afternoon off,” said Sir Humphrey. “I’m disappointed not to see him here.”

  “Everybody else seems to be here, Sir Humphrey.”

  “Yes, it’s a good party,” he agreed. “People all know each other which makes it much easier.” Then he smiled at me and went to greet a newly arrived guest.

  At that moment I felt a gentle touch on my arm and turned to find myself looking into a pair of very blue eyes which were just on a level with my own.

  “Sir Rupert!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, here I am, Mrs Reede! I can see you’re surprised to see me—and, to tell you the truth, these bun-fights are not really in my line—but Dunne was keen for me to come this afternoon and the Navy has to stand together through thick and thin.”

  “Yes, of course!” I agreed. I couldn’t help smiling because the distinguished Admiral looked so very odd. He was wearing a tan silk tussore suit and a Panama hat, yellow with age.

  “You’re looking at my suit,” he said with a self-satisfied air. “I got it when I was in China in ’22. We were chasing pirates up the Yangtze and it was deuced hot. You can’t often wear tropical gear in this climate, but I thought it would be just the thing for a garden party so I got it out and Mrs Sprugge pressed it—she’s the shepherd’s wife, you know. I hope it doesn’t smell of camphor?”

  I assured him that it didn’t. As a matter of fact a faint unfamiliar odour—which certainly wasn’t camphor—emanated from Admiral Sir Rupert Nash.

  “I’m rather annoyed with you and your good man,” he added. “You’ve never been to see me, Mrs Reede.”

  “Charles has been very busy,” I explained. “He has been translating a book for a London publisher.”

  “Oh well, work is work. I dare say there’s money in it—and we can’t live on air—but what about you, Mrs Reede? Why not drop in for tea some fine afternoon?”

  “Do you really want me?”

  He gave his funny dry cackle of laughter and replied, “I never ask people to visit me unless I want them. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “They might come,” he explained with another cackle. “Look here, we won’t make a date—it might turn out to be a wet day—but just come some fine day when you feel in the mood. I’m always there, you know.”

  “You aren’t there today,” I said, smiling.

  “This is a very special Naval Occasion,” he replied.

  We left it like that. It was in my mind that I could ring him up some fine afternoon and find out if it would be convenient for me to come.

  It was not until that night when, as usual, I was all alone in the sitting-room (and was thinking about the party—and wishing I had someone to talk to) that I suddenly remembered the fact that Sir Rupert was not on the telephone.

  Should I go or not? On the one hand it seemed ungracious not to go when he had asked me; on the other hand I felt a little shy of “dropping in” without notice. The problem worried me for several days but eventually I plucked up my courage and decided to go.

  *

  Sir Rupert had told me to choose a fine day for my visit so I chose a particularly fine one. At lunch I broke the news to Charles, wondering somewhat anxiously if he would object to my taking his precious Humber over the Admiral’s “unkind road,” but he was too preoccupied with his Rainbow to take any interest in my plans.

  “Yes, of course,” said Charles vaguely. “It’s good for you to go about and see your friends.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to come with me?”

  “No,” said Charles.

  Charles and I had come home from the Brig by a steep hill into Ryddelton but, on making inquiries at the garage, I discovered that I could go by the main road and turn to the right up Dunlaggan Hill. This seemed a better plan so I set off in good heart and spun along happily. I was quite used to the Humber by this time and it was a joy to feel the smooth powerful thrust of the engine. It was not until I reached the corner and turned up the hill that I began to have qualms. The other road had been very rough but this approach seemed worse. I slowed down to little more than walking pace and did my best to avoid the holes and the ruts and the enormous stones.

  I began to worry about the car: what w
ould Charles say if I broke a spring or landed in a ditch? I also began to worry about my escapade . . . yes, it was a mischievous adventure, undertaken in a spirit of bravado!

  By this time I was well on my way to the Brig so I pulled up at the side of the road. The spirit of bravado had oozed out of the soles of my feet and I was feeling rather miserable.

  I considered the matter seriously. If Charles had been in his right mind and had understood what I proposed to do, would he have agreed so readily? Would he have allowed me to undertake the expedition over this hazardous road? Would he have been pleased at the idea of my coming alone to visit the somewhat peculiar “Mr Noah” in his isolated dwelling-place? I knew the answers, of course. I knew something else as well: I knew that I had been so set on my escapade that I hadn’t tried very hard to make Charles understand.

  Having reached this conclusion it became obvious that the only thing for a dutiful wife to do was to turn tail and go home.

  “Hallo, Mrs Reede!” exclaimed a cheerful voice . . . and there, just beside me at the window, was Sir Rupert’s brown, wrinkled, leathery face, wreathed in smiles. “I was thinking about you,” he continued. “I was thinking this was just the right day for you to come. The skies are blue and the heather is at its best; beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Now that I looked at the heather I saw that it was perfectly beautiful (I had been too intent upon avoiding the obstacles to notice it before). “Yes, it’s gorgeous,” I agreed.

  “Why have you stopped here? No trouble in the engine-room, I hope?”

  “Not this time,” I replied smiling. I added, “Is it all right for me to come to tea?”

  “It’s more than ‘all right.’ It’s supremely right,” declared Sir Rupert gallantly. “I told you I never asked people to visit me unless I wanted them to come.”

  “Too dangerous,” I suggested.

  “Much too dangerous,” he replied, grinning like a gargoyle.

  Then he opened the door of the car, put a large empty basket on the back seat and got in beside me. “Drive on, Mrs Reede,” he said. “We can go up to the Brig in the car; it will save you a troublesome climb.”