“This place—do you mean Cairn?” asked Frances in amazement.
“Oh, I don’t mean it’s really like India . . . and, of course, if this were India you wouldn’t have to do anything yourself. You couldn’t. Nobody thinks of doing a hand’s turn. It was this room that reminded me of India—all the meeting and talking and the noise—like the club, you know.”
Frances did not know.
“The club,” explained Mrs. Liston. “There’s always a club where every one in the station meets and talks. Sometimes they have dances. Jack and I didn’t go over to the club every night, but most people do. It was too expensive—we’ve always had to scrape. I didn’t mind for myself, but I minded for Jack. Men like standing drinks and that sort of thing—you know what I mean. It’s harder for men not to have as much money as other people. It was because of the children, of course. We’ve got four.”
“How lovely!” Frances said.
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Liston, still in the same vague tone. “Yes, of course. We wouldn’t be without them for anything, but—but it has made things a little difficult sometimes. Of course they’re worth it. They’re worth everything that we have had to give up—all the struggles. John and Helen are at boarding-schools now, but Winkie and little Dolly are coming to-morrow. You’ll come and see them, won’t you, Miss Field?”
“Yes, I should like to see them.”
“They’re darlings,” said their mother with a little smile that lighted her wan face like a lamp. “They’re terribly sweet and precious—and it is so lovely to be able to have them with us. We were in India when John and Helen were little, so we missed years of them—all the funny little things that children say and do. Then, when we came home, they didn’t know us—they couldn’t remember us at all—it was like trying to make friends with strangers. They were shy, you see. They liked Jack’s brother and sister so much that they didn’t want to come and live with us. Jack was a little hurt—you see, we had given up so much for them, to pay for their education and everything—but you couldn’t expect children to understand, could you? We were strangers to them . . . nothing but names. . . . It all came right in the end. Things usually come right in the end if you just go on doing your best . . . if you keep on loving people. . . . I’m afraid I’m talking nonsense, but it’s because I’m so tired,” added Mrs. Liston apologetically.
Frances did not think it nonsense. In fact Mrs. Liston, who had always been a shadowy and insubstantial figure, had quite suddenly become a real person. She was still as shabby as ever, and her hair was a mess, but these details had ceased to matter. “It was dreadful for you!” Frances exclaimed.
“It wasn’t their fault—”
“No, perhaps not, but surely your husband’s brother and sister could have talked to the children about you.”
“That was what Jack said,” admitted Mrs. Liston. “Jack said that they had deliberately stolen the children’s hearts, but I don’t think they had. It just happened. They were very kind to John and Helen, so I couldn’t feel angry with them.”
Frances was casting about in her mind to find something friendly to say—something to show that she understood—when Major Liston detached himself from the group at the other end of the room and came over to them.
“Tillie, you’re worn out,” he said, looking down at his wife with solicitude. “You’re almost asleep—come along home to bed.” He held out his hand as he spoke and pulled her up. “Sorry, Miss Field,” he added. “Sorry to drag Tillie away in this unceremonious fashion, but she’s been working like a navvy all day.”
“Have you spoken to Fox?” asked Tillie in a low voice.
“No, but it doesn’t matter. I can ask him to-morrow,” replied her husband. He seized her cloak, which was lying on a chair, and put it round her shoulders.
Tillie smiled at Frances. “Come to tea to-morrow—do come,” she said, and was dragged away before Frances could reply.
Now that Frances was alone she had time to observe the rest of the party. Miss Thynne was standing in front of the fire smoking a cigarette in a long, green holder. Frances decided that Miss Thynne’s figure was not shown to its best advantage in trousers. She bulged in the wrong places. She would have looked better in more feminine apparel. Captain Widgery was leaning against the mantelpiece talking to Miss Thynne, smiling down at her from his immensely superior height . . . somehow or other he looked more like a pirate than ever. The Crabbes and Tommy and Guy Tarlatan were sitting near the window talking and laughing in an animated way. Tommy seemed to be doing most of the talking; there was a bright colour in her cheeks and her voice was a trifle shrill.
Miss Thynne knocked her cigarette into the fire. “Hallo!” she exclaimed. “The Listons seem to have gone. Daddy said I was to walk home with them.”
“I’ll walk home with you,” said Captain Widgery.
They had turned to go when Guy Tarlatan jumped up and seized his cap. “I’ll walk home with you, Angela,” he said.
For a moment all three of them stood there indecisively—then Angela laughed. “Well, which of you is coming?” she inquired. “Or are you both coming?”
“I’m coming,” declared Guy. “You know you’d rather have me.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind,” retorted Angela.
“Come on,” said Guy. “I’ve something to tell you—something frightfully important.” He put his arm through hers and dragged her towards the door.
“Farewell!” cried Angela, waving her other hand. “Farewell, farewell, the maiden cried—”
Captain Widgery did not look too pleased at having his companion snatched from under his nose in this unceremonious manner. He hesitated for a moment and then straightened his back. Frances had a feeling that he was going after the other two, but instead of that he walked across the room to his wife.
“Well, Tommy,” he said, “it’s getting late. What about this house of yours?”
Tommy rose at once. She was quite pale now, but her eyes were shining like stars. They said good-night and went away.
“So that’s that,” said Major Crabbe.
Frances had seen all that had happened, and somehow she was aware that she should have been able to understand what it all meant, but it was an enigma to her. She went up to bed, leaving the Crabbes sitting by the fire, but it was a long time before she could sleep.
CHAPTER XI
Sea View was bathed in golden sunshine, and as Frances approached she heard the sound of Tommy’s voice—Tommy was singing “Never in a Million Years” in a high, sweet treble—it was like a boy’s voice, Frances thought. She smiled and quickened her steps, for it was obvious that Tommy was happy . . . everything was all right, after all. . . .
Tommy came to the door to shake a duster. She saw Frances and waved cheerfully. “We’re got to have coffee,” she cried. “You’re just in time. Mrs. MacNair is making it.”
Frances followed her into the sitting-room. She had wanted to ask if everything was all right, and whether Captain Widgery had liked the house, but she was too shy—besides, there was no need to ask, for Tommy was on top of the world this morning.
“Mrs. MacNair is splendid,” declared Tommy, flinging herself on to the hearthrug and hugging her knees. “She was here at eight o’clock. We were just sitting down to breakfast. She’s washed up everything and tidied the kitchen cupboard—Hurrah! here’s the coffee!”
Mrs. MacNair brought in a tray with coffee and biscuits and two cups, and put it on a chair beside Tommy.
“It smells lovely,” said Tommy appreciatively.
“I make it in a saucepan,” said Mrs. MacNair. “It was a French cook showed me the way. Most people seem to like it.”
“I’m sure we shall like it,” declared Tommy. “Have you kept some for yourself, Mrs. MacNair?”
“Yes, thank you. It isn’t rationed, so I thought you wouldn’t mind.” She hesitated, and then added: “I was in service before I was married. It was in Glasgow. My name’s Ellen.”
“Ellen,” repeated Tommy. “I wish my name was Ellen. Tamara is such a silly name.”
“It’s better than Ellen,” said Mrs. MacNair firmly.
“What a pity we can’t exchange,” said Tommy. “I’d like to be called Ellen—only, if I were, every one would call me Nelly. I’m that sort of person, you know.”
“I was called for my grannie,” said Mrs. MacNair. “The only good I got out of it was this house. She left it to me on that account—because I was Ellen.”
“I never got any good at all out of being called Tamara,” said Tommy regretfully.
When the woman had gone Tommy smiled at Frances and said: “She’s rather sweet. She’s got a wonderful face. I think she must have a history.”
Frances was surprised at the way in which Mrs. MacNair had come out of her shell. She thought: I might have known the woman for years and have got no nearer to her.
Tommy was pouring out the coffee. She went on talking. “It will be much easier to call her Ellen,” said Tommy. “That was what she meant, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Frances.
“Of course every one has a history—even you—but I mean she must have been through a good deal. She looks as if she had.”
“Why do you say ‘even you’?” asked Frances.
The green eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “You haven’t begun to live, that’s why.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s just it. If you had begun to live you would know. We’re probably just about the same age, but I’ve knocked about the world since I was six years old. I’ve been utterly miserable and wildly happy. You’ve never been either. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with yourself, but you haven’t lived.”
“I’m different from you,” said Frances.
“Yes,” agreed Tommy. “Yes, you’re a looker-on at life—but some day you’ll find yourself in the thick of it. People can’t look on for ever. I hope you won’t get hurt—”
“Tommy, you’re frightening me!”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Tommy gravely. “I just wanted to warn you, because you’re such an infant, but it isn’t any use, really. Every one has to find their own way through the jungle. Some people come through all right and others don’t. . . . The coffee is lovely, isn’t it?”
It was four o’clock precisely when Frances rang the bell of the Listons’ bungalow—it was the kind of bell which buzzes just inside the door—and almost immediately the door was opened by a nice-looking girl in a blue overall. “Oh, are you Miss Field?” she said. “I’m Mrs. Liston’s nursery governess. We’ve just arrived. Mrs. Liston is expecting you.”
Mrs. Liston was sitting in an arm-chair with a baby girl on her knee and a small boy leaning against her shoulder. She looked much happier and less lost, and her hair was a good deal neater than usual. She held out her hand to Frances and said: “I’m so glad you’ve come, Miss Field. I can’t get up, because Dolly weighs about a ton. I don’t know what Miss Cole has been feeding her on.”
“Coal,” said the little boy.
Miss Cole laughed. “Yes, we’ve been feeding her on coal—or rather she has been feeding herself on coal—hasn’t she, Winkie?”
“She takes it out of the coal-scuttle and eats it when nobody’s looking,” Winkie said, nodding gravely. “I think perhaps she thinks it’s chocolate, don’t you?”
“Chocklit!” cried Dolly, bouncing up and down.
“There—you shouldn’t have said it,” declared Miss Cole. “She thinks she’s going to have some. I wish you’d think, before you say things like that.”
“She’s looking very well,” said Mrs. Liston in a pacifying tone.
“Yes, isn’t she?” agreed Miss Cole. “I’ve been feeding her up. She’s put on nearly two pounds in a fortnight. I was sure you’d be pleased when you saw her.”
Frances knew nothing about children, but she could not help feeling that it was Winkie—not Dolly—who required feeding up. Dolly was a solid child with fat pink checks and beady brown eyes. Winkie was thin and pale, so pale that the veins in his temples showed blue through his transparent skin. She remembered that something had been said about Winkie having an operation, so perhaps he had not recovered from it yet.
Miss Cole had been putting the finishing touches to the tea table, and now it was ready. She removed Dolly from her mother’s lap and strapped her firmly in her high chair.
“Mick!” cried Dolly, seizing a spoon and hammering on the wooden tray. “Mick—ben butter—mick.”
“Dolly is always hungry,” explained Miss Cole, cutting a large slab of bread and plastering it with butter.
It was obvious that Winkie did not share his sister’s enthusiasm for· food. He climbed on to his chair with reluctance and eyed his slice of bread and butter with distaste. “I don’t think I want it, really,” he said. “It’s rather a waste to eat it when I don’t want it.”
“Much more of a waste not to eat it,” replied Miss Cole. “There are thousands of little boys who would be glad of a nice piece of bread and butter.”
“I wish I could give it to them,” Winkie declared.
“That’s very naughty,” said Miss Cole. “You’re to eat it up at once. Look how good Dolly is!”
Dolly was ploughing through her meal in a determined manner—every now and then she would pause and gaze at Frances, fixing her with an unblinking stare, and then she would seize another piece of bread and butter and cram it into her mouth.
“Have you been out in a boat?” asked Winkie suddenly.
“No,” replied Frances, “but I know a fisherman, and he’s promised to take me some day when the sea is nice and calm.”
“I wish I knew a fisherman,” Winkie said.
Frances hesitated. It would be foolish to raise the child’s hopes by offering to take him until she had found out whether he would be allowed to come . . . besides, the prospect of making herself responsible for Winkie, of having him on her hands for a whole morning, was somewhat alarming.
“Perhaps Miss Field would take you,” said Mrs. Liston, smiling.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Frances, trying to make her words sound cordial, but not succeeding very well.
“Will you?” cried Winkie, fixing her with his enormous eyes. “Will you really? Is it a true promise?”
Frances was obliged to reply that it was a true promise. She suggested that Miss Cole might like to join the party, but Miss Cole showed no enthusiasm for the idea.
“I am not fond of the sea,” said Miss Cole. “Dolly and I will come down to the pier and, see you off. Go on with your tea, Winkie. Miss Field won’t take you if you don’t eat your bread and butter.”
“She didn’t say that,” Winkie pointed out. “She didn’t say that she wouldn’t take me unless I was good, did you, Miss Field?”
“No,” said Frances, rather uncomfortably.
“You said it was a true promise,” Winkie reminded her.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed.
“When will it be?” asked Winkie. “Will it be to-morrow or the next day or the next day? Will it be this week?”
Frances was about to reply that they must wait for a calm day when Dolly interrupted the conversation by shouting “Maw tate!” in a shrill, penetrating voice. “Maw tate!” shouted Dolly, thumping on the tray with her spoon. “Maw tate!—maw tate!—maw tate!”
“She can’t say cake,” explained Miss Cole, cutting a large chunk of cake and putting it on Dolly’s plate.
“Isn’t she sweet?” said Mrs. Liston fondly.
Frances could not make up her mind whether she liked Dolly or not; there was something rather attractive about her, and her greediness was so naked and unashamed that it disarmed criticism. There was a vital force in Dolly’s small body, a savage instinct which demanded the necessaries of life. One felt that if Dolly had been cast away upon a desert island she would have managed to find food somehow, she would have managed to look after herself and struggle t
hrough. There was humour in Dolly too, for when Frances was offered a piece of cake, and accepted it, Dolly made a little grimace which was first cousin to a wink and said “Dood” in a voice which was somewhat muffled by crumbs.
“*Did you see that?” cried Miss Cole, laughing. “Isn’t she a one? She has taken to Miss Field, hasn’t she?”
Frances had already begun to suspect that Miss Cole was a foolish young woman, and now her suspicion was confirmed. She knew nothing about children, of course, but she had a feeling that Dolly, though somewhat inarticulate, was capable of understanding a good deal. The grimace had been spontaneous and extremely funny, but it would have been wiser to take no notice of it. They’ll spoil her, thought Frances, rather sadly. It seemed a pity that anything so natural should be made self-conscious.
Mrs. Liston was so taken up with her children, smiling fondly at Dolly’s antics and trying to coax Winkie to eat, that it was quite impossible to converse with her, and Frances could not help wondering why she had been asked to come. She took her leave soon after tea, saying that she must write a letter before post time, and Mrs. Liston did not press her to stay. Winkie walked down to the gate and opened it with an old-fashioned gravity which Frances found rather pathetic. He looked up at her as she went out and said: “I won’t be any trouble at all if you take me in the boat. I’ll do what I’m told at once.”
“We’ll arrange it,” Frances promised. “The very first calm day I’ll get hold of Alec and ask him to take us.”
CHAPTER XII
The weather broke suddenly, and when Frances opened her eyes the next morning she saw leaden skies outside her window, and a strong westerly wind, accompanied by driving rain, was rushing in from the sea. Francis had seen Cairn in sunshine and wrapped in mist, and now she was seeing it in a storm; she felt as if the storm had been summoned by Providence for her especial benefit. She swallowed her breakfast hastily, and, putting on her oilskins, she battled her way down to the harbour. The wind was like a living force, plucking at her coat; the waves were breaking over the wall, leaping up in sheaves and falling in fountains. There was nobody about—the fishermen’s houses had little wooden shutters fastened across their windows—Frances had the magnificent spectacle all to herself. She turned north, but instead of climbing the cliff she walked along the shore and then scrambled along a ridge of rocks, a sort of promontory which ran out into the sea. The wind came in strong gusts, so that sometimes she was forced to cling to the rocks with both hands; the spray from the bursting waves was salty on her lips. Frances was breathless, and her hair was blown in all directions by the time she reached the end of the promontory. She found a sheltered nook between two rocks, and sat down to watch the waves.
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