Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  Yours,

  A. T. THYNNE.

  “It’s awfully like the old man,” said Guy, handing the letter back.

  “Yes,” agreed Ned. “I’ll have to answer it. Elise says Tommy won’t want to divorce him—but we don’t know for certain. A thing like that can’t be arranged all in a minute! It requires thought.”

  Ned Crabbe sometimes said that his wife was a pillar of the post office, and that the enormous sums which the Government derived from post-office revenues were largely due to his wife’s passion for correspondence. Elise was one of those useful people who carry on an information bureau for the benefit of their friends. She received letters from all over the world. People wrote to her from India, from China, from Malta and Mauritius, from Bermuda and Egypt and Ceylon. She had letters from the North-West Frontier, from Singapore and the Gold Coast, in fact, from practically every spot where the British Army is known, and she had letters from places such as Buenos Aires and Lisbon, where military attachés and their wives and families are still to be found. People wrote to Elise giving all their news, saying that Bill had left school and gone into the R.A.F., and that George was somewhere in the Middle East—nobody knew where—that Jean had had twins and Dorothy’s children were in the throes of whooping-cough, and Pamela was engaged to a Lieutenant-Commander in the Navy—a charming man—and they always finished up by asking what had happened to Frank, and where Lilian was now, and whether Alison’s eldest boy was old enough to take an active part in the war; whereupon Elise immediately seized her pen and wrote a long letter in reply, giving all her own news and all the news she had gathered in from her other correspondents. The posts at Cairn were irregular in the extreme. Sometimes letters arrived early in the morning and sometimes not until the afternoon, but, somehow or other, once you had got used to this peculiarity, it was quite pleasant to have a surprise, and to receive a bunch of exciting letters when you had ceased to expect them. On this particular morning the post was late in reaching Cairn, and Elise received several interesting letters just before lunch. She was expecting Ned to lunch, so she put them aside until afterwards, noting that one was from Betty, who was living on the fat of the land at Srinagar, and another was from Evelyn, who was having a pretty thin time at Bristol. The third letter bore an Aberdeen postmark, but it was not from Tommy; Tommy’s bold and dashing calligraphy was too well known for there to be any doubt about that. As Ned had not yet arrived, Elise decided to open the letter, so she opened it and, like all sensible people, she looked at the end first, to see who it was from. The signature was Tamara Fraser, so the letter was from Tommy’s mother.

  Hailes Park,

  Aberdeen.

  MY DEAR MRS. CRABBE,

  Thank you very much for writing to me. I was horrified to hear about Middleton, but not really surprised, for nothing he could do would surprise me. I entirely agree with everything you say, and especially I agree that the best thing that could happen would be for my poor Tommy to free herself from Middleton. I would have advised her to do so—very tactfully as you suggest—but unfortunately I have had no opportunity. Tommy has not come to me after all. She sent me a wire from Glasgow saying that she had decided to go south and would write later and let her know her address. Since then I have heard nothing at all and I am really quite frantic with anxiety. I wired to my cousins in Hampshire, thinking that she might have gone there, but they wired back that they had not seen her. I would go south myself if there was any chance of finding her, but it is not much use when I have no idea where she is, and of course she may write to me. I hope for a letter by every post. I had hoped that Tommy might come here and help me; there would be plenty for her to do. This house has been taken over by the military authorities as a convalescent home, and I am doing the catering, which keeps me very busy. Of course I could get away if I knew where Tommy was—I should just have to go to her—but it would not be very easy. Do you think Tommy has gone to London to find Middleton? I hope not. I try to comfort myself by thinking that she may have decided to take up some form of war work. If only Tommy could see Middleton in his true colours and could escape from the extraordinary influence which he seems to exercise over her—it is such an evil influence! Oh, how happy I should be if Tommy could free herself from him! You will think I am quite mad to write all this to you, but your letter was so kind and understanding and I have nobody here to talk to about it. Can you suggest anything that I could do?

  With kindest regards, and again many thanks for writing to me.

  Yours very sincerely,

  TAMARA FRASER.

  Elise had no time to digest this letter before Ned and Guy arrived; in fact, they found her with it in her hand. She greeted them a trifle vaguely and handed the letter to Ned (for she and Ned shared all their correspondence), and in return Ned fished out Colonel Thynne’s epistle and handed it to Elise. They went in to lunch still talking about the two letters and trying to decide whether anything could be done. Guy could not help thinking how odd it was that both Frances and Tommy should suddenly disappear into thin air.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Sometimes Guy worked amongst the orderly-room files with a mad frenzy, and sometimes he found himself unable to work at all, and one afternoon when he was in the latter condition he pushed aside a batch of correspondence about weapon training, and rising from the table he seized his cap and walked down to the shore. He had decided to walk across the bay and have tea with Elise—he could talk to Elise about Frances. The tide was out and the rocks were bare, and Guy suddenly perceived a small figure in a red jersey and grey shorts standing upon a pinnacle of rock and waving a spade to him—it was Winkie Liston. Guy was not in a sociable mood; he had already avoided Mark with some difficulty, but Winkie was different since Winkie was innocent of crime. Winkie could not be expected to know anything about Frances Field, so Guy was not angry with him. Guy waved back and went down to join Winkie on the rocks.

  Winkie looked a great deal better than the last time Guy had seen him; there was a pink flush on his cheeks and he had put on a little weight; in addition to these signs of health, Guy was delighted to notice that his hands and knees were dirty and there was a large rent in the sleeve of his jersey.

  “Hallo, what are you doing?” inquired Guy.

  “Come here!” yelled Winkie. “Come here, Jennifer’s uncle! I’m playing house-agents. I’ll show you how to. I’ll teach you if you like.”

  Guy sat down and gazed into the small pool indicated by Winkie’s outstretched finger. “What’s the idea?” he asked.

  “They’re hermit crabs,” Winkie explained. *“Those are hermit crabs and those are empty houses . . . Look, look, there’s one changing!”

  Guy looked and was amazed to see one of the crabs come out of its own shell and insert itself into another which Winkie had placed conveniently near.

  “Hurrah!” cried Winkie, leaping up and down like a lunatic. “Hurrah, hurrah, I’ve let a house! I’m an awfully good house-agent.”

  “Do they often take your houses?” asked Guy with interest.

  “Not terribly often,” replied Winkie, “but just often enough for it to be exciting when they do. Sometimes they look at a house—feel it all over with their claws—and then make up their minds not to move—just like real people do. As a matter of fact that’s what you did.”

  “I did?” asked Guy in bewilderment.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact you did. We found a very big hermit, you see, and it was you; and we found a very, very big house for you to move into, but you decided not to.”

  “Did I really?” asked Guy, smiling with amusement. “Perhaps it hadn’t electric light—”

  “It had everything,” declared Winkie. “It even had a fridge so you could have had ice in your whisky if you wanted it. The house-agent lady and I chose a specially nice house for you. Will she come back?”

  “What?” asked Guy.

  “Will the house-agent lady come back here?”

  “Do you mean Mrs. Widgery?”<
br />
  “No,” said Winkie. “Mrs. Widgery doesn’t know any games or stories. She’s just like other grown-up people.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Guy in a disinterested tone.

  Winkie was somewhat displeased. He was disappointed in Jennifer’s uncle. He sighed so gustily that Guy was forced to take notice.

  “It isn’t me, it’s you,” replied Winkie sadly. “You’re not so interesting as usual, that’s all.”

  Guy could not help laughing. “No, I’m poor company for any one at the moment,” he agreed.

  “Have you got a pain?” asked Winkie with rather more sympathy.

  “No,” said Guy. “No, it isn’t that.”

  “Perhaps you’ve got toothache,” suggested Winkie. “Toothache is horrible, but the best thing to do is to have it pulled out. That’s what I did.”

  “No, I haven’t got toothache either. I’m just—just a bit worried.”

  “I’ll tell you a story,” said Winkie kindly. “It’ll take your mind off. I know an awfully interesting story—not a silly one about fairies—but an awfully interesting one. The house-agent lady told it to me, and . . .”

  “Not just now,” said Guy. “I’m going up to the hotel to see Jennifer’s mother.” He rose and smiled at Winkie and wandered off.

  Winkie was even more disappointed in Jennifer’s uncle; he shook his head sadly and returned to his game, and the incident was closed.

  Elise was giving Tillie Liston tea in the lounge when Guy strolled in; she waved the teapot to him in a hospitable manner, so he crossed over to where they were sitting and endeavoured to make himself agreeable.

  “Hallo!” he said. “Yes, it is a lovely day. I’ve just been talking to Winkie on the shore. He’s looking ever so much fitter.”

  “Yes,” said his mother, but she said it doubtfully, and somehow or other Guy became aware that he had interrupted a conversation about the young man.

  “Tillie is worried,” said Elise.

  Guy was not surprised to receive this information, for he had known Tillie for years and had never seen her in any other condition; but he made solicitous noises and forbore to look at Elise in case he should smile.

  “Yes,” said Elise. “Tillie is very worried about Miss Cole.”

  “Miss Cole!” exclaimed Guy, accepting a cup of tea and selecting a scone from a plate on the table. “What’s the matter with little Miss Cole?”

  “Nothing,” said Tillie hastily. “I mean, she’s quite well. It’s just that she doesn’t seem to be able to manage Winkie any more. He’s got so independent lately, and Jack said I was to let him have more freedom to roam about—but it’s very difficult.”

  Guy was surprised. He liked Miss Cole and he liked Winkie, and it always seems strange when two people one likes fail to like each other.

  “Tillie will have to get rid of Miss Cole,” said Elise firmly.

  “Oh, dear!” moaned Tillie. “I don’t know what to do. She’s so good with Dolly. I’m afraid Winkie is getting to a very unmanageable age. He’s very naughty sometimes.”

  Guy thought of the small dirty figure on the sands; he seemed to see the trustful eyes gazing into his. “Nonsense,” said Guy. “Any one who had a grain of understanding could manage Winkie with one hand. What’s Miss Cole been thinking of?” Elise smiled to herself, for she had hoped that Guy would interest himself in this business. Guy needed something to think about and Tillie would listen to what Guy said—Tillie was the sort of woman who is more ready to listen to advice from a man.

  “Do you really think so?” Tillie was inquiring. “Miss Cole says he’s very difficult. She has a theory that Miss Field upset Winkie and undermined her authority.”

  “Miss Field—what has she to do with it?”

  Tillie nodded. “Doesn’t it seem absurd? I told Miss Cole it was absurd, but she sticks to it that Winkie’s naughtiness dates from the day they met Miss Field in the bus—the day they went to Rithie for Winkie to have his tooth out—”

  “I didn’t know Winkie knew Miss Field,” said Guy.

  “Oh, yes, they were friends. She took him out in a boat and another day she played with him on the sands. Winkie is always asking when she is coming back.”

  Guy did not reply at once, for he was thinking—perhaps Frances was the house-agent lady.

  “I wish Jack were here,” said Tillie in anxious tones.

  “He’ll be back soon,” replied Elise soothingly. “He’s been away for ten days, hasn’t he, so he’ll be back about the end of next week—”

  “The end of next week!” echoed Tillie in despairing accents.

  There was a short silence, and Guy glanced at Elise. He knew Elise so well, they were so much in tune with each other’s minds, that he was certain she was “up to something.” She wanted him to do something—probably something unpleasant.

  “You must just get rid of Miss Cole,” said Elise at last. “It’s bad for any child to be pulling against authority, and especially bad for Winkie, because he’s such a highly-strung, sensitive creature. Guy’s right. If you take Winkie the proper way you can do anything with him. You say yourself that you can’t go on as you’re doing, so you must make up your mind to part with Miss Cole or else to send Winkie to school.”

  “To school! But we couldn’t—he’s far too young—and he’s so delicate—so difficult with his food—besides, we couldn’t afford it—”

  “Of course you can’t,” agreed Guy. “Elise only meant to show you that there was no alternative.”

  The door of the lounge opened and Winkie appeared. He stood there for a moment smiling like the sun on a May morning. His face was streaked with mud, his clothes were covered with sand, his grey shorts were in tatters round his bare legs. There was an angry-looking scratch on one of his shins and the blood from it was dripping on to the carpet. . . . His mother gazed at him; she seemed to be stricken dumb with consternation at his appearance.

  “Hallo, Winkie, what have you got in your pail?” asked Guy.

  “A fish,” replied Winkie, coming towards them, still with that beaming—almost blinding—smile upon his dirty face. “A real live fish. I caught it myself in a pool. I had an awful job to catch it.”

  “Good man! Let’s see it,” said Guy.

  Tillie was recovering a little. “Winkie, your clothes—” she began in horror-stricken tones; but Elise interrupted her, leaning forward, and putting a hand upon her knee and saying in a low voice: “Look at his face.”

  “My clothes!” said Winkie, looking down at his ragged shorts in surprise.

  “It’s all right,” said Guy, putting an arm round his shoulders and drawing him near. “Your mother understands that boys are bound to get dirty when they’re catching fish. She doesn’t mind a bit . . . where’s the fish, Winkie?”

  The fish was extremely small, but it was a real fish with fins and a tail; Guy did not know whether it was an infant haddock or whether it was a small species of fish—perhaps it was a minnow. They discussed it seriously, their two heads close together as they peered into the pail.

  Tillie looked at them and then she smiled at Elise. “You’re quite right,” she said in an undertone. “It’s just that he has always been so delicate . . . but what about his leg?”

  “My leg!” said Winkie, looking up. “Oh, it’s nothing. It was a rock, that’s all. I’m sorry about my shorts, but the rock had scratchy sort of shells on it.”

  “We’ll put a bandage on your leg,” said Elise, rising and holding out her hand. She was quite glad of the excuse to remove Winkie from the scene, for she hoped that Guy would talk to Tillie seriously.

  “Look here, Tillie,” said Guy. “You’ve got to realise that Winkie is a boy. It’s good for him to get dirty and tear his clothes—just think of what he was like when he came to Cairn—this place is going to make a man of Winkie.”

  “Yes,” said Tillie. “You’re quite right, of course. Oh dear, it’s so difficult! Miss Cole will be furious about his clothes.”

 
“It will give you a good excuse for sacking her,” replied Guy somewhat brutally.

  “Oh, Guy, I don’t think I can!” cried Tillie, looking at him with frightened eyes. “It seems so awful to tell her to go . . . after all she has done for the children. It isn’t that I’m frightened of her, Guy, it’s just . . . it seems so ungrateful.”

  “She’ll get another job quite easily,” declared Guy.

  “You don’t understand,” said Tillie—and, of course, this was perfectly true. How could Guy understand? Only Tillie herself knew of all the anxieties which she and Miss Cole had shared. Only Tillie knew of the times when they had taken it in turns to walk the floor for hours on end with Dolly when she was teething, and how she and Miss Cole together had agonised over Winkie when he was feverish and miserable and the doctor had been almost certain—but not quite—that it was appendicitis. Miss Cole had been splendid then; she was always a tower of strength when anything went wrong—when the children were ill—she was always calm and cool and capable. Miss Cole had been with Tillie for years; she was as much a part of Tillie’s life as the children themselves, and it was only lately that she had begun to be—to be not quite so satisfactory. Just lately Tillie had begun to feel that Miss Cole was becoming a little too—well, just a trifle too possessive. She was taking everything into her own hands. She was beginning to run the whole house. She was not content to share the children’s affections, but was actually trying to oust Tillie altogether and usurp her place with Dolly and Winkie. She had succeeded with Dolly—Tillie realised this—but Winkie was different. Winkie resented Miss Cole’s authority.

  “Oh, Guy, you’re right!” said Tillie at last. “You and Elise are quite right. She must go—but I don’t know how on earth I’m going to break it to her.”

  “You can tell her quite nicely,” said Guy in a comforting manner. “You can say you’ve noticed that Winkie is getting too much for her or something like that, and you can offer to find her a good post.”