Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  Guy gazed at it with dawning comprehension. What was it Winkie had said? “He was called Digby. Some people thought he was just an ordinary doctor, but he was a very powerful magician.”

  “I’ve found her!” cried Guy . . . his heart nearly choked him . . . he bounded up the steps and pealed the bell. . . .

  Just at that moment a car glided up to the kerb and stopped, and a man got out—an old man with white hair and rather a bushy white moustache.

  “You’re Dr. Digby!” exclaimed Guy breathlessly.

  “Yes, is it an accident?” asked the doctor, pausing with one foot on the steps.

  “No, it’s—it’s Providence,” declared Guy, seizing the doctor’s hand and shaking it.

  Dr. Digby laughed. “I hope Providence hasn’t decreed that I’ve to go out before I’ve had my lunch.”

  “No, of course not,” said Guy earnestly. “I’ll wait. I don’t want you to go anywhere—I just want to ask you something, that’s all.”

  “You’ll have had your lunch, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Guy. “I mean no—but it doesn’t matter. I had breakfast late. The train was late in arriving.”

  “Where did the train arrive from?”

  “From Glasgow,” replied Guy.

  “But you’re not a Scot—”

  “No, I’ve been stationed in Scotland. I came south to see you—at least I think so—I mean, I didn’t know that you were here, but I’m sure you’re the very man I want to see . . .”

  Dr. Digby was hungry; he had not breakfasted late, so he cut short these incoherencies by inviting the excited young officer to have lunch with him. Guy replied that he would wait. He did his level best to avoid sharing the doctor’s meal, for he was aware that catering was difficult, but the doctor would take no denial, and in a very few minutes they were sitting opposite to each other at a large mahogany table eating an excellent piece of boiled cod and drinking beer out of two large tankards.

  “I’ve an appointment at two-thirty,” said Dr. Digby, “so there’s not much time. You can talk to me while we eat and tell me why you’ve come all the way from Glasgow to see me.”

  “It’s just this,” said Guy. “Do you happen to know Frances Field?” He paused and waited for the doctor’s reply in a fever of impatience.

  “Yes, I know her well. This is her uncle’s house,” replied Dr. Digby.

  Guy looked round the room.

  “Yes, she used to live here,” said the doctor. “I rented the house from Mr. Wheeler when my own house was blown to bits. It’s a bit on the large side, but—”

  “Where is she?” Guy inquired.

  “She’s not here,” Dr. Digby replied, smiling at Guy’s impatience. “I’ve just told you I’ve rented the house. The Wheelers are in Devonshire.”

  “Is Frances with them?” asked Guy.

  The doctor hesitated and then he said: “Why do you want to know?”

  “I must find her.”

  “But why?”

  “Because—”said Guy. “Well, because I want to ask her to marry me.”

  Dr. Digby grinned. He said: “You’ve put all your cards on the table. I suppose you think I should do the same?”

  “That was the idea,” admitted Guy.

  “But supposing Frances Field would rather I didn’t tell you where she was?”

  “Oh, but—”

  “This is how I see it—if Frances had wanted you to have her address she could have sent it you herself . . . and, as she’s done nothing of the sort, I’m forced to the conclusion that she’s not particularly anxious for you to have it.”

  “But I must see her!”

  “Will she want to see you?”

  Guy hesitated. “I think she will,” he said.

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “It’s like this, you see. I’m almost sure that she—er—likes me, but we had a sort of—well, a sort of misunderstanding. I thought that she understood . . . but she thought that I . . . well, it was a misunderstanding . . . and then, before I could get hold of her to explain the whole thing, she had vanished and I’ve been trying to find her ever since.”

  “Ah, that was the way of it!” said Dr. Digby, and, although his face was as grave as a judge, his eyes were twinkling.

  Guy nodded. “It sounds idiotic, doesn’t it?”

  “I hear quite a number of things that sound idiotic,” Dr. Digby replied. “Sometimes the things are not so idiotic as they sound . . . If you’d been here last Friday you’d have seen Frances,” he added.

  “I thought you said she was in Devonshire?”

  “I said the Wheelers were . . . help yourself to another piece of cod.”

  Guy did not want more cod. He said: “You will tell me, won’t you, sir?”

  “I think so,” said Dr. Digby. “Yes, I think I will . . . but I should like to know a little more first. Did you meet Frances at Cairn?”

  Thus encouraged, Guy plunged into the story; he told Dr. Digby everything—all about Winkie and how he had heard the name Wintringham Square—and Dr. Digby listened and nodded and chuckled. He did not give Guy the information he wanted until nearly the end.

  “Well, I think you deserve a reward for your trouble,” he said at last. “Frances is at Manburgh in Hertfordshire. She’s at the Belton Works. She went there on Friday and she’s to manage the canteen. I can’t give you her address in Manburgh, but if you go to the Belton Works and ask for Mr. Fleming he will be able to put you in touch with her. You can mention my name to Fleming—I’ll give you my card—he’s a friend of mine. He’ll not be best pleased if she throws up her job,” added Dr. Digby thoughtfully.

  Guy realised that this was true. He said quickly: “It doesn’t matter. I mean, if she wants to go on doing the job I can wait for her. I can wait if I know that everything is all right.”

  “Mind you, there’s to be no nonsense,” said Dr. Digby as he saw Guy off at the door. “I’ve given you her address and you can go and see her and explain the misunderstanding, but I’ll not have you pestering Frances. There’s to be none of that.”

  “If you don’t trust me—”

  “But I do,” declared Dr. Digby with a chuckle. “If I hadn’t trusted you, I’d never have given you the child’s address and what’s more I hope you’ll be successful. Frances is a lonely sort of creature—always has been—but she’s a grand girl, and I’m old-fashioned enough to think marriage is a woman’s best career. You’ll let me know what happens.”

  “Of course I will. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed. I’ll be—Frances will be all right with me. I mean—”

  “I know fine what you mean,” said the old doctor, patting him on the back. “Away and find Frances. She’ll be pleased to see you if I know anything about it.”

  The town of Manburgh was in some confusion when Guy arrived, for it had been badly bombed the night before. In fact it was the Manburgh blitz which had delayed the Night Scot and had made Guy late in arriving in London.

  “They’ll be back to-night, I shouldn’t wonder,” said the porter as he carried Guy’s bag to a taxi and heaved it in. “Two nights running—that’s the rule.”

  It was quite true, of course. The Luftwaffe usually bombed the same town two nights in succession—and we did the same thing with German towns—it was good strategy, for the A.R.P. Services were bound to be a trifle less efficient the second night, and the fire-fighters would naturally be tired.

  “Was there much damage?” Guy asked. “Were the Belton Works hit?”

  “The bombs were mostly in the town,” replied the man. “A lot of ’ouses were wrecked. The Belton Works are outside the town and Jerry didn’t get them.”

  “’Έ would ’ave liked to,” declared the taxi driver, joining in the conversation. “The Belton Works is wot Jerry wanted—so they’re saying.”

  Guy went straight out to the Belton Works. It was nine o’clock by this time, and he realised that it was too late to find Frances to-night, but he decided to go
to the works and get her address so that he could look her up early in the morning. He was still impatient, but he felt that if he knew where she was he could rest; she might be living in a hotel—probably was—and if so he could go and stay the night under the same roof.

  “There’s the Belton Works,” said the driver, pointing to half a dozen enormous factory buildings situated in a large park. “They’re new. They’ve jus’ bin built, but they’re going full swing night an’ day. They won’t let you in unless you got a pass—nobody can’t get in.”

  “I’ll try, anyhow,” Guy replied.

  There was a little delay at the gate, but Guy was in uniform and his manner was assured. He produced Dr. Digby’s card and asked for Mr. Fleming, and after a little discussion and some telephoning he was informed that Mr. Fleming would see him.

  Mr. Fleming was a Scot; he was younger than Dr. Digby, but was rather like the doctor in many ways. He had the same type of face—somewhat dour, but changing to genuine kindliness when lighted by a smile—and the same keen grey eyes. “Well, Captain—er—Tarlatan,” he said, “and what can we do for you?”

  “It isn’t business,” said Guy. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but Dr. Digby said you wouldn’t mind. Could you give me Miss Field’s address?”

  “Miss Field? Oh yes, the canteen manager.”

  “It’s dreadful to disturb you at this hour, but it’s rather important—” began Guy.

  Mr. Fleming smiled. “This hour!” he said. “All hours are the same to me. We’re working night and day. I’m afraid I can’t tell you where Miss Field is living, but if you go over to the canteen you’ll find her there. She’s getting everything into order. It’s opening tomorrow.” He came with Guy to the door of his office. “What do you think of it?” he asked, waving his hand. “Eighteen months ago the place was a park—not a bad effort, is it?”

  Guy could hardly believe it. The great buildings which were dotted about the grounds were filled with the hum of machinery; there were men in overalls, and women in white coats. Huge trucks, laden with strangely shaped pieces of metal, were running from one building to another on small-gauge rails. The whole place was a hive of well-organised activity.

  “It’s marvellous,” said Guy.

  “Aeroplane parts,” said Mr. Fleming. “Don’t spread it abroad. I’ll take you round the whole place tomorrow if you like.”

  “I’d like it immensely,” Guy replied. He realised that it was Dr. Digby’s recommendation which had gained him an entrance to the Belton Works—that and his uniform, of course.

  “It’s one of the biggest factories in England for aeroplane parts,” continued Mr. Fleming with justifiable pride. “We got started in January and were working eight-hour shifts—you’d be pretty surprised if I could give you our production figures. It’s production that’s going to win this war. Production is the key to victory.”

  “Yes,” said Guy, smiling, “but production wouldn’t be much use without the men to use the machines. You’ve got to admit that.”

  Mr. Fleming admitted it generously. “Oh yes, you’re all right,” he said. “It’s for you we’re working—and you’re fighting for us. It’s a partnership. Neither of us would be any use without the other . . . your men and my factories . . . between them they’ll do for Hitler and his gang. Curious about Hess, wasn’t it?”

  Guy had not come here to talk about Hess, so he agreed that it was very curious indeed, and before Mr. Fleming could say any more on the subject he asked which building was the canteen.

  “None of them,” replied Mr. Fleming. “We’re using Lord Belton’s mansion house as a club for the operatives—Miss Field is going to live there and look after the place when we’ve got it all in order. It’s a beautiful house—several hundreds of years old—with a magnificent staircase and drawing-rooms with parquet floors. We’ve turned the old banqueting hall into a canteen—I suppose you think that’s vandalism.”

  “We’re fighting for something more important than banqueting halls,” said Guy.

  “That’s true, but still . . . I don’t mind telling you I had a few qualms when we started to turn the place inside out. It seemed wrong, somehow. Well, I won’t keep you. There’s the house . . . over there amongst those trees. You’re sure to find Miss Field, she’s an indefatigable worker. Sorry I can’t come with you. . . .”

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  Guy walked across the park in the direction indicated by Mr. Fleming and, once he had turned his back upon the bustle and hum of the works, he felt as if he were in another world—an older and more peaceful civilisation. The light was fading fast, but there was a moon floating clear and cold above the treetops, and, between the two lights—the fading light of day and the growing brilliance of the moon—Guy saw the old mansion house take shape before his eyes. It was a stately house, large and imposing and beautifully proportioned; it was built of yellowish stone weathered to a dull chrome colour. Somehow or other it gave Guy a feeling of satisfaction. It was beautiful and old and permanent. It looked as if it had grown out of the soil of England; it was part of England’s heritage. Guy knew now what Mr. Fleming had meant when he had spoken of vandalism.

  The front door was standing open, so Guy walked in and found himself in a large hall with statues standing in the corners. Lord Belton had evidently left the statues behind when he moved out of his ancestral home—probably because he had no other place to put them. The staircase was very fine; it was a double staircase going up from each side of the hall and meeting in the middle; the banisters were of wrought iron. Guy opened several doors and looked into the rooms. They were furnished with chairs and tables—these were the rest-rooms. The large drawing-room was full of ping-pong tables and there was a battered piano at one end of it. After some trouble Guy found the banqueting hall, which had been turned into a canteen. It was so large that it reminded him of a chapel, and this resemblance was further accentuated by an enormously high vaulted roof that went right up to the top of the building. There were small tables about the room; some of the tables had vases of flowers on them, and some were laid—as if for a meal—with knives and forks and spoons. Against the wall near the door where Guy had entered there was an enormous refectory table of fumed oak. This was the only piece of furniture which really suited the room, and Guy decided that this—like the statues—must belong to Lord Belton. He wondered what Lord Belton thought of it all, whether he minded . . . but it was not much use minding, and Lord Belton was a sensible sort of fellow (Guy knew him slightly), so probably he made the best of it.

  Guy was standing there wondering what to do next, when a very pretty dark-haired girl came out of a side-door with a tray of cutlery in her hands.

  “Is Miss Field here?” asked Guy.

  “Not at the moment,” replied the girl, looking at Guy with interest “She’s gone over to see Mr. Bridge—he’s the assistant manager—but she won’t be long.”

  “May I wait here for her?”

  “Yes, of course. Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee or something?”

  “That would be very nice,” said Guy gratefully. He sat down at one of the little tables and, as he did so, he discovered that he was very tired. It was not surprising, really, for he had been on the go all day, and last night in the train he had been too keyed up to get much sleep. He had been keyed up ever since he left Cairn, keyed up and straining forward. He had found Frances now—actually found her—and in a few minutes they would be face to face. What should he say to her? How should he begin? He turned it all over in his mind and decided that he must not frighten her; he must not take it for granted that she would be pleased to see him. First of all, he must tell her how distressed he had been to find she had left Cairn, and then he must explain about the Widgerys and about Angela after that he could go on and tell her of his struggles to find her, and all about Dr. Digby. The misunderstanding must be thoroughly cleared up and everything must be put right. Then, when Frances really understood, and everything was clear between them, he
would say . . . he would ask her whether . . . he would tell her that he had loved her all along from the very first moment that he saw her. He would remind her of that day when they got marooned on the cliffs and she had been so splendid. He would tell her that he had known then that she was the only girl in the world for him and that unless she would marry him—no, that wouldn’t do. He would say, “Frances—”

  “Here’s your coffee and this is Pamela Durward bringing it to you,” said the dark-haired girl’s voice at his elbow.

  Guy looked up and smiled at her. “Thank you very much, Miss Durward. This is Guy Tarlatan thanking you.”

  “You aren’t her brother, then?”

  “No, just a friend,” replied Guy.

  Miss Durward lingered; she seemed in the mood for conversation. “How do you like this room?” she inquired. “We’ve been working at it like slaves, and now it’s finished and we’re opening properly to-morrow. We’re expecting a good old crush at eleven—that’s when the morning shift gets a break. Of course the house has been open—the rest-rooms and all that—but the canteen was just in a hut; it wasn’t much of a place.”

  “Have you other people to help you?”

  “Oh, rather—but most of them are voluntary. Frances and I and another girl are the only whole-time workers. We earn our screw, I can tell you. . . . I hope we get some sleep to-night,” she added, stifling a yawn.

  “You didn’t get much last night.”

  “No ... we don’t bother much about the raids unless we get stuff dropping fairly near, but the noise keeps you awake—that’s the worst of it.”

  “Haven’t you got a shelter?”

  “Yes, but we just carry on. The operatives have to carry on or production would be slowed down.” She laughed and added: “Production is conversation topic number one in this place—we think of nothing else. The figures are given out every week, and if they’ve gone up every one is as pleased as a dog with two tails—myself included.”

  “And if they go down?” inquired Guy.