“No, Dane,” said Sophie with unaccustomed firmness, “no, Dane. It’s nice for us to have you here and you’re so good at arranging things.”
“But I must pay you, Sophie.”
“I don’t need the money,” Sophie replied, “and I’m sure Philip would like you to be here.”
Dane was sure of that, too, but he was determined to pay for the privileges he enjoyed and he got over the difficulty by paying his monthly rent into Sophie’s banking account. He was pretty sure that Sophie would not notice the sums, and Sophie didn’t.
The arrangement suited everyone concerned. Dane came and went as he pleased. When he wanted a week in town he shut up his rooms at Fernacres and went to his club; when he wanted to go abroad he could do so (Sophie accepted his comings and goings without question) and, when he had been away and returned to Fernacres, he thoroughly enjoyed his welcome. The ménage was a trifle odd, of course, and Dane was aware that there was a certain amount of gossip about in Chellford, but that could not be helped and he knew human nature so well that he comforted himself by the reflection that the gossip would die a natural death. Sophie would not be affected by the gossip, bless her, for any veiled hints or allusions would pass her by and she would be the last person to hear any definitely unkind remarks. In any case Dane felt that he could not desert his self-appointed post, for Sophie was incapable of looking after her affairs and there was Wynne … and Roy … how could Dane keep an eye on them unless he was on the spot?
Dane had reasoned it all out, and having done so, and chosen his course, he did not worry about it any more. The gossip died down as he had expected and everyone was happy. Dane had now been living at Fernacres for four years and was completely dug in. Just at the moment, however, Dane was in Carlsbad and Sophie had not been able to consult him before she replied to Franz von Heiden’s letter. She had consulted nobody but had replied with impulsive friendliness—Franz was Elsie’s son, and that was a sufficient recommendation to Sophie’s good graces.
Chapter Two
Wynne was quite pleased to be “nice” to her mother’s guest. She had plenty of friends in Chellford, of course, friends of all ages and conditions of life, but it would be amusing to have somebody new, somebody different. She had decided to give him a good time. There would be lots of tennis, and bathing, and the cricket match next week. She would take him to Kingsport—about ten miles away—and they could see the ships and go to the Picture House. Perhaps he would like to see the Roman Villa at Ashbourne .…
I wonder what he’s like, Wynne thought, as she parked her small car in the station yard and strolled on to the platform to wait for the train.
The wind was boisterous this afternoon and a trifle chilly. She was glad she had put on her thick tweed coat. It was sapphire blue, with deep pockets, and Wynne put her hands into the pockets for warmth. She stood there, waiting for the train, with her feet slightly apart and her head thrown back. There was something brave and dauntless about her attitude, and the wind whipped her gold curls so that strands of them blew across her face.
It seemed odd to Wynne that she should be standing here waiting the arrival of this stranger. A week ago she had scarcely known that such a person existed. She had known of him only in a shadowy sort of way as the son of Mummy’s cousin who had married a German. But now, all of a sudden, the tale had become real and she was to meet this son in the flesh.
“Franz von Heiden,” said Wynne to herself. She said it several times and decided it was an ugly name—but of course he might think her name ugly. It was all a matter of what you were used to.
The train was late, and Wynne strolled up and down the platform thinking about her new cousin. She wondered what Dane would say when he heard—whether he would approve of Sophie’s latest whim. He wouldn’t interfere of course, because he never interfered with Sophie’s whims. He had smiled and agreed at once when Sophie had conceived the idea of inviting an Austrian refugee to stay at Fernacres.… “It’s your house,” he had said.… (It was Sophie’s house, of course, but Wynne was aware that practically everything in their lives depended upon Dane). The Austrian refugee had had to be put off on account of Franz, for it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that Fernacres could not harbour a German and an Austrian refugee at the same time, and Wynne could not help feeling that it was a little hard on the refugee, and wondering where he would go.…
The train steamed in and the passengers descended. Wynne had no difficulty in picking out her guest for there was a foreign air about him, and he was tall and straight and fair, like the picture of his father in Sophie’s photograph album. She touched him on the arm and inquired, “Are you Franz von Heiden?” and he drew himself up and bowed.
“I’m Wynne,” she said, smiling up at him in a friendly way, “I’ve come to meet you.”
“That is very kind,” he said solemnly.
His gravity was the first “difference” that struck Wynne. He did not smile easily, and this made him seem much older than his years. His English was good (though a trifle pedantic) and without much trace of foreign accent. Wynne discovered these things while they were getting his suitcase out of the van and putting it on to a barrow.
“I’d have known you anywhere,” she told him as they went out to the car, “you’re so like your father.”
“You have seen my father?” he inquired in surprise.
“Sophie has a photograph of him,” said Wynne.
“Sophie?” he inquired a little doubtfully.
“My mother,” Wynne explained.
He was silent for a few moments and then he said:
“I should like to have the picture. I have not a picture of my father as a young man. It would be very pleasant if I could have it to keep.”
“You must ask Sophie,” said Wynne shortly.
“I shall ask her,” Franz declared as he climbed into the car and curled up his long legs.
Wynne settled herself at the wheel. She was a little disappointed in her new cousin, though she scarcely knew why. Perhaps she had hoped for too much. Wynne was used to a good deal of attention from the males of her acquaintance and although Franz was polite and pleasant he had treated her as if she were fifty years old and had a hare lip.…
They turned out of the station yard into the main street of Chellford. It was narrow and winding and the shops were small. Chellford was an old fishing village, but it had been discovered by a firm of property agents about the beginning of the century and the result of their labours was a very pleasant residential area upon the hill behind the village. Wynne did the honours of the place to her cousin. She pointed out the little river Chell which ran beneath an old grey stone bridge and spread out fan-wise into the sea. She pointed out the post office and the local cinema but she forbore to point out the fountain in the square which was, in reality a memorial to the men of Chellford who had fallen in the Great War. They turned out of the village and breasted the hill.
“The Audley’s live there,” said Wynne, pointing to a large square house standing amongst some trees. “They’re great friends of mine and they have lots of tennis. Do you play tennis?”
“Yes,” replied Franz. “But I did not bring my racket.”
“We can easily lend you one,” replied Wynne.
There was silence for a few moments and then he inquired, “Your house is far from here?”
“We’re nearly there,” Wynne said. “It’s pretty country, isn’t it?”
They were-half way up the hill now, and could look down on the village, and the stream and the blue sea. Further along the coast there were fields and trees and the cliffs rose up, jagged and bold.
Franz looked down. “Yes it is pretty,” he admitted, “but my country is more beautiful.”
“But you haven’t seen England properly yet,” cried Wynne, “and, anyhow, this is your country too. Aren’t you excited at seeing it for the first time?”
“It is very interesting,” he replied gravely, “and I am glad to have the opport
unity of making the acquaintance of my English relatives.”
Wynne chuckled—she could not help it.
“Please,” he said in a hurt tone, “please, I have said something wrong.”
“It was too right,” replied Wynne hastily, “too marvellous for anything. I just thought you must have made it up beforehand.”
She had hoped to raise a smile, but she was disappointed.
“It is true that I made it up before,” he declared with solemnity, “but I can see nothing funny in that. Was it not natural that I should prepare myself?”
“How lucky it fitted in so well!” she exclaimed.
They had now arrived at the gates of Fernacres, and Wynne was not sorry for she was finding her guest somewhat heavy on her hands. She swung into the avenue, which was bordered on one side by a high hedge of rhododendrons—on the other side the avenue was open to a lawn which was shaded by fine old trees. Mrs. Braithwaite had been listening for the car and came out of the front door as they drove up.
“My dear boy!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasure this is! If only your dear mother could be here too—but we won’t talk about that. You must stay with us as long as you can … did you have a comfortable journey? I’m afraid the train was late … you can hear it whistle when it comes out of the tunnel.”
Franz looked a trifle bewildered. “Please,” he said.
“Did you have a good journey?” repeated Sophie Braithwaite, raising her voice a little as if she were speaking to a deaf person.
“It was very good,” Franz replied. “Your train went smoothly.”
“It was the sea I meant,” Mrs. Braithwaite explained. “I hope the sea was smooth too—but perhaps you like it when it’s rough.”
“I have a good stomach,” he replied, not boastfully, but merely as if he were stating an interesting fact, “but I did not come by boat. I came by air. It is remarkable how quick the plane goes and the seats are very comfortable. I arrived at Croydon yesterday and stayed in London for the night.”
“Where did you stay?” inquired Mrs. Braithwaite with interest, “I hope you didn’t stay at an hotel—so dreadfully expensive for you.”
“I stayed with a friend of my father’s. He is a secretary at our Legation,” replied Franz. “He is a very pleasant man and that is fortunate because I am to go there and have a post when I have finished my holiday. It is a very small post,” added Franz modestly. “but it will begin me nicely.”
“You must stay with us as long as you can,” Sophie said.
“Yes, that is nice, but I cannot stay too long or the money will not last. It was permitted me to bring more than the usual money but it will not last forever.”
Sophie did not understand what he meant; she said kindly, “You mustn’t worry about money, Franz dear, I can easily advance you money. I know how difficult the exchange is, and you can pay me back any time—so don’t hesitate for a moment to ask for anything you want,” and then, before he could answer or protest, she went back and picked up another thread. “You should have wired to us and come down yesterday,” she told him. “You could have come straight here—your room was all ready. I’ve put you in the green room because the sun is so nice in the morning. Perhaps you’d like to see your room now … and then a glass of sherry before dinner … or would you like a bath?”
They were half-way up the stairs now—wide, shallow stairs with cream-coloured banisters and a tall window through which the westering sun streamed in a golden beam—Mrs. Braithwaite was leading, Franz followed, and Wynne kept a little way behind so that if she were overcome by another chuckle she could hide it more effectively.
“This is your room,” said Sophie, opening a door on the big square landing. “You will be happy here, won’t you? Remember that your mother and I were like sisters.”
“Thank you, Cousin Sophie,” replied Franz, “it is very kind. I am … I am quite overcome by your kindness, I do not remember my mother, she died when I was six years old.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sophie told him, taking out a small lace handkerchief and blowing her little nose, “I mean you’re Elsie’s son whether you remember her or not … although of course it would be very nice if you did remember her—nice for me, I mean—because we could talk about her, couldn’t we? She was a dear, sweet creature, so gay and pretty. I must show you some photographs of her, Franz dear … we will look at them after dinner.”
Chapter Three
The dinner gong boomed pleasantly through the house, and Mrs. Braithwaite took her guest’s arm and steered him into the dining-room. It was still quite light outside, but there were candles on the table and this made the dark-panelled room intimate and cosy.
“We shall be able to play bridge when Dane comes home,” said Sophie Braithwaite smiling happily. “I mean there will be four of us.”
“Perhaps Franz doesn’t play,” put in Wynne, hopefully.
“We could teach him,” Sophie pointed out. “We could easily teach him, and he would soon learn to play as well as I do.”
This was true of course, for Sophie’s bridge was vague and eccentric, but it did not raise Wynne’s spirits. She was about to bring forth further objections to the plan when Franz leaned forward and inquired.
“Dane? But I thought your son was called Roy, Cousin Sophie.”
“My brother-in-law,” explained Sophie. “At least he is really my husband’s half-brother. He makes Fernacres his headquarters.”
“He is a military officer?”
Sophie shook her head, “Oh, no,” she said, “it isn’t that kind of headquarters. I only meant that he lives here most of the time when he isn’t somewhere else. He isn’t in the army now. Of course he fought in the war like everybody else, and he got the D.S.O., so he must have done very well.…”
Her voice died away and there was a short, but somewhat strained, silence.
“There is no need to feel uncomfortable about the war,” said Franz gravely, “it is over a long time ago. Tell me some more about this Mister Dane.”
“He isn’t Mister Dane,” Sophie replied hastily. “Dane is his Christian name, I’m just telling you this so that you will know. He is Major Worthington, but he knew your mother very well so I expect you could call him Uncle Dane if you liked.”
“Franz had better call him Dane,” remarked Wynne. “I don’t think he’s particularly keen on being uncled.”
“But he is not my uncle,” objected Franz. “He does not seem to be related to me at all, so I think it would be more polite for me to call him Major Worthington. What is his work?”
“Oh, he doesn’t work,” said Wynne. “You couldn’t imagine Dane working.”
“He does nothing at all?” inquired Franz in surprise. “But that is very strange … perhaps he is an invalid?”
“Not exactly,” said Sophie. “He isn’t very strong, of course, and he goes to Carlsbad sometimes and takes the cure.”
“It is the kidneys, perhaps?” inquired Franz sympathetically.
Wynne stifled another chuckle.
“I really don’t know,” said Sophie in a flustered sort of voice. “He doesn’t … I mean we don’t talk about these things, Franz dear. I’m sure it’s better for me to tell you this quietly while we are here by ourselves. Dane wouldn’t like any mention made …”
“Naturally,” agreed Franz hastily, and Wynne noticed that he was pink to the ears. The joke was that Dane would not mind at all—Wynne was certain of that—he would be quite pleased to discuss the condition of his organs with Franz. Strangely enough Wynne had never thought of Dane as being delicate in any way, and now that she considered the matter, she felt pretty certain that he was not. She realised for the first time that she had no idea what Dane did. He did something, she was sure of that. Wynne had grown up under the same roof, and had always taken Dane for granted. He wrote letters: he telephoned constantly: he rushed up to town and back again: he disappeared for weeks on end. That wasn’t exactly work, of course, but it certainly wasn’
t play.…
“When in Rome do as the Romans do,” Sophie continued, trying to relieve the obvious embarrassment of her guest, “and of course you can’t know the sort of things we say and do, so you needn’t mind if I tell you. If your mother hadn’t died when you were little she would have told you everything, of course.”
“I wish to learn,” declared Franz earnestly. “That is the reason I have come. It is a great pleasure to make the acquaintance of my English relatives, but the real reason of my visit is to learn the English manners and customs and to learn to speak the language like an Englishman. How long will this take, Cousin Sophie?”
Cousin Sophie missed the point, “You speak very well indeed, Franz dear,” she declared, smiling at him encouragingly. “I think it’s very clever of you to have learnt to speak so well, and I’m sure Wynne thinks so too. Languages are very useful because if you go to a place and you can’t understand what the people are saying, or ask for anything you want, it makes you feel stupid, doesn’t it?”
“My ambition is much more,” he replied in a bewildered manner. “It is surely easy to understand and to ask for what is necessary—”
“Not always,” interrupted Sophie. “For instance if I went to Russia I shouldn’t be able to ask for a cup of tea.”
The English Air Page 2