“Look here, Roger,” he exclaimed, interrupting the flow of his friend’s imagination, “it all sounds marvellous but where do you propose to get the money?”
“I shall sell some stock,” replied Roger promptly.
“You mean you have the capital to—to—”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. I know it seems queer; but you see Clare’s grandfather left her all his money and she made a will leaving it to me. I didn’t know about it till afterwards. Of course the Death Duties cut it down a lot and the Chancellor of the Exchequer takes most of the income, but even so I don’t spend half of it. There’s a man called Creech who looks after it. He looked after it when Lord Richmore was alive so I just left it in his hands. He buys and sells shares, and everything he touches seems to turn up trumps and the stuff goes on piling up in the most extraordinary way.”
Arnold was speechless.
“Money is like that,” continued Roger thoughtfully. “It’s awfully queer sort of stuff. If you’ve got lots you’re practically bound to get more unless you’re a perfect fool. At first I hated the money. I mean I’d lost Clare and the money seemed a sort of—a sort of insult.”
“A sort of insult?”
“Yes, what use was the beastly money to me—without Clare? But now I just accept it as a responsibility and do my best with it . . .” and Roger continued to give Arnold his ideas about money in general, and his own fortune in particular, and the curious problems it involved.
To say that all this was an eye-opener to Arnold, who scarcely had two pennies to rub together, was to understate the case. Arnold had been of the opinion that if you had “lots of money” all your troubles were over, but when Roger had finished his little lecture he realised that he had been totally mistaken.
“Well, there it is,” said Roger at last. “I can’t give it away because it isn’t mine. I look upon it as belonging to Stephen. That’s why the school is such a good plan, don’t you see?”
“Yes, it isn’t as mad as it sounds.”
“It isn’t mad at all.”
“But what about Creech—or whatever his name is?”
“Creech will be pleased,” declared Roger confidently. “It doesn’t matter if he isn’t pleased, but he will be. I had a letter from him the other day saying we ought to find an investment which doesn’t pay much interest but has good future prospects.”
“There would be no interest at all for years.”
“But there would be—ultimately?”
“Oh yes, if it were a success. Unless of course you intend to take the sons of your friends for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” said Roger hastily. “Reduced fees is my idea—and it needn’t pay. That’s the beauty of it. We can plough back any profits; we can put them into a properly equipped lab and a swimming pool and that sort of thing. We can run the place as a school should be run—no silly luxuries of course, but everything up to date. You shall have carte blanche, Arnold.”
Arnold was almost swept off his feet but he made one more protest. “Look here, do you realise what it would cost? You’d have to buy the house and alter it and furnish it and engage staff—all that before you could start the school at all. Honestly it might be five years before we could get enough boys to make it pay.”
Roger noticed he had said “we.” “I know of several boys already,” declared Roger. “Sons of fellows in the Regiment—seven for certain—and Stephen makes eight.”
“I believe I could raise three,” said Arnold thoughtfully.
“Well there we are! There’s our cricket eleven!”
Arnold began to laugh; his laughter was somewhat hysterical.
“Shut up!” cried Roger, shaking his arm roughly. “This is serious, Arnold. There are all sorts of things to arrange. We’ve got to find a house and get an architect on the job before I go back to Germany. After that you’ll have to manage everything yourself.”
“I could get a temporary job until—”
“You’re engaged from now,” said Roger firmly. “I must have a man on the spot to see to things.”
“But Roger—”
“Take it or leave it,” said Roger airily.
“You are an ass, aren’t you?” said Arnold in a shaky voice.
Chapter Five
1.
On one side of Amberwell, the Ayrtons’ nearest neighbours were the Lamberts, whose only son Gerald had married Connie Ayrton. Mr. Lambert was the director of a big ship-building firm on the Clyde; he had built Merlewood himself, had laid out a very pleasant garden and had settled down with his pretty wife. He had now partially retired and Gerald was carrying on the business with zeal and efficiency. The Lamberts were the sort of people who had sailed through life without many troubles; they were fond of each other, they had enough money to be comfortable and their son was thoroughly satisfactory in every way.
On the other side of Amberwell across the moors was a fine old mansion called Stark Place which had belonged to the Findlater family for generations. There had been Findlaters at Stark Place long before Amberwell was built—and that was not yesterday. Now, like all big houses, Stark Place had become far too big for its owners. Most of the rooms were shut up; the furniture was swathed in dust-sheets and the long empty corridors were silent. Sir Andrew and Lady Findlater still lived in one of the wings. It was not very comfortable but it was easier to live there than to move. Unlike the Lamberts’, the Findlaters’ lives had not been plain sailing, trouble had crowded upon them and had made them old before their time. In these days of heavy taxation it was impossible to make ends meet and to keep the old house in reasonable condition.
The Findlaters’ two sons had joined the Army at the beginning of the war and Ian—the elder—had been killed. This was a crushing blow, for Ian was devoted to his parents and they to him. Andy was different, an independent character who had always gone his own way and was not particularly interested in his family. He had made the Army his career and was at present serving abroad. The Findlaters’ third child was a daughter—they were fortunate in her if in nothing else. Mary Findlater had served in the Wrens during the war but had now come home to look after her parents.
Mary found Stark Place extremely dull after her wartime activities, but she was very fond of her parents and it was obvious that they needed her badly, so she settled down and cooked meals and washed dishes with admirable cheerfulness. She and Nell Ayrton were friends, they had played together when they were children and had a good deal in common on that account, so when Mary felt things were getting her down she walked across the moors and through the Amberwell policies to see Nell—and talk.
Two days after Roger’s arrival, Mary suddenly felt in need of a chat with Nell, so she scurried through all her necessary duties and set off quite early.
Amberwell Gardens had always been beautiful (except during the War when it was impossible to get labour). They were beautiful now, and to Mary’s eyes they were as neat and tidy as they had ever been. The hedges were trimmed to perfection, the lawns were smooth and there were orderly rows of vegetables flourishing in the kitchen-garden. The greenhouses were painted white, and their glass panes glittered merrily in the sunshine, the doors and gates and occasional seats were all in excellent condition and Amberwell House itself looked well-cared-for and comfortable. In fact it looked almost snug. Of course Mary knew the place well (she had seen it all before, hundreds of times) but somehow this morning she saw it afresh: the difference between Amberwell and poor old Stark Place!
Admittedly Amberwell was smaller, and therefore less expensive to maintain, but it must take a good deal of money to keep it like this, thought Mary enviously.
She went in and shouted for Nell, and Nell appeared.
“Hullo,” said Mary. “I won’t say I hope I’m not interrupting you because I know I am—but I don’t care. I wanted to see you.”
“It’s nice to be interrupted,” replied Nell. “I was making up the laundry—it’s a dull job. Besides I was just going to
have a cup of coffee in the morning room.”
“I hoped you were,” said Mary smiling.
The morning room was the prettiest room in the house. It was small and cosy and it got all the morning sunshine; the French windows opened onto the terrace. The Ayrtons used it as a sitting room in preference to the big drawing room, for it was so much easier to keep.
The two girls sat down and talked. Nell wondered if her friend had come for any special purpose or just to see her, but it did not matter one way or the other for Nell always had time to talk to a friend. However busy she happened to be she could sit down and give her visitor the impression that she had leisure to enjoy a chat. Nell was the perfect listener for she was sincerely interested in people.
“Your gardens are lovely,” said Mary. “I can’t bear to look at our gardens; we simply can’t afford enough gardeners to keep them properly. Everything is awfully difficult nowadays.” She sighed and added, “We’ve got to paint all the outside woodwork of Stark Place. It’s going to cost the earth. Who did you get to do yours?”
Nell mentioned a firm in Ayr. “They’re rather expensive, but they’re frightfully good and Roger doesn’t mind spending money on Amberwell.”
“Oh!” said Mary, slightly taken aback.
“Roger has plenty of money,” Nell explained.
This information might easily have sounded boastful but on Nell’s lips it did not. Coming from Nell it was merely a simple statement, and Mary recognised it as such. Naturally she was surprised, for few people have “plenty of money” nowadays and even if they are fairly comfortably off they rarely mention the fact.
“You see,” continued Nell as she poured out the coffee and offered her friend a biscuit, “you see Clare had a great deal of money and she left it all to Roger.”
“I see,” said Mary.
“You knew Clare, didn’t you?” asked Nell.
“Oh yes, very well indeed. We were at school together at Roedean. Clare was the sort of person who did everything well and yet she wasn’t a bit stuck-up. Everybody loved Clare. She really was a wonderful person.”
“I never saw her,” said Nell sadly. “We were always going to meet, but we never did . . . and then she was killed. I’ve often wished I had seen her—even once—so that I could have talked to Stephen about her.”
They discussed other things after that and the subject of “money” was not mentioned, but Mary thought about it as she walked home. She had a feeling that it was unfair. Why should some people have heaps of money and other people not enough to make ends meet? It was an unreasonable feeling; it was even rather a nasty feeling—she knew that perfectly well—but she could not banish it completely however hard she tried. She could not help feeling annoyed with Roger.
Nell had told her amongst other things that Roger was home on leave, and had said she must come over to lunch and meet him, but Mary did not want to meet Roger—at least she was not particularly keen to meet him—so she had refused to fix a day. I’m a pig, thought Mary. I really am a pig. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.
*
2.
By this time Mary had reached the gate of the walled garden, she pushed it open and entered . . . and there was Roger himself talking to Mr. Gray. It was his own garden and he had every right to be there but Mary was not pleased. In fact Mary would have turned and gone round the other way, but she was too late; Roger had seen her.
“Hi, Mary!” he shouted, waving his arms and running towards her down the path (more like a boy of twenty than a “moneyed gentleman”). “Hi, Mary! Wait for me! It’s ages since I saw you . . . but you haven’t changed a bit,” he added as he took her hand. “No, you haven’t changed the tiniest bit. You still look about sixteen.”
Mary was pleased in spite of herself; it is not unpleasant for a young woman who has had a great deal of sadness and worry in her life to hear that she looks many years younger than her age.
“Sixteen, not a day older,” declared Roger with conviction.
“Nonsense,” said Mary.
It was not really nonsense. There was a good deal of truth in Roger’s compliment, for Mary was a very attractive creature, small and well-made with a round rosy face and dark curls. She had a slight tendency to plumpness which worried her considerably but which in her case was becoming.
“I suppose you’ve been over to see Nell,” said Roger. “Did she tell you about our plans for a school?”
“For a school?” echoed Mary in surprise.
“I see she didn’t tell you—perhaps she thought it was a secret—but I’d like to tell you if you wouldn’t be bored.”
By this time Mary had forgiven Roger—and indeed she felt ashamed of her bad humour—so she smiled at him in a very friendly way and said that she wanted to hear all about Roger’s plans.
They walked on together and Roger explained his ideas: a preparatory school for little boys run on modern lines; a school with moderate fees to suit the pockets of professional men with small incomes . . . and so on and so forth.
Roger was so tremendously enthusiastic about his project that Mary was swept away. “It’s a wonderful idea,” she declared.
“You think so—really?”
“Yes, it’s simply marvellous.”
This was good hearing for Roger. The other recipients of his confidence had required a great deal of persuasion before they had seen the beauty of the plan. Arnold had come round, of course, and was now as keen as mustard, but Nell was still half-hearted.
“You’ll want a really good headmaster, won’t you?” said Mary thoughtfully.
“I’ve got one. Arnold Maddon.”
“Oh Roger, he’s the very man!”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. It’s all fixed and he’s agreed to take it on. All we want now is a suitable house and then we can get cracking. I suppose you couldn’t suggest a house, could you?”
Mary was silent for a few moments. They had left the gardens and were walking up the steep path which led to the woods.
“Can you think of a house that would do?” repeated Roger. “I mean you know all the houses round about Westkirk. Merklands is for sale, but we want something bigger. Merklands hasn’t enough ground.”
“What about Stark Place?” asked Mary in a low voice. It was such a low voice that Roger was not sure he had heard aright and in any case he could hardly believe his ears.
“Did you—did you say—Stark Place?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes. You may not want it, but if you thought it would do—”
“Do! Of course it would do. Nothing could be better. Does Sir Andrew want to sell it?”
“I think he might—sell it. I’m not sure but—but I think he would.”
“Oh Mary, but you would hate the old place to be sold!”
“In a way, yes; in a way, no,” she replied with a little sigh. “I love Stark Place—we all love it—and it would be horrid to sell it, but not any worse than seeing it fall to pieces before our eyes.”
Roger was silent.
“It’s so big,” continued Mary. “It’s so enormous that nobody will ever be able to live in it comfortably again. Certainly Andy will never be able to live there and keep it as it should be kept.”
“Mary, it seems quite dreadful.”
“I know. But honestly the place has become a sort of Moloch—wasn’t that the creature that demanded human sacrifices and swallowed them whole? Well, anyhow, that’s what Stark Place is doing. Everything and everybody has to be sacrificed. It swallows every penny of money we possess. It’s wearing out the parents and worrying them to death. A house like that, which isn’t properly lived in, needs constant repairs. No sooner do we get the roof mended than the drains go wrong and there’s woodwork to be renewed and painted. There’s always something.”
“I can understand that,” said Roger. “Even Amberwell runs away with a good deal of money and it’s half the size of Stark Place.”
They had reached the woods by this time and stop
ped for a few moments beside a huge mossy stone which was one of Roger’s favourite haunts. He had often sat upon the soft turf with his back against the stone and looked down at Amberwell. Today, pausing here as usual, Roger looked down and decided that this view was very like the view he had had from the plane . . . the whole place, house and gardens and lawns were spread before one’s eyes. How awful if one had to sell Amberwell!
“Mary,” said Roger awkwardly, “you had better think about it carefully before you say anything to Sir Andrew. It might upset him.”
“I wonder,” said Mary thoughtfully. “I don’t believe the parents would mind—awfully much. They sort of stopped minding about things when Ian was killed.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments and then Mary continued. “No, I don’t believe they’d mind. I could move them into a small house in Westkirk. It would be much better for them and far more comfortable than camping in a corner of the place.”
“Would Andy mind?”
“No,” replied Mary with conviction. “All Andy minds about is his career.”
Roger hesitated and then he said, “Oh dear, I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry. It’s a funny sort of feeling. I can’t bear the idea of no Findlaters at Stark Place . . . but it’s exactly the sort of house we want.”
“I’ll see what they say and ring you up tonight. If they decided to sell you’ll want it at once, won’t you? You’ll want to—to alter it a bit.”
“Just a little,” said Roger uncomfortably. “I mean for a school . . .”
Mary replied to the tone more than to the words. “Don’t worry, Roger. We would have to sell it sooner or later—and somehow I shan’t mind so much if the dear old Place is a boys’ school with lots of little nippers running about playing cricket and having fun. Yes, it’s the right thing, Roger. It’s time there was some young life about Stark Place—hope and happiness instead of sad memories.”
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 4