Roger knew she was thinking of Ian when she spoke of sad memories, for Ian had been one of those bright-spirited beings whose death leaves a gaping void in the lives of their friends. Ian Findlater had had “everything”; good looks, abounding vitality and a natural charm of manner which had endeared him to old and young. When Roger heard the words, “Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,” he thought instinctively of Ian Findlater, and of his own beautiful Clare.
It was because these two—who had never met—were bracketed together in his mind that Roger spoke of Clare now, to Mary. He scarcely ever spoke of Clare—in fact he never spoke of her if he could help it—but this morning he found he wanted to.
“I wish Clare had seen Amberwell,” he said. “She liked me to tell her about it.”
“Clare and I were great friends.”
“I know. She often talked about you, Mary.”
“It must have been frightful for you,” said Mary in a low voice. “I meant to write to you at the time, but when I tried I couldn’t.”
“It was—frightful. We were so happy together. We were everything to each other, so there was nothing left—nothing that mattered. People say you get over things in time, but I haven’t found it.”
“Perhaps someday—”
“I don’t think so,” said Roger.
Mary hesitated and then she said, “Your Clare and my Ian! I suppose it isn’t the right way of thinking, but they were very special, weren’t they? I sometimes feel there are other people who could have been more easily spared.”
*
3.
They walked on through the woods which were carpeted with a blue sea of wild hyacinths and stopped at the gate leading onto the moors. The gate marked the boundary between Amberwell and Stark Place. Summerhill Moors had happy memories for Roger; the Ayrtons and the Findlaters had played here when they were children; played at Red Indians and cowboys, tracking each other amongst the moss-hags and hillocks and the deep fissures carved by innumerable little burns. Later when he was older, Roger had shot over the moors with Sir Andrew Findlater; it was here Roger had shot his first grouse. To the right of where they were standing was an old quarry which they had often used for picnics. Amberwell House had been built of the stone quarried here, and St. Stephen’s Church and the cottages upon Amberwell Estate.
Mary knew all this as well as Roger, of course. They leant together upon the gate and talked about it.
“I suppose I had better go home—or I shall be late for lunch,” said Roger at last in reluctant tones.
“We’ll both be late,” said Mary.
They would both be late for lunch but still they lingered for it was such a beautiful morning; so peaceful and sunny and warm. There were two cuckoos in the wood, calling to each other and there was a lark soaring and singing above the moor.
“What fun we had when we were children!” said Roger.
“Yes, it was fun,” Mary agreed. “No worries, no responsibilities. I often think of all the things we did. We were happier than you were.”
This was true. The three Findlater children had led a very carefree existence, for their parents had been reasonably indulgent, and, whereas Roger and Tom never knew when they would be pounced upon and punished for some mysterious crime, Ian and Andy and Mary could get off with a good deal of mischief without serious trouble. They could even argue with their parents and justify their behaviour which had seemed to the Ayrtons most extraordinary.
“Do you remember—” began Mary and then she glanced at her watch and exclaimed in dismay, “Goodness, I really must fly!”
“We’ll play at ‘Do you remember’ some other time,” said Roger smiling.
“Yes, let’s. Goodbye, Roger. I’ll ring you up tonight—about Stark Place.”
Mary’s thoughts, as she hurried home, were entirely different. She could hardly believe she had been so foolish as to feel annoyed with Roger. Roger was a dear. He had been awfully nice about Stark Place—so kind and understanding—and she liked his manners. Manners were important, she thought. He had walked with her to the boundary of his property and seen her onto her own ground. Nothing had been said about this small act of courtesy, but Mary understood and appreciated it. Nowadays when off-hand manners were fashionable one appreciated small acts of courtesy all the more. Roger might be wealthy but he was not spoilt—that was obvious. He was neither proud nor ashamed of his money. It had come to him without his volition and he had just taken it naturally and was spending it wisely, using it to improve his property and to help other people. Mary realised that the school was intended not only to benefit Stephen but to benefit other boys less fortunate and to give Arnold Maddon a worth-while job. It was not a “charity” but something even better. She understood Roger’s motives very clearly and this was strange because he had not explained them to her.
There was an old Scots saying that came into Mary’s head as she hurried through the neglected gardens of her home:
It’s no what ye ha’e,
It’s what ye da’e wi’ what ye ha’e
That matters.
Chapter Six
1.
Roger stood upon the terrace at Stark Place and waved his hand. He said, “We must have a door here so that the boys can go straight into the changing-room after games. We can’t have them barging in at the front door and making a mess of everything.”
“Yes, Major Ayrton,” agreed the architect, writing busily in his notebook.
Arnold said nothing. He was so tired and dazed that he had almost lost interest in the proceedings and his leg was aching intolerably. The three of them had been here all afternoon and had explored Stark Place from attic to cellar. At first Arnold had tried to curb his new employer’s extravagance a little, but Roger was determined that the school should be perfect. “We want things to be right from the beginning. It’s cheapest in the long run,” Roger had said—and the architect, whose name was Mr. Strow, had caught on to the idea and suggested all sorts of plans which entailed more expenditure, never any plan which entailed less. Some of Mr. Strow’s suggestions were welcomed by Roger (though not by Arnold), but even Roger baulked when Mr. Strow suggested a lift.
“A lift!” exclaimed Roger. “This is to be a boys’ school not a home for old ladies.”
“I just thought it would be useful—for luggage,” said Mr. Strow hastily.
“We must have lots of baths and washing basins and showers,” Roger had said. “This big room can be a bathroom. I want tiles on the floor and halfway up the walls. It will take four baths easily.”
“The floor must slope to a drain in the centre,” put in Mr. Strow.
“I don’t think that will be necessary—” began Arnold.
“It’s absolutely necessary,” said Mr. Strow. “Boys splash about like anything. I know what my own boys are like.”
“We may as well do the thing properly while we’re at it,” said Roger.
“It’s cheaper in the long run,” agreed Mr. Strow.
“The suite at the end of the corridor will do for the matron,” said Roger. “There’s a bathroom already, and the sick-room can be next door.”
“Most convenient,” agreed Mr. Strow, licking his finger and turning over the leaves of his notebook. “Most convenient.”
Roger looked around. He said, “We must put a door here in the passage to close off the whole suite.”
“A curtain would do—” began Arnold.
“A door would be better,” said Roger. “The matron must have privacy. If there isn’t a door people can barge in and disturb her at any hour.”
“You’re absolutely right, Major Ayrton,” said Mr. Strow.
The headmaster was to have privacy too. His suite was to be on the ground floor, looking out onto the rose-garden. It comprised two bedrooms, a sitting room and an office—and of course a private bathroom.
“I shan’t want all that accommodation,” said Arnold.
“Nonsense,” said Roger. “You might want a f
ellow to stay. Besides the rooms are here. We must shut off this suite with a door—make a note of it, Mr. Strow.”
Mr. Strow made a note of it.
But that had all happened in the early part of the afternoon and by the time they had arrived at the changing-room, and the side door which was to be made so that the boys would not go barging in at the front door and making a mess of everything, Arnold was beyond speech and even Mr. Strow was reduced to saying, “Yes, of course, Major Ayrton,” and making notes. Mr. Strow had two feet which gave him an advantage over Arnold, but the advantage was diminished by the fact that he had corns. All Mr. Strow wanted was to sit down on the steps and take off his smart new brown shoes which he had donned for the occasion.
“Well, that’s about all,” said Roger with satisfaction. “I think we’ve got it pretty well taped out—unless either of you can suggest anything?”
Neither of them could.
“Perhaps we ought to have another look at the attic,” said Roger doubtfully. “I mean the one where we’re going to enlarge the window.”
“Quite unnecessary, Major Ayrton,” declared Mr. Strow with conviction.
*
2.
There was nobody in the house when Arnold got home. He removed his foot, swallowed three aspirin tablets and lay down upon his bed. For a time he could think of nothing but his physical discomfort, but presently the pain ebbed away and his brain began to work. He reached for the writing tablet which he kept beside his bed and started making notes. Fortunately Arnold’s memory was extremely good so he was able to think back and retrace the whole tour without much difficulty, and as he went from room to room and remembered all that had been said his admiration for his friend increased. Roger had been splendid. Roger had known exactly what he wanted and was determined to have it. Even the extravagances seemed sensible when viewed in retrospect. That door into the matron’s suite, which had seemed unnecessary, was really quite a good idea. A matron need privacy . . . so did a headmaster when one thought of it. But as Arnold’s admiration for his friend increased so did his dislike for Mr. Strow.
It was a pity Arnold disliked Mr. Strow, for he would have a lot to do with him, but it could not be helped. The man was an absolute bounder.
Arnold had seen through Mr. Strow very early in the proceedings: he had watched Mr. Strow’s face when he was talking to Roger and unluckily for its owner it was not a poker face. It was a fat face, fair and rosy-cheeked, and full of expression. Although he was not much older than Arnold, Mr. Strow had the beginnings of a double chin, his mouth was full-lipped and shapeless and his eyes were too small. Worst of all, in Arnold’s opinion, his ears were very small indeed and were glued closely to his head. The description sounds unpleasant, but the whole effect, at first sight, was not unpleasant. Mr. Strow gave the appearance of a cheerful, hearty sort of fellow and it was only when one observed him closely that one realised he was false.
Was false too strong a word? No, not really, thought Arnold. His expression when he was talking to Roger gave him away. “Here’s a mutt,” Mr. Strow had said to himself. “Here’s a fellow with more money than sense. I’m onto a good thing if I play my cards well.”
Mr. Strow had played his cards admirably so far as his employer was concerned (he had only gone wrong once, when he had suggested the lift), but he had not concerned himself with the third member of the party. No need to bother about him, Mr. Strow had thought, glancing contemptuously at the shabbily dressed schoolmaster with the leather patches on his elbows and the well-worn flannel slacks . . . and as time went on, and the third member of the party became more and more silent and merely followed from room to room in a sort of trance, Mr. Strow’s conviction was strengthened. No need to bother about him, Mr. Strow had thought.
Mr. Strow had not realised—did not realise even now—that Major Ayrton was going back to Germany when his leave was over and that Mr. Maddon would be left in charge of everything—with carte blanche.
Dr. Maddon came in while Arnold was still busy with his notes. He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at his son. “Tired?” he asked anxiously.
“Dead beat,” replied Arnold frankly. “Dead beat, but very happy. Sit down, Dad, I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll make a cup of tea first,” said Dr. Maddon. “Don’t move. I’ll bring it in here.”
Arnold had finished his notes and was lying, staring at the ceiling, when his father came in with the tray. He watched his father’s preparations without speaking. He liked watching his father; the large strong hands which had done so much good in their time were still firm and capable. Presently all was in order, the table cleared and brought over to the bed, the tea-tray neatly arranged, the bread buttered and cut into thin slices.
“Now we’re right,” said Dr. Maddon cheerfully. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had a cup of tea.”
“I feel better just looking at you,” Arnold replied.
Dr. Maddon cocked one bushy eyebrow. “That’s my bedside manner.” He poured out the tea and added, “So you’re happy?”
“Happy as a king. I can scarcely believe my luck. It’s the sort of job I’ve dreamed of—and I know I can do it.”
“You’ll do it well,” nodded Dr. Maddon.
“After all these months of misery!”
“I know. You’ve had a bad time.”
“So have you. I’ve been a perfect nuisance to you, Dad.”
“Och, away!”
“Dad,” said Arnold earnestly. “Do you consider that I’m all right now? I mean, apart from my foot, would you say I was reasonably healthy? Tell me honestly; supposing I made a success of the school and—and that sort of thing—would I be justified in asking a girl to marry me?”
Dr. Maddon showed no surprise. “I don’t see why not,” he replied in matter-of-fact tones.
There was no need to say more. These two had always understood each other and since Arnold’s return from hospital they had grown even closer together. Often at night when Arnold had lain sleepless and racked with pain, he had heard a slight sound and seen the door opening to admit the tall bulky figure with the blue-striped pyjamas and the touzled grey hair. “Silly young fool, why did you not ring for me?” Dr. Maddon would mutter crossly . . . and then would come the sharp prick and the blissful drift into sleep. Latterly there had been no need for these nocturnal visits and they had been discontinued—or so Arnold had imagined—but one morning he had found a large white handkerchief lying on the floor by his bed, so perhaps they had not been discontinued entirely.
“Tell me about Stark Place,” said Dr. Maddon after a short silence. “Is it all plain sailing? Are there no snags at all?”
“There’s Mr. Strow, the architect. I don’t like Mr. Strow.”
“Any special reason?”
“Nobody makes tea as well as you,” said Arnold, sipping the strong brew with enjoyment. “Yes, several reasons: small ears, stuck closely onto his head, and a squashy sort of mouth . . . but principally because he took Roger for a sucker.”
“H’mm,” said Dr. Maddon.
“But he didn’t take me into account,” added Arnold with a chuckle. “I’ll see he doesn’t pile up his expenses! I’ll sort him!”
Dr. Maddon looked at his son approvingly and his heart was joyful. For months he had watched Arnold slipping down hill, searching for a job—any sort of job—frustrated at every turn, becoming hopeless and embittered by disappointment. Now, despite his only too obvious exhaustion, there was new life in the boy’s eyes. Dr. Maddon was almost pleased to learn that the architect was a twister, for a battle would do Arnold all the good in the world.
“You’ll earn your salary, eh?” said Dr. Maddon.
“You old wizard,” exclaimed Arnold. “How did you know that’s what I’ve been thinking?”
“Just guessed.”
“You guessed right. I’ve been worrying. It seemed all wrong to pocket the money and sit back until the place was ready. I told Roger I would get a tempora
ry job but he wouldn’t hear of it—said he wanted me to be on the spot to keep an eye on things. Well, here I am, and I intend to keep both eyes firmly fixed on Mr. Strow.”
“H’mm!” said Dr. Maddon.
This ejaculation was a sort of grunt accomplished with compressed lips. It could mean all manner of things, depending upon the occasion. It could mean that the doctor was amused or incredulous, it would express accord or disagreement, satisfaction or dismay. His patients knew the doctor’s grunt. “H’mm!” he would say, shaking down the mercury—and you knew at once without any manner of doubt whether you had gone up to a hundred-and-one or down to normal.
Of course Arnold was familiar with the famous grunt and knew better than anybody how to interpret its meaning. On this particular occasion it expressed amusement.
“What’s so funny about it?” Arnold enquired.
“I’m just a wee bit sorry for Stow—or whatever his name is.”
“He’ll be sorry for himself before I’ve done with him.”
“I wouldn’t wonder.”
“Look here, Dad,” said Arnold. “Yes, I will have another cup. I’ll tell you one thing that happened—just to show you. There’s a big room—we’re making it into a dormitory—it’s at the end of the house and has a window looking east. It will take six beds easily. Strow said that with six boys in the room there wouldn’t be enough air. He said there should be two windows, preferably facing different ways, so that there would be a current of air through the room. He proposed knocking a hole in the wall and making a window facing south.”
“I’d have agreed with him,” said Dr. Maddon promptly.
“Not if you’d seen the wall. It’s four feet thick. Now listen, Dad: there’s a smaller room next door with a window facing south, and it would be as easy as pie to take down the partition wall between the two rooms. That would give us the two windows and the current of air, and it would make a splendid big dormitory which could accommodate nine boys.”
“I call that clever,” said Dr. Maddon judicially.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 5