“Yes, it was,” agreed Arnold with a deplorable lack of modesty. “It was very clever of me. In fact it was a stroke of genius.”
“Was the man pleased with your stroke of genius?”
“He was not,” declared Arnold. “He turned it down and went on blethering about his hole in the wall.”
“H’mm!”
“Yes, I don’t wonder you’re disgusted,” agreed Arnold. “But there’s no need to worry. I shall get my own back all right. Roger said I could have carte blanche and I intend to take full advantage of it.”
“You better finish up the bread and butter,” said Dr. Maddon.
Arnold obeyed without thinking. “There was another thing,” he said. “We’re having a door made so that the boys can go straight into the changing-rooms after games. Strow decided where the door was to be and marked the wall with a piece of chalk. By that time I was too tired to bother—I was speechless—but now I realise that Strow was wrong. There’s a large window in the room and surely it would be easier and a lot cheaper to make the window into a door than to cut an entirely new opening through four feet of solid stone.”
“What about light?” asked Dr. Maddon.
“Glass in the door is the answer. A glass panel—and you needn’t say it would break when they banged it, because nowadays you can get glass that’s practically unbreakable—and we could put a spring on the door.”
Dr. Maddon had been going to say just that, so he said nothing.
“Look here, Dad,” said Arnold, struck with another brilliant idea. “Look here, what about you coming over to Stark Place and having a prowl round?”
“I will,” declared Dr. Maddon. He said it so promptly that Arnold knew he had made up his mind to come from the very beginning, whether he was asked or not.
*
3.
Roger’s account of the afternoon’s work was slightly different from Arnold’s.
“That fellow Strow is quite good value,” said Roger. “He’s got all sorts of ideas about the alterations.”
“That’s what he’s paid for, isn’t it?” said Nell without enthusiasm. It was impossible for Nell to be enthusiastic about Roger’s project, for the school would rob her of Stephen. She was unhappy about it not so much for her own sake—though of course she would miss him unbearably—but because she doubted whether it was the right thing for the child. Was it really necessary, was it really the right thing for a sensitive little boy to be thrown into a whirlpool of rough noisy contemporaries and left to sink or swim? Nell thought of this while she listened with one ear to Roger’s glowing description of tiled bathrooms, airy classrooms and thoroughly remodelled kitchen premises.
Stephen was listening too, but more intently. “It’s my school, isn’t it?” he said. “And Uncle Arnold is going to be the headmaster.”
“No,” said Roger. “Look here, you must get this straight. It isn’t your school any more than anybody else’s, and you’ll have to call Uncle Arnold ‘Mr. Maddon.’”
“Why?” asked Stephen in surprise.
“Because the other boys will. Everybody is alike at school. It would never do for one boy to be different from the others.”
Stephen nodded. He saw the point. “But it will be difficult,” he said.
“You had better practice,” Roger told him. “The sooner you get it into your head that you’ll be just one little pebble on the beach the better it will be for you.”
“Oh Roger—” began Nell in dismay.
“Honestly, Nell,” declared Roger, “that’s exactly the reason why I want him to go to school.”
Stephen was quite undaunted, for he had a firm footing of love and affection, and although he looked delicate there was plenty of spirit in him. As a matter of fact he was looking forward to school. It seemed to Stephen that his father’s plan was ideal, for he could go to school—like other boys—and yet he would be near Amberwell.
Having settled this important matter, Roger returned to the subject of the alterations. “Some of Strow’s ideas are a bit far-fetched,” continued Roger. “For instance he suggested a lift. Did you ever hear of such nonsense?”
“Oh Daddy, a lift would be fun,” cried Stephen. “We could play with it on wet days, couldn’t we?”
“Well, there isn’t going to be a lift,” said Roger laughing.
“What did Arnold say?” asked Nell.
“Very little,” replied Roger. As a matter of fact Roger was just a trifle disappointed in Arnold.
Unlike his two companions Roger was not in the least tired after the tour of Stark Place so when Stephen suggested that he should come out into the garden he rose at once.
“I’m going to have a running lesson,” said Stephen. “We do it on the bowling-green. You’ll come and see, won’t you?”
Roger remembered that Nannie had mentioned running lessons but he had been too busy to think about it. “Oh yes—running,” he said vaguely.
“Miss Glassford runs like the wind,” declared Stephen proudly.
“And what about you?”
“I’m shaping well,” replied Stephen, obviously quoting his instructress.
The bowling-green was some distance from the house. It was a very large square lawn surrounded by a yew hedge. As they approached, and stopped at the wrought-iron gate, Roger saw that the lawn had been marked out with whitening. There was a line all round, about ten feet from the hedge, and upon this improvised track Georgina was running. She was clad in a white shirt, open at the neck, and white tennis shorts. The long legs, seen without trousers, were admirably shaped. They really were beautiful.
“She’s doing her mile,” said Stephen in a low voice. “We mustn’t interrupt her.”
Roger had no wish to interrupt her. It is always delightful to see an expert performer—whether it be running or dancing or tennis or any other activity—and although Roger knew very little about running he knew he was seeing something good. Georgina ran so easily, so lightly, that her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. The sight pleased Roger in a purely aesthetic way, for he was not interested in women. There had been one woman in his life—and one only. He would have been equally interested and enthralled if the runner had been Milanion—not Atalanta.
“She’s nearly finished now, and then you’ll see me,” said Stephen.
“How do you know she’s nearly finished?”
“Because she does the last lap faster of course.”
Georgina completed her last lap at a terrific pace; then she looked round and saw them at the gate and came towards them. Roger was interested to notice that although she was breathing quickly she showed no other signs of distress.
“I say, you can run!” he exclaimed.
“I’ve always been keen,” replied Georgina. “I did quite a lot of running when I was at Cambridge. We had a very good coach.”
“It must be difficult to practice here, all by yourself.”
“Yes, and I’ve got nobody to time me.”
Roger wondered how long she took to run her mile. It would be interesting to know, but he did not like to show his ignorance by asking.
“I’ve measured it out very carefully,” she continued pointing to the white lines. “Mr. Gray said he was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind a bit as long as you don’t ask me to run,” replied Roger.
This was intended as a joke but Georgina took it seriously. “You aren’t the right build,” she replied. “Neither is Emmie of course.”
“But Stephen is shaping well?”
“Yes,” said Georgina. “Yes, Stephen is splendid.”
It crossed Roger’s mind that she had no sense of humour, but perhaps Atalanta had had none either.
Stephen having removed his sweater and changed his shoes was now ready and anxious to show his paces. He began to prance like a little pony and to flap his arms. “This is to loosen my muscles,” he explained. “It’s very important to loosen your muscles before you start.”
Whe
n Stephen had loosened his muscles sufficiently, he got down on the mark in a very professional posture and the lesson began.
Roger was amused, but he managed to hide his amusement for pupil and instructress were both very serious indeed. He noticed that Stephen, who was a sedulous little ape, ran exactly like Georgina: his head well up and his legs moving in long easy strides. Roger watched for some time; he was anxious to see that Stephen’s strength was not being overtaxed, but Georgina was careful. It was obvious that she knew when to stop . . . and having satisfied himself that all was well Roger left them to get on with it.
Chapter Seven
1.
Saturday was a holiday and the Ayrton family decided to have a picnic on the shore. Nell made up a lunch basket and they all set out together. The party consisted of Roger and Nell, Stephen and Emmie and Georgina Glassford. Anne had been invited but had refused, saying she was too busy. They all walked through the walled garden, chatted for a few minutes with Mr. Gray, who was pottering happily amongst his beans, and emerged through a wooden door onto a steep path which led to the shore.
“Gray is getting old,” said Roger to Nell. “I see a lot of difference in him. Do you think he needs more help?”
“We might get another boy,” replied Nell thoughtfully.
“What about a man? I mean who’s going to take over when Gray has to give up?”
“Bob Grainger,” said Nell promptly. “Oh I know he’s young, but Mr. Gray has taught him everything and I’m sure he could do it. You remember he’s the boy who saved Tom’s life when the Starfish went down.”
Roger remembered. “He wasn’t much good at first, was he?” objected Roger.
“No,” agreed Nell smiling. “He knew nothing about gardens. He pulled up the seedlings and left the weeds to flourish—poor Bob! I don’t believe Mr. Gray would have kept him on if it hadn’t been for Tom. Tom talked Mr. Gray into giving him another chance—and then another. Tom can talk people into anything,” added Nell.
“Yes, I know—but all the same——”
“Oh, once Bob got into the way of things it was all right and I really don’t know what we would do without him now.”
“Is he still living with the Grays?”
“Oh yes, he’s just like a son to the Grays. He does all sorts of little jobs for them. Of course he adores Tom and Tom is very good to him. Tom is always sending him brightly coloured post-cards from some outlandish place or other.”
“Tom doesn’t bother to write to me very often,” said Roger.
“Perhaps you don’t write very often to him,” suggested Nell.
Georgina and the two children had run on and by this time they had reached the shore. It was a little bay, sheltered by rocks. There was a tiny cave in the cliff which had been known to the Ayrton children as the Smugglers’ Cave, for no other reason than that all caves were believed by them to have belonged to smugglers. Stephen and Emmie knew it well, of course, but Georgina had not been here before so they had the pleasure of showing it to her and telling her all about it. Of course Georgina thought it was splendid.
Everything was splendid according to Georgina: the view, the sea, the bathe and the little chicken patties which Mrs. Duff had made for their picnic lunch. Nell found her enthusiasm amusing, for Georgina’s predecessor, Miss Paterson, had been difficult to please . . . or at least (thought Nell trying to be strictly fair) one had never known whether Miss Paterson was pleased or not. She was reserved and inscrutable. This girl was better for the children, thought Nell, as she watched Georgina paddling with them and helping them to catch crabs in the little pools left by the receding tide.
“She asked me to call her Georgina,” said Roger suddenly.
“Oh Roger!” exclaimed Nell.
“I don’t see why not,” declared Roger. “She’s just a child, really. Look at her playing with Stephen and Emmie. I shan’t find any difficulty in calling her Georgina, the name suits her quite well.”
Nell said no more, but she was a little uneasy. It was odd, to say the least of it.
*
2.
“I’m very cross with you,” said Mr. Orme to his housekeeper.
“Oh dear, how dreadful! What have I done now?” exclaimed his housekeeper in feigned dismay.
“Why didn’t you go to the picnic with the others?”
“Who would have cooked your sweetbreads, I should like to know.”
“Nobody of course. I would have been perfectly happy with bread and cheese—and an apple.”
Anne laughed. She knew this was perfectly true. Mr. Orme did not notice what he ate. He ate what was placed before him. In some ways this was good, but in other ways a little disappointing for his housekeeper. It was disappointing when one had cooked a particularly appetising meal to watch it being eaten without due appreciation; but on the other hand if a pudding were not what it should be—if it fell to pieces or was slightly burnt—there was no need to worry. Mr. Orme ate it quite happily.
They had finished their meal. Anne rose to fetch the coffee and as she passed his chair she bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. It was a butterfly caress and exactly expressed the relationship between them, which was almost that of father and daughter, but not quite. Fathers and daughters have always known each other and take their affection for granted as a natural thing, but these two had found each other and were grateful.
As Mr. Orme sat and waited for his coffee he thought about this. He was very grateful for Anne’s love. He had enjoyed her companionship for more than a year and now he did not know how he could have lived without it . . . but there were responsibilities in his life which he had not had before and sometimes he found himself worrying about them. He was old—quite old enough to be Anne’s grandfather—and for years he had suffered from an unusual heart-condition which necessitated the greatest care. Dr. Maddon had warned him that he might die at any moment, but Mr. Orme had not minded, it had not worried him in the least; he had just accepted it and gone about his usual avocations taking reasonable care and no more. Now things had altered and Mr. Orme found himself less ready to die. It was because of Anne, because it would make her unhappy. How curious it was, he thought. How often in this life the unexpected happens. When he had taken Anne and Emmie under his roof, he had envisaged other troubles: Anne might find it dull; Mrs. Ayrton might be stubborn and refuse to forgive her; Emmie might be a little disturbing to his peace . . . but all these fears proved groundless and he found himself worrying about his own health! He found himself taking more care, doing a little less and resting more frequently. This new régime certainly suited his health, and he felt the better of it, but was it right in principle? Was it right to pamper oneself so that one could hang onto life a few years longer?
“You could do without me quite comfortably,” said Anne, continuing the conversation as she brought in the coffee. “I don’t know why you bother to have a cook when you could live on bread and cheese and apples.”
“Bread and cheese and apples make good fare,” replied Mr. Orme. “But there are other things besides food—and I couldn’t do without you quite comfortably. You and Emmie have become necessary to my comfort. You’ve pampered me.”
“That’s nonsense,” declared Anne, dropping her teasing manner and speaking seriously. “It’s the other way round. You’ve pampered us. You’ve given us things we never had before—protection and love.”
“My dear child!”
“It’s true,” she said with a little catch in her breath. “I never had that before. I never knew what it was to feel safe. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been in all my life.”
“So am I,” said Mr. Orme gravely.
“Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? We’re both happy. There’s nothing wrong in being happy.”
“No, indeed.”
“Well then?”
“But I’m nearly eighty, you know. People don’t live forever. I’ve been wondering——”
“Don’t let’s think about
the future,” said Anne interrupting him.
“But we should,” declared Mr. Orme. “I’ve been wondering if you could go back to Amberwell—someday.”
“No, no, I couldn’t!”
“If you ever felt you could go back——”
“No, never. I’ve told you why.”
Mr. Orme sighed. “Oh well, you won’t be penniless,” he said. “I haven’t great possessions, but all I have will be yours and it will be enough for you and Emmie to live on.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk—like that,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You don’t feel—ill—or anything, do you?”
“No, my dear. I feel perfectly well but I’m nearly eighty,” replied Mr. Orme smiling a little. “I just wanted you to know that there’s no need for you to worry, that’s all.”
“I don’t worry about money. I worry about you, when you’re ill, and about Emmie when she gets a cold. Other things don’t matter. I used to worry myself nearly crazy about money—about how I was to make ends meet and pay for Emmie’s education—but not now.” She hesitated and then added in a lower voice, “You’ve taught me to trust God and enjoy my daily bread, that’s why I said don’t let’s think about the future.”
Mr. Orme could say no more—and at any rate he had said what he had intended. He had wanted Anne to know that she and Emmie would be independent. They need not return to Amberwell. Perhaps Anne would marry again for she was still very young and in Mr. Orme’s eyes she was beautiful. Mr. Orme had a shrewd idea that she was beautiful to other eyes as well.
“I haven’t—thanked you,” said Anne in a shaky voice. “I can’t—really. You must promise not to talk like this again.”
“I promise,” he said solemnly. “We’ll trust God and enjoy our daily bread together.”
*
3.
It was a habit of Dr. Maddon’s to look in and see Mr. Orme quite frequently (he came partly in a professional capacity and partly because they were very old friends and enjoyed a chat), so neither Anne nor Mr. Orme was surprised when they saw Dr. Maddon coming up the path. Arnold was with him and this was not surprising either.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 6