“It’s a good thing I made lots of coffee,” said Anne. “I’ll just go and heat it up for them. I expect they’ve come to tell us all about Stark Place.”
They had, of course. Arnold was making rather an amusing story of the tour of Stark Place when Anne came in with the coffee.
“Ha, coffee!” exclaimed Dr. Maddon. “I don’t know why it is but I can’t make good coffee. I can make very good tea but coffee seems to be beyond me.”
“Have I missed anything?” asked Anne.
“Not really,” replied Arnold smiling. “I was just being funny. We went all over the house from attic to cellar with the architect fellow and fixed up everything. Of course there will have to be a good many alterations—Roger has big ideas. It’s to be a super school.”
“Lucky boys,” said Mr. Orme.
“Yes indeed,” agreed Anne. “Emmie and I are annoyed; we think you ought to take girls as well.”
Arnold laughed and said he would take Emmie like a shot if her mother wanted her to come.
It was delightful to hear Arnold laughing and to see him looking happy. Anne had been very sorry for Arnold during the last few months. She had heard about his hopes and his disappointments, and had listened with sympathy, for she knew from bitter experience what it was like to search for a job and to find that nobody wanted you.
Presently Anne and Arnold went out into the garden and left the two old friends together.
“The Old Uns enjoy their chat, don’t they?” said Arnold. “And it’s very good for them too.”
“I hope Dr. Maddon will sound his heart,” said Anne.
“He will. He knows you’re worried.”
“He knows?”
“Yes, I saw him looking at you. Has he had another heart attack?”
“No, he’s been wonderfully well lately.”
“But you are worried, aren’t you?”
“He was talking about—about being eighty.”
“It’s hateful when people get old.”
“Hateful—especially when you’ve got all your eggs in one basket.”
“You’ve got Emmie. I’ve got nobody except Dad.”
This conversation was elliptical and might have been obscure to a stranger, but Anne and Arnold understood each other perfectly. They had spent a good deal of time together lately (while “the Old Uns” talked) and their friendship founded in childhood had ripened. Today they wandered idly along the path, stood for a few minutes watching a thrush picking up crumbs upon Mr. Orme’s home-made bird-table, and then sat down on the garden seat.
“I’m glad you’re so happy about the school,” said Anne.
“It’s wonderful. I feel like a different creature. I have to keep on pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. At first I just couldn’t believe it, I thought it would all fall through——”
“It won’t fall through if Roger has anything to do with it,” declared Roger’s sister emphatically.
“Oh, I’m not worrying. I’m just—gloating. And that reminds me that I want to apologise to you. I never realised until now what an awful bore I’ve been—coming here and moaning.”
“You haven’t——”
“Yes I have—moaning and groaning. You’ve been awfully good to me. I’ve made up my mind that I’m not going to the other extreme and bore people by talking about the school. That would be almost as bad.”
“But I’d like to hear about it.”
“Yes, but not all the time. Let’s talk about you for a change. Why didn’t you tell me you were an author?”
“An author?” echoed Anne in surprise.
Arnold took a little book out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was a child’s book with a brightly coloured picture on the cover.
“Oh—that!” exclaimed Anne. “I just wrote that to amuse myself and Emmie.”
“I think it’s charming. . . . Yes, really. It’s original and amusing and the little pictures are delightful.”
“Who told you about it?” Anne wanted to know.
“Nobody told me. I saw it on the bookstall at Westkirk Station and recognised the picture on the cover. It’s the mermaid fountain, of course. The other pictures are all of Amberwell Gardens, too. Here’s the potting-shed and here’s the bowling-green; here’s the Smugglers’ Cave.”
“Yes,” admitted Anne. “Yes, it’s Amberwell.”
“And the story is all about you when you were children. There’s even a bit about me. I’m Alan of course. I’m the boy who climbed the Monkey Puzzle and tore his shorts.”
“Yes, of course you are,” said Anne smiling.
“But why Alan? Why not Arnold?”
“I changed all the names,” explained Anne. “I wrote it just for fun to please Emmie, because I couldn’t afford to buy her picture books, and then when we decided to publish it to make some money I had to change the names.”
“Did you make some money?”
“Yes, much more than I expected—and it came in very useful. I bought new clothes for myself and Emmie and I put the rest of it into the bank. It was wonderful to know we had something to fall back on for a rainy day.”
Arnold knew a little about the “lost years” but he had not realised it had been as bad as that.
“The publishers tried to persuade me to write another,” continued the author, “but of course I couldn’t. You see that book is all true. I couldn’t make up a story to save my life.” She paused for a moment and then added thoughtfully, “It’s funny how things happen. If it wasn’t for that little book I wouldn’t be here now.”
“You wouldn’t be here now?”
“No,” said Anne.
Arnold waited for more information but none was forthcoming. At last he could bear it no longer. “Is it a secret?” he enquired.
“A secret? Oh no, I was just thinking—wondering where I would have been. You see Nell bought the book in Glasgow for Stephen and when she saw the pictures she knew at once that it must have been written by me, so she took it to Mr. Orme and he got my address from the publishers and came to me—and found me—and brought me here. That was how it happened.”
“How strange!” said Arnold thoughtfully. He closed the little book and put it into his inside pocket as if it had suddenly become more valuable to him than before.
“What made you think I had written it?” asked Anne with interest. “It might have been Nell or Connie——”
“Ah, but I’m Poirot. I use my little grey cells. It couldn’t have been Nell or Connie or anybody but you.” He paused and looked at her teasingly.
“I don’t see why,” declared Anne after a moment’s thought.
“Because you were the only one who saw me climb the Monkey Puzzle—the others were bathing—and it was you who went and got me a pair of Tom’s shorts because I couldn’t go home in my own.”
Anne laughed. “They were Roger’s shorts. I took them out of his drawer. Nannie couldn’t think where they had gone. She hunted for them everywhere—and I never said a word. We were deceitful children.”
“Deceitful?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so—but it wasn’t really our fault. We never knew when we were doing something very naughty and when we weren’t. Grownups were our enemies—they were queer and unreasonable—so we deceived them. Emmie is quite different, she tells me everything—good things and bad things—she’s as open as the day.”
“Perhaps it’s because you’re not queer and unreasonable,” suggested Arnold smiling.
After that they talked some more about the school, for although Arnold had made up his mind not to be a bore he found it difficult to keep off the subject. He told Anne that the school was not to be called Stark Place (Sir Andrew did not want them to use the name) and both he and Roger were glad of this because it seemed to them unsuitable. Mary Findlater had suggested Summerhills. It was an old name for a part of the Stark Place estate.
“Oh yes—Summerhill Moor!” exclaimed Anne. “And Summerhill Quarry where we used to have picnics.”
&nb
sp; “Do you think it’s a good name for a school?”
“Yes,” said Anne thoughtfully. “Yes, it’s nice—Summerhills—it makes me think of little boys playing cricket in the sunshine.”
“That’s exactly what you’re meant to think of,” Arnold assured her. “When Daddy and Mummy are looking for a nice school for dear little Jackie, it will make them think the same. ‘We must send him to Summerhills,’ they’ll say. ‘Let’s write to the headmaster at once.’”
The headmaster of Summerhills put on an important air as he said these words, arranging his shabby old tie and pulling gown the frayed cuffs of his jacket. Anne laughed—she was meant to laugh—but she did not laugh very heartily. She would have liked to mend the jacket and wash the tie and smarten up the headmaster a little. . . . There was no woman to look after Arnold and his father, to mend their clothes and keep them up to the mark; two men, living alone, were very helpless.
“The headmaster will have to get a new suit,” suggested Anne.
“Oh, he will,” was the reply. “He’s got that in mind. He’s just waiting until he’s collected his first month’s salary.”
It was now time to go. Arnold rose reluctantly and said that “the Old Uns” would have finished their chat . . . and be wondering. . . .
This was found to be correct. In fact “the Old Uns” were just coming to look for “the Young Uns” and all four met on the path. The Maddons took their leave and Mr. Orme and Anne saw them off the premises.
“What did the doctor say about you?” asked Anne.
“He said, ‘H’mm,’” replied Mr. Orme smiling. “It was a surprised and pleased sort of ‘H’mm.’ Apparently my heart is ticking along quite nicely and may go on for years. Does that satisfy you?”
“Yes,” said Anne, squeezing his arm fondly.
Chapter Eight
1.
The ayrtons were having tea on the terrace. It was exactly the tea-party Roger had imagined when he was in the plane: Nell behind the silver teapot, Stephen beside her eating scones and honey, and Mrs. Ayrton in her chaise longue with the little table conveniently near. Roger had been at home for nearly a fortnight, but this was the first afternoon that they had had tea together like this. Some days had been a little too chilly for the meal to be taken out of doors and they had had it in the morning room; other days Roger had been out. Roger had been very busy indeed settling up matters at Stark Place and talking things over with Arnold and rushing up to Glasgow to see Mr. Strow, so he had not been with his family as much as he would have liked. All the same Roger had enjoyed it and he was delighted with the progress he had made.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” said Stephen suddenly. “You don’t have to go over to Summerhills on Sunday, do you, Daddy?”
(They were all trying to call it Summerhills but Stephen was the only member of the family to whom it came easily.)
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” replied Roger. “You see the builders are starting on Monday morning and there are one or two things I want to look at before they come.”
Stephen sighed. He knew the school was important, but it took up such a lot of time.
“We’ll bathe in the afternoon,” said Roger smiling at his little son. “Church in the morning, bathe in the afternoon and Summerhills after tea.”
“Is it a promise, Daddy?”
“Yes, it’s a promise.”
While they were talking the post had arrived and Roger saw that there were several letters for him but did not bother to open them. The only important letters were letters from home—and he was here with his family round him. Mrs. Ayrton had a letter from Connie, full of news about the children, and Nell had received an air-mail letter which she was scanning with interest.
“It’s from Dennis,” said Nell, putting it down as she poured out Roger’s second cup of tea. “He’s on his way home. This is from Cairo.”
“Dennis who?” asked Roger in surprise.
“Dennis Weatherby—I’d forgotten you don’t know him. He was in the Starfish with Tom when they ran into that mine and he came here for a few days when Tom got out of hospital. You’d like Dennis,” she added.
Roger remembered now. Tom had mentioned his friend, Dennis Weatherby, and had said that Dennis had “gone off the deep end about Nell”; but that was three years ago, and as Roger had heard no more he had dismissed it from his mind. Tom was constantly “going off the deep end” about some girl or other, and if his friend were like him (as was probable) there was no need to attach any importance to the matter. Now, however, it appeared that the fellow had been corresponding with Nell which looked as if there might be something in it.
“Commander Weatherby’s mother lives near Harrogate,” said Mrs. Ayrton.
Nell looked at her in surprise, for as a rule Mrs. Ayrton found great difficulty in following the conversation—especially the rapid conversation of the younger generation—and was usually left far behind utterly and absolutely bewildered.
“I remember distinctly,” declared Mrs. Ayrton. “His mother lives in a large house near Harrogate. He told me about it; he was a very well-mannered young man.”
“He brought me a bear,” put in Stephen. “It was a huge enormous teddy bear—of course I was quite young then. Why don’t you open your letters, Daddy? There’s one with a foreign stamp. Can I have it for my collection?”
The letter with the foreign stamp was addressed to Roger in thin spidery foreign writing. He opened it and tore off the stamp for Stephen.
For a few moments there was silence.
“I say!” exclaimed Roger. “What on earth are we to do about this? Aunt Beatrice is ill—in Rome.”
“Aunt Beatrice — in Rome?” echoed Nell.
“Yes, frightfully ill. This is from the woman who runs the pensione where she’s staying.”
Neither Roger nor Nell had seen Aunt Beatrice for years — there had been a quarrel in the family—so they were not exactly heartbroken by the unexpected news, but they were naturally upset.
“Oh, poor Aunt Beatrice, how miserable for her,” exclaimed the sympathetic Nell. “It’s bad enough being ill at home, but everything is so much more difficult when you’re abroad.”
“Yes, it’s pretty grim,” agreed Roger.
“Beatrice was always difficult,” said Mrs. Ayrton vaguely. “She was so dreadfully interfering. I used to have her to stay quite often, but it was always a strain because she didn’t get on at all well with your father . . . and then, when she encouraged Anne to get married without our permission, your father was very angry indeed and wrote her a very strong letter.”
“I know,” agreed Nell. “But she’s ill, so——”
“If Beatrice is ill she should send for the doctor. We can’t have her at Amberwell,” declared Mrs. Ayrton.
“She’s in Rome,” explained Nell patiently.
“In Rome? Oh no, dear, there must be some mistake. Beatrice lives in Edinburgh. Anne was staying with her when she met Mr. Selby.”
“I know,” repeated Nell. “I suppose she must have gone to Rome for a holiday—she often did. She used to tell us about the Pensione Valetta where she always stayed. It was run by a French-woman called Madame Le Brun. There was a roof-garden——”
“This is from Madame Le Brun,” said Roger holding up the letter.
“It was all Beatrice’s fault,” continued Mrs. Ayrton. “Anne was a mere child and never would have thought of marrying anyone we didn’t approve of. Your father was quite right when he decided to have nothing more to do with Beatrice.”
“I wonder if I could get a sleeper tonight,” said Roger with a little frown.
“Oh Roger, must you?” cried Nell.
“What else can we do? We can’t just leave the old lady to her fate. Somebody must do something.”
This was true of course. Nell saw that as clearly as Roger.
Stephen had been following the conversation with growing dismay. “Oh Daddy, have you got to go away? Is Aunt Beatrice very important? You said we we
re going to bathe tomorrow. You promised.”
“Yes,” said Roger doubtfully. “Well, perhaps it would do if I went on Monday. I could fly out, couldn’t I?”
“I suppose you must,” agreed Nell with a sigh.
“It may not take long,” said Roger. “I can see Aunt Beatrice and fix things up.” But he spoke without conviction for he did not see how his mission was to be accomplished quickly.
*
2.
The programme which Roger had suggested for Sunday was carried out. In the morning the whole party went to St. Stephen’s. Georgina went too—which was unusual. She put on a coat and skirt for the occasion and a very becoming blue hat. She walked beside Roger asking him questions about Summerhills and showing an intelligent interest in his plans . . . and Roger was pleased for his mind was full of his plans.
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” said Georgina. “It will be so good for Stephen to go to school. I shall be terribly sorry to leave Amberwell, but that can’t be helped.”
“Oh, it won’t be ready till Easter,” Roger told her. “There are so many alterations to be made and the staff to be engaged and all sorts of things to be arranged.”
“Easter,” said Georgina. “Amberwell must be beautiful in spring.”
Roger glanced at her. She looked very sad. He wondered whether she would like to stay on and teach Emmie, or perhaps she would like a post in the school; but he would have to ask Arnold before offering her a post at Summerhills. It was Arnold’s prerogative to choose the staff.
“I’m so happy here,” added Georgina with a sigh.
“I’m glad of that,” said Roger rather uncomfortably. “And Easter is a long way off. I mean all sorts of things could happen before Easter.”
“What sort of things?” asked Georgina. She turned her head and looked at him enquiringly with her large soft brown eyes.
“I was wondering whether—” began Roger . . . but he did not continue, for by this time they had reached the wicket-gate which led into the churchyard and Mrs. Lambert was approaching, so Roger was obliged to hasten forward and open the gate for her.
“Oh, thank you, Roger,” said Mrs. Lambert with her most charming smile.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 7