Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  1.

  The young lamberts and their children had been staying at Merlewood for two nights only, but they had spread themselves over the whole house in a most extraordinary way, so it was quite a lengthy business getting their belongings gathered together and packed into the car.

  “I don’t understand it,” declared Connie helplessly. “We seem to have more things than when we came, but we haven’t.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got everything?” asked Gerald, who knew his family only too well.

  “I think so,” said Connie.

  “Better have another look round.”

  They had not got everything (Mary discovered a drawer full of garments which had been overlooked, and Joan’s galoshes were found in the linen-cupboard), but eventually the job was completed; the last bulging handbag was wedged securely between Joan and little Marion—so that they should not pinch each other—and the Lamberts were ready to depart. Gerald settled himself at the wheel and the car moved off down the drive.

  Poppet and Johnnie and Mary stood upon the doorstep of Merlewood and waved until the car disappeared from view; then Poppet rushed back into her desecrated house and proceeded to put it in order. She beat up the cushions in the drawing room and pushed the chairs into their rightful places (the whole house was clamouring for her attention but the drawing room came first). Mary helped of course, but Johnnie stood on the rug in front of the fire and chuckled.

  “You didn’t laugh when Gerry put salt in your shaving cream,” said Poppet crossly. “You didn’t laugh when Joan dropped your keys into the cistern and put out her tongue at the postman, or when Marion tore some pages out of that silly old book.”

  “That wasn’t funny,” said Johnnie.

  “Neither is this,” Poppet declared. “It isn’t a bit funny to destroy things and you don’t like it any more than I do.”

  “I can bear it for two days.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  “It’s true. I can bear it for two days, but then I’m not jealous of my grandchildren,” said Johnnie in a teasing voice.

  “Jealous!” cried Poppet indignantly.

  “She’s jealous, isn’t she, Mary?”

  Mary was obliged to hide a smile.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” declared Poppet. “I’m sorry for them. I’m ashamed of them. Did you see Mrs. Weatherby looking at them yesterday when we were having tea at Amberwell—and thinking how frightful they were? And they were frightful today at lunch—simply frightful! Gerry is an absolute boor and the girls are intolerable little nuisances. If that’s how you like your grandchildren to behave I don’t,” cried Poppet seizing a cushion which had fallen onto the floor and shaking it viciously.

  “Ha, ha, that’s dear little Marion,” exclaimed Johnnie.

  “I wish it were!” cried Poppet.

  Mary said nothing of course. Her host and hostess amused her vastly and she had been staying with them for so long that she had become more like a daughter than a guest. At first their little tiffs had alarmed her, but very soon she had discovered that there was no cause for alarm; Johnnie and Poppet were so fond of each other and understood each other so well that their little tiffs were perfectly harmless and merely added a spice to their dish of life.

  As she went up to her room to dress for dinner, Mary suddenly found that she was very tired and slightly depressed. The tiredness was natural for she had done a great deal in the last few days, but the depression was less easy to account for. Perhaps it was due to reaction after all the excitement of the wedding or perhaps to the feeling that the wedding had not been a great success. There was nothing wrong with the bride and bridegroom—they were blissfully happy—but the organisation had been at fault. Nell’s wedding had been neither one thing nor the other.

  Weddings were curious ceremonies, Mary decided. Even savages gathered the whole tribe together and celebrated their marriages with traditional rites handed down from one generation to another, with singing and dancing and feasting. Civilised people had traditional rites as well and ought to observe them. It was no use trying to pick and choose; saying you would have marriage-bells and flowers but not all the other trimmings. You should either creep away quietly and be married without any fuss (as Nell had wanted) or else gather the whole tribe and have everything.

  Mary wondered if anybody else had felt the same about Nell’s wedding. Perhaps Roger! Roger had seemed in a queer sort of mood, not like himself at all. He had been kind to her in church, dragging her into the pew beside him (rescuing her from making a fool of herself by fainting in the aisle), but afterwards he had avoided her and when she had spoken to him in the drawing room he had scarcely replied. He had had a long conversation with Poppet; in fact he had chatted to everybody in the room—except Mary. She wondered why. Perhaps he was annoyed with her for being so foolish, but if so she could not help it . . . and what did it matter? Mary decided that it did not matter at all.

  At dinner they talked about the wedding and Mary discovered that in the eyes of Poppet and Johnnie it had “gone off” very well indeed, so she kept her own feelings to herself and agreed with Poppet that the bride looked beautiful and with Johnnie that the “fizz” was delicious.

  “You won’t mind if Johnnie and I go out tonight, will you?” asked Poppet. “I promised the Claytons we’d go along after dinner and tell them all about it.”

  “You’re too tired, Poppet,” said Johnnie. “Better ring up and wash it out.”

  “I’m not tired a bit,” declared Poppet. “I’d like to go, if Mary doesn’t mind being left alone.”

  Mary said she did not mind at all, though this was not quite true for in her depressed condition the cheerful company of her host and hostess would have been pleasant. “I’ll go to bed early and read,” said Mary. “Don’t worry about me.”

  But apparently Poppet was worrying. “There’s a lovely fire in the drawing room,” said Poppet. “Much better sit there and read. We shan’t stay long at the Claytons’. I wouldn’t go out and leave you, but I think Alison Clayton is a tiny bit hurt because they weren’t asked to the wedding.”

  “We only asked relations,” Mary pointed out.

  “The Maddons aren’t relations. Neither are you.”

  This was true of course.

  “We should have had everybody,” added Poppet with a sigh. “Once you begin to pick and choose it always leads to trouble.”

  Mary was still inclined to go to bed and read—reading in bed was a luxury she enjoyed—but for some reason Poppet was against it.

  “Why not let the girl do what she wants?” asked Johnnie reasonably.

  “She’ll be much more comfortable in the drawing room,” replied Poppet, and before Mary could make any more objections she found herself settled upon the drawing-room sofa with her feet up and a rug over her knees. The lamp was placed conveniently, a book was provided and the fire made up with logs.

  “There,” said Poppet. “You’ll be all right now, won’t you? Don’t go to bed until we come home—and you might listen for the doorbell and answer it if anybody comes. Janet is out.”

  “Are you expecting somebody?” Mary enquired.

  Poppet was tying a scarf over her head and arranging it becomingly—she did not seem to hear. “We shan’t be very long,” she said. “You see I promised Alison Clayton we’d go over and tell her how the wedding went off. Are you ready, Johnny?”

  “I’ve been ready for the last ten minutes,” Johnnie replied in resigned tones. He sighed and added, “But I can’t think why you want to——”

  “Because I promised Alison.”

  “But why? I mean we’d be much more comfortable——”

  “Darling Johnnie, don’t be a bear!”

  “All right, all right.”

  They went off together. Their voices died away and the front door closed with a thud.

  *

  2.

  Mary settled down to read. She was v
ery comfortable indeed, and the book was a new one by her favourite author, so she should have been perfectly happy, but she was not. The book failed to hold her attention and presently she put it down and abandoned herself to gloom. It was unusual for Mary to feel gloomy without a good reason—and there was no reason at all for her to feel gloomy tonight—but all the same she felt depressed and out of temper. Everything was “stale, flat and unprofitable”—yes everything. She was cross with Poppet. Why should Poppet always get her own way? It did not matter whether it was a big thing or a small thing Poppet got her own way. Everybody always did what Poppet told, them.

  I’m tired of it, thought Mary. That’s what’s the matter with me. That’s why I feel so depressed. I’m tired of being here and doing what Poppet tells me. I’m tired of Summerhills. (Yes, she was sick and tired of Summerhills. She had been bored stiff with Arnold talking about it at lunch. Even the name, which had seemed attractive, sounded a stupid sort of name.) I’ll go home, thought Mary. At least I can’t go home because I haven’t got a home any more, but I can go back to the parents.

  Mary was still brooding mournfully when the front doorbell rang. Poppet had told her that she was to answer it because Janet was out. For a few moments she hesitated and then she sighed and got up and went to the door.

  The visitor was Roger.

  “Poppet and Johnnie are out,” said Mary inhospitably. “They’ve gone over to the Claytons. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

  “I know they’re out,” replied Roger. “As a matter of fact I told Poppet I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You told Poppet—”

  “Yes, she said you’d be here alone.”

  By this time Roger had taken off his Burberry and thrown it onto a chair, so Mary had no option but to lead him into the drawing room and invite him to sit down.

  “I suppose you want to talk about Summerhills,” she said. “Have you had time to go and look at the bow-window? Arnold says they’re getting on with it quite well, and there’s no doubt—”

  “No,” said Roger. “I haven’t had time—and anyway I didn’t come to talk about that. First of all are you feeling all right, Mary?”

  She nodded. “It was frightfully silly, wasn’t it? I very nearly fainted. I can’t think what was the matter with me.”

  “It wasn’t silly at all. It was perfectly natural. Nobody can stand for ages all by themselves in the middle of a space. Even trained soldiers find it trying. I wouldn’t like to do it myself.”

  “Really?” asked Mary in surprise.

  “I told Poppet she shouldn’t have let you do it,” added Roger rather crossly.

  “Did you?” exclaimed Mary, even more surprised; people did not often take Poppet to task for her actions—and it was not really Poppet’s fault.

  Roger nodded. “Yes, I told her. Oh, she was quite decent about it—said she was sorry and all that.”

  This sounded so unlike Poppet that Mary was speechless.

  “But as long as you’re none the worse, it’s all right,” added Roger.

  There was a short silence and then Mary said, “Was that what you came about, Roger?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “I really came to talk about—something else.”

  Roger had sat down in Johnnie’s chair and Mary had returned to the sofa. The room was softly lighted by the standard lamp. It was a beautiful room, quiet and peaceful, but Mary did not feel peaceful; she was beginning to feel afraid. Roger looked grave and serious and his hands were clasped so tightly upon the arms of the chair that his knuckles had whitened.

  “About—something—else?” asked Mary uncertainly.

  “About me,” he told her. “Perhaps it’s a funny thing to do, but I thought it was the best thing. I mean I want you to know the whole story. At first I thought of writing to you—it would have been easier—but then I thought I wouldn’t. People sometimes misunderstand letters, don’t they?”

  “Yes—I suppose they do—sometimes.” Mary found difficulty in breathing.

  “We’ve talked about Clare,” continued Roger. “You know what I felt about her, don’t you? When Clare was killed I felt as if my life was over. I felt like chucking myself into the sea. There was no happiness left. There was no pleasure in anything. That went on for years and years.”

  “Oh Roger, I know—”

  “Please wait,” he said. “If you don’t mind I’d like to tell you all about it. Then you’ll understand—at least I hope so. It’s difficult to explain because I’m not one of those fellows who think a lot about their own feelings; there always seems to be things to do and it’s better to be busy. For instance there was Summerhills; it’s been good fun planning Summerhills, getting all the alterations fixed up and getting them done in the best possible way. Ever since I came home on leave in June I’ve been happier—I’ve felt quite different and more alive—and I thought it was because of Summerhills.”

  “I expect it was,” began Mary.

  “But it wasn’t, it was you.”

  Mary gazed at him. She could not utter a sound.

  “Yes, it was you, Mary. That very first morning, when I was talking to Gray in the garden and I saw you come in at the gate, I thought, ‘What fun, here’s Mary—and she hasn’t changed a bit!’ I looked at you and I saw you.” He hesitated for a moment and then went on. “You’ll think that’s a crazy thing to say, but I hadn’t really seen a girl for years and years. I hadn’t bothered to look at girls; they didn’t interest me in the least. Nobody interested me except Stephen—and Nell. That’s what I mean when I say I looked at you—and saw you. Of course I didn’t realise it at the time, I just felt happy to be with you, that’s all.

  “We walked up through the woods,” continued Roger. “We talked about Stark Place—and other things—about Clare and Ian and what fun we used to have when we were little. Perhaps you don’t remember . . .” He paused and looked at her.

  “Yes, I remember,” said Mary in a low voice.

  “There were two cuckoos in the woods, calling to each other. It was a lovely morning. I didn’t want to leave you and go home.”

  Mary was silent. She had not wanted to go home either. She had wanted Time to stand still so that she could go on talking to Roger—but Time never stood still.

  “Then I saw you again,” said Roger. “We met at Stark Place before I flew out to Rome—and when I went back to Germany you wrote to me. I loved getting your letters. All this time I thought it was the school that made me happy and gave me an interest in life. It wasn’t until later that I realised your letters gave me pleasure because they were full of you. I might have gone on like that for ages, not knowing the truth. It sounds quite mad, I know, but as I said before I don’t really think about myself very much. I just—carry on—and do things.”

  Roger paused for a few moments. He leaned forward and gazed at the fire. “Sorry to—to bore you with all this,” he declared. “But I want you to understand everything. It was a silly little incident that shook me up and gave me the clue, quite silly and not worth mentioning except that I’m telling you everything. It was the day we arranged to meet at Summerhills and you told me about your idea for the bow-window. I had said I would go and watch Georgina running and time her with a stop-watch. She had asked me to do it and I was such an idiot that I couldn’t refuse. Well, I expect you remember that I rang her up and put her off. Georgina was furious, she was frightfully rude and—and unreasonable. She—she said—things,” declared Roger uncomfortably. “She said—well, it doesn’t matter what she said but it made me angry. It sort of—shook me up. I began to realise what an awful ass I had been.

  “It all seemed—pretty hopeless,” continued Roger in a lower voice. “The more I thought about it the more hopeless it seemed. I was sure you didn’t care about me, except in a friendly sort of way for old times’ sake, and even in those days it was Tom who was your special friend and not me at all. Besides, there was Clare. I was all mixed up in my mind about Clare. I felt it was wro
ng to love somebody else—and be happy. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realised I was looking at it in a cockeyed sort of way. I’ve got it clear now because somebody said—something. You see I still love Clare—but it’s all like a dream—as if it had happened in another life—not my life at all. I don’t know whether you can understand that—or not—but it’s true. Well, anyhow I was so mixed up and so miserable that I felt like going back to Germany the next day, and I believe I would have done just that if it hadn’t been for Poppet’s party. She was having the party especially for me so I couldn’t very well back out of it. I wasn’t feeling like a party—anything but! At first the party was awful, and then I saw you. You were so lovely, Mary. There was nobody else in the room except you—nobody at all. You were wearing a rose-coloured dress and two real roses—not artificial ones—and you were just like a rose yourself. I watched you all the time, going about and talking to people and smiling at them. I was watching you when Poppet spoke to me and sent me to give you a message. It was queer, really, because I had made up my mind that I wouldn’t talk to you—I felt quite hopeless—but I couldn’t refuse to give you Poppet’s message. How could I refuse? Besides everybody does what Poppet tells them. And then suddenly I thought I would talk to you and see—and see if there was any hope at all. We sat on the verandah and talked. I told you I liked your letters because they were full of you, and you understood. You said my letters were full of me. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. There seemed to be a tiny glimmer of hope.

  “That’s all, really,” said Roger. “I’ve told you—everything—and if you think—I mean if you think you could possibly—like me at all—someday . . .” He paused and looked at her anxiously.

  Could she like him—someday? What a silly question! Mary had loved him for months, ever since that day in June—that lovely summer day when they had walked through the woods together and leant on the gate and heard the cuckoos calling.