Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Mary, could you—possibly?” repeated Roger.

  “I think—I could,” said Mary in a shaky voice.

  “Mary!” he cried. “Oh Mary——”

  “Wait, Roger,” said Mary holding out her hand to stop him. “Wait a minute. You’ve told me things—and I want to tell you something. It’s about Clare. I’m awfully glad you told me—all that—about Clare.”

  “You understand?” he asked, leaning forward and looking at her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “Oh Roger—no! How could I mind? We both loved Clare, didn’t we? There was nobody like her. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten her. She’s still—in your heart.”

  “Like a dream,” said Roger earnestly. “It’s all—like a dream. You’re real, Mary.”

  “Clare wouldn’t mind either,” Mary told him. “She would want you to be happy—and I think I could—make you happy.” She raised her eyes and looked at Roger as she spoke. Her eyes were dewy with tears but there was a radiance behind the tears. “If love can make you happy,” she added in a whisper.

  ENVOI

  The headmaster of Summerhills decided to hold the Sports on the last Saturday in June, for if there is any time of year when you can depend upon good weather (which of course there is not) you can depend upon the end of June. Also by this time the headmaster hoped that all the alterations would be finished and the last workman would have gone. In this hope the headmaster was a little too optimistic. Certainly all the major alterations were completed: the bow-window was ready (making his small, dull sitting room into a fine, cheerful, bright room which was much admired by visiting parents); the hatch was ready and in constant use; the partition wall in the large dormitory had vanished; the door into the changing-room had been made and the baths and showers and other toilet equipment were all installed . . . but there were still a few workmen wandering about the house with their bags of tools, and the joiner was still putting up extra shelves in the linen cupboard and screwing in extra hooks. These last lingering workmen were a source of pleasure to the boys (who dogged their steps whenever possible, pestered them with questions and hindered them in their work), but they were a source of irritation to the headmaster.

  The morning of the last Saturday in June was cloudy and rather chilly, with a strong breeze from the west, but by afternoon the clouds had vanished and the sun was shining in a bright blue sky. It shone down upon the fine old house—all spick and span in its new paint—and upon the noble trees and the green expanse of playing-fields which were already laid out for the Sports. It shone with positively blinding brightness upon the white marquee which had been erected for the occasion, and upon the twenty little boys in white shorts and blue blazers who were waiting for the Sports to begin. They were chattering in shrill voices, ragging each other and rolling about on the grass like excited puppies.

  “Look out!” they shouted. “Do stop it, you ass! What d’you mean by kicking me on the head!” “I say, have you seen the prizes? They’re super!” “You won’t win any!” “Yes, I shall.” “No, you won’t.” “I’m going to win the sack-race!” “Bet you tuppence you don’t.”

  They were getting a little out of hand, thought the headmaster, but he did not call them to order for it was better that they should let off steam before the serious business of the afternoon began.

  The guests were arriving now. They walked about and talked to each other or found chairs and sat down. There were quite a number of guests; some of them were people living in the neighborhood who had come out of curiosity to see the new school; others were friends of the headmaster who had come to back him up; most important of all were the “parents” who had come to see their sons win the prizes and cover themselves with glory.

  Twenty excited little boys running round in circles (pushing and shoving and shouting in high-pitched voices) can make quite a stir, so the headmaster was not really surprised when one of the parents remarked, “What a lot of boys you’ve got already, Mr. Maddon. There must be thirty at least.”

  “Not quite,” replied Mr. Maddon smiling. “But we’re coming along nicely. If we go on at this rate we shall soon be full.”

  Yes, Arnold was pleased with the start they had made; he would have been even better pleased if all the parents had been paying the standard fees for the education of their sons, but that was not his business. His business was to run the school. He was doing it to the best of his ability assisted by a very young Oxford graduate (who did not look much older than his elder pupils) and by a comfortable, motherly sort of woman who had been recommended for the post of matron by Mrs. Lambert. There was also an elderly Frenchman who could speak and teach several languages.

  The domestic staff was adequate; it was headed by young Lumsden who had been engaged as janitor but had taken over a great many other duties in addition to his own. He was a hero to the twenty little boys; he was their guide, philosopher and friend; he was at once their nursemaid and the headmaster’s right-hand man. Young Lumsden was worth his weight in gold to Summerhills.

  By this time all the guests had arrived and been greeted by the headmaster. He had chatted to all the parents, giving and receiving information about his boys and incidentally obtaining quite a number of new boys for the school.

  “Alec looks so fit and happy,” said Alec’s mother. “We’re thinking of sending you Ian as well. He’s very young, of course——”

  “Better book him,” said his father. “Ian isn’t doing any good at that potty little day-school.”

  “We’d like to have him,” declared the headmaster. “We like to catch them young—and if he’s like his brother he’ll do well. Alec has settled down splendidly.”

  “I was wondering about my nephew,” said another parent. “He’s at a big school in the South of England but he isn’t getting on very well. You see he’s shy and rather delicate. My sister thinks he would get on better at a smaller school and I was telling her about Summerhills. She said I was to ask you. . . .”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed the headmaster. “It’s much easier to give a boy individual attention at a small school.”

  “Oh Mr. Maddon,” said another parent. “Some friends of ours are going abroad after Christmas. They’ve got twin boys. It says on your prospectus that you make special arrangements for looking after boys during the holidays.”

  “That’s right,” said the headmaster. “We’ve got several boys whose parents are abroad. Perhaps your friends would like to come and see the school, would they?”

  “I’ll tell them to ring up and make an appointment.”

  “No need to make an appointment. They can see the school any time—and me too,” added the headmaster smiling.

  “Do you mean you’re always here?” asked Mr. Cartwright in surprise.

  “Yes,” replied the headmaster. “As a matter of fact this is a twenty-four-hours-a-day job. Later on I hope to get hold of a fellow I know—a responsible middle-aged fellow—but meantime I prefer to be here myself. Poulton is much too young to be left in charge.”

  Mr. Cartwright was impressed. He went off to spread the news that the headmaster was on duty morning, noon and night.

  It was now three o’clock and young Lumsden was blowing his whistle to collect the runners for the first race of the afternoon. There were no nonstarters. Twenty little boys rushed madly across the field to take up their positions on the line. Lumsden was waiting to arrange them. Poulton and Monsieur Dubois were waiting at the finish to pick out the winners.

  Seeing that all was in order, the headmaster decided he could spare a few minutes to speak to his own particular friends and began to make his way to the huge oak tree at the end of the field where a group of people had gathered.

  The sun was hot by this time and the spreading branches of the oak tree made a pleasant shade. The little group of people looked comfortable and relaxed. They all knew each other so well that they could talk or be silent as the spirit moved t
hem. Dr. Maddon was here, sitting upon a deck-chair with his old friend Mr. Orme beside him.

  “Pity Roger couldn’t come,” Dr. Maddon was saying. “Arnold was hoping he would manage it, but he couldn’t get away. He’s in London now—at the War Office—but you know that, of course.”

  “Yes, Anne hears from Mary occasionally,” replied Mr. Orme. “They’ve got a flat. They asked Anne to go and stay with them for a few days.”

  “Do her good,” grunted the doctor.

  “I know, but she won’t go. Anne doesn’t like London. . . .”

  The Lamberts were here in full force—three generations of them—for Gerry Lambert was one of the twenty little boys who were being educated at Summerhills (and incidentally young Gerry was more trouble to the headmaster than all the others put together). Johnnie Lambert was talking to his son, who had motored down from Glasgow that morning. Poppet was not talking to anybody; she was sitting on a rug with her back against the tree and observing her fellow creatures. They looked happy, thought Poppet, and so they should, for it was a happy occasion. Poppet had been a little dubious about this venture of Roger’s, but she was no longer dubious. Summerhills had got off to a good start. She, too, wished that Roger could have been here this afternoon.

  Nell was here but not Dennis (Dennis had had his leave at Easter and had spent it at Amberwell); but in spite of his absence Nell did not look sad. She sat a little apart from the others, half in the shade of the tree and half in the sunshine, and there was an air of quiet contentment about her. Poppet, who had always loved Nell, thought her more beautiful than ever, and quite suddenly she guessed the reason for Nell’s new loveliness. . . . But there will be plenty of time to knit a Shetland shawl, thought Poppet, smiling to herself.

  Connie was the only one of the little group who was not enjoying the afternoon. She was sitting between her two daughters, trying to keep them quiet, and the anxious frown was puckering her forehead. For years Connie had thought her children perfect, but just lately she had begun to have doubts—and this afternoon she would have given a good deal if Joanie and Marion had been a little different. Why couldn’t they behave like Emmie who was sitting beside her mother looking quite happy and peaceful? Why must they be always squabbling and fidgeting? Quite suddenly Connie made up her mind that Joanie and little Marion were not perfect—nor Gerald either. It was a horrible moment.

  Connie’s frown deepened. “Sit still,” she said sharply. “If you can’t sit still and behave properly I shall take you straight home and put you to bed. You’re just being a nuisance.”

  Her daughters were speechless with amazement.

  Arnold was now approaching the tree. He saw Anne first, of course, and Anne looked up from the rug where she was sitting and smiled at him in her usual friendly way. They were still friends—no more and no less. Arnold had very nearly abandoned hope of a closer tie, but he found great satisfaction in Anne’s friendship. It was only sometimes at odd moments that he felt a little sad and the world seemed bleak and lonely; sometimes in the evening when the curtains were drawn and he settled down in solitary seclusion beside his comfortable fire.

  Arnold was about to greet his friends when the report of a revolver rang out sharply and every head turned to watch the race . . . twenty little boys scampering over the meadow as fast as they could go! The twenty started in a long line carefully spaced by young Lumsden and instructed by him to run straight and keep well spaced-out, but the excitement was too intense for them to remember their instructions and after a few yards they bunched and ran like a flock of sheep. Then two boys emerged from the ruck and took the lead: one was the biggest boy in the school (a tall sturdy lad eleven years old), the other was very nearly the smallest. These two were neck-and-neck for three-quarters of the race and then the smaller one increased his pace, striding out manfully, head up, elbows to his sides, running so lightly and easily that his feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground.

  “Stephen!” shrieked Emmie, leaping up in excitement. “Go it, Stephen! Hurrah, hurrah, he’s winning! He’s winning easily!”

  Yes, Stephen won easily. His only serious rival was ten yards behind.

  It was sad that Georgina Glassford could not have seen the results of her coaching, but Georgina had left Amberwell in the spring. She had passed like a ship in the night and was almost forgotten. Perhaps it was a little ungrateful of the Ayrtons to have forgotten her so soon—she had done a good deal for them one way and another—but it is doubtful whether any of them realised how much she had done. Stephen was the only one who thought about Miss Glassford this afternoon. He thought about her as he arrived, somewhat breathless, at the finish of the race—and even his thought was not so much gratitude as a wish that she could have been present to see his triumph.

  The little group beneath the oak tree had been watching the race so intently that they had not noticed two new arrivals who were walking across the field to join them. Now, when the tension was over and they could breathe again, the new arrivals were quite near.

  “Goodness, here’s Roger and Mary!” exclaimed Arnold in surprise.

  “We managed to come after all,” said Roger smiling.

  “Roger got a few days’ leave unexpectedly,” Mary explained.

  “It’s grand,” cried Arnold, laughing with pleasure. “It makes everything perfect—you being here! There was something wanting before. This just rounds off the occasion.”

  There was a chorus of agreement (everybody had felt the same) and the new arrivals were welcomed warmly. They settled down together in the shade of “Ian’s tree” and prepared to watch the races.

  Roger had changed in the last few months; he had put on a little weight, and the slight air of sadness (which Poppet had found so appealing) was replaced by an air of happiness not quite so romantic but much more pleasing to his wife. Their marriage had taken place shortly after Nell’s, and had been a nine-days’ wonder, for the secret had been well-kept and nobody except Poppet and Johnnie Lambert had the slightest idea they were engaged.

  “All or nothing,” Mary had said firmly. “Either a slap-up wedding, with all the tribe and all the traditional rites, or else a really quiet wedding with nobody but our own two selves—and Poppet and Johnnie to sign the book.”

  They had talked it over. Poppet thought it would be lovely to have a traditional wedding (and was eager to hold the reception at Merlewood) but Roger thought not, and as it was impossible to have “a really quiet wedding” at St. Stephen’s they had been married in Germany. Sir Andrew and Lady Findlater knew and approved, but nobody else, and the secret was not divulged until Poppet and Johnnie Lambert returned from a short holiday with the news that they had flown over to Germany with Mary and seen her safely married to Roger by the Regimental Padre. The news was so unexpected that it was almost incredible and at first their friends and relations were somewhat annoyed (in fact all Westkirk felt cheated, for an Ayrton-Findlater alliance was an important event and should have been celebrated with the pomp and circumstance befitting the occasion); but Roger and Mary were hundreds of miles away so the fuss did not worry them at all and by the time they came home to Amberwell for Christmas leave their “hole-and-corner wedding” was forgiven.

  “Roger,” said Nell. “Were you and Mary here in time to see Stephen win the race?”

  “We watched from the terrace,” replied Roger. “It was a good show, wasn’t it? In fact it was splendid,” he added with a chuckle.

  Nell met his eye and smiled.

  “Stephen doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” asked Anne.

  “No, it’s a surprise. We’ll talk to him in the tea interval. He’s much too busy to talk to us now – too busy to see us.”

  “They’re all too busy to notice an earthquake,” said Arnold, glancing at his charges with affectionate amusement.

  The headmaster’s statement was no exaggeration, for arrangements were now being made for the egg-and-spoon race and again the whole school was competing for the prize. Twent
y little boys with spoons clasped tightly in their hands were awaiting the report of Lumsden’s revolver. The “eggs” were represented by potatoes which had been placed before them in a long straight line. Suddenly the report rang out, the boys picked up their “eggs” and off they went. . . .

  There is not much difficulty in carrying a potato upon a spoon and if they had heeded Lumsden’s warning to “go slow” they could have managed it easily, but they were much too eager to go slow. Three of them ran ahead and the others, unwilling to be left behind, quickened their paces. The leader dropped his potato and stooped to pick it up; two other boys fell over him and their potatoes flew in all directions. By this time another competitor had taken the lead, but instead of hastening on he looked over his shoulder and stumbled. The course was now a jumble of boys, some rolling on the ground, others squatting and endeavouring to pick up their potatoes with hands which trembled with excitement.

  There was one competitor—the last to start—who took no notice of his companions. He was a small, fat, stolid individual in spectacles. Carefully he picked up his potato, slowly and cautiously he walked from start to finish. He placed his potato upon the white line and then stood up and looked round.

  “Gosh, have I won?” he exclaimed in surprise.

  There was a roar of laughter from the onlookers.

  “That’s Cartwright all over,” said the headmaster of Summerhills. “Slow and sure is his motto. He takes no notice of anybody but goes on doggedly to the end.”

  “Cartwright?” asked Roger in surprise. “He’s Stephen’s friend, isn’t he?”

  Arnold nodded. “Yes. They’re buddies. It’s strange how often boys choose their opposites to be friends with. I’ve seen it happen over and over again.”

  “Good for them both,” declared Dr. Maddon.