Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Perhaps Valerie was ill?

  He’d sacrifice her for Valerie, his wife, of course.

  Well, she’d always known that.

  Perhaps there was some terrible crisis at the office, and he really couldn’t get away.

  Perhaps he was actually on his way back now and wanted to surprise her.

  Catherine almost stamped her foot at the idiotic cruelty of her imagination, presenting her against her will with suggestions and fancies that meant nothing — nothing.

  As she turned away from the pigeon-hole where the letters lay — there were very few of them now — she found Miss Lump and Miss Dump almost at her elbow.

  One of them spoke — an abrupt manner, with a voice that held provincial inflections.

  “It’s cold to-day, isn’t it?”

  “Quite cold, yes.”

  “We’re clearing out the day after to-morrow, back to smoky old London.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve been wondering which would hold out longest — we or you,” said the other one, sounding harsh from shyness.

  “I shan’t be long now,” Catherine said.

  The two nodded, as though moved by a common impulse of satisfaction.

  “Well, see you later.”

  Not if I can help it, you won’t, thought Catherine, and imagined Oliver’s smile, when she wrote to him and said that she was now on conversation terms with Miss Lump and Miss Dump.

  But he’d have forgotten the old joke by this time. It wasn’t funny a bit, intrinsically, after all.

  She moved away upstairs.

  If only she knew for certain why Oliver wasn’t coming back, so that she could be absolutely sure it wasn’t because he didn’t really want to any more....

  She was back on her treadmill again.

  But to-morrow morning a letter would come and whatever was in it, that would make things easier, because anything in the world was better than not knowing.

  It rained next morning, but Catherine took her walk just the same, and even prolonged it, so as to be quite certain of finding the letters sorted when she got back.

  She felt even sicker than usual when she went up to the pigeon-holes, carefully not raising her eyes until the last possible second.

  It had come.

  A large, square, grey envelope.

  Holding it in her hand she turned round, and there, once more, were Miss Lump and Miss Dump.

  “Not gone yet, you see,” one of them said jocosely.

  “No?”

  It was easier, a great deal, to smile, clasping the letter that bore Oliver’s handwriting.

  “Which day was it you said you were leaving? We thought perhaps we could share a car to the station. The bus has been taken off.”

  “I’m not sure. But I expect I’ll be able to tell you directly. My husband’s letter will probably let me know where I’m to join him, or if he can get back here to fetch me.”

  There! now she’d defied Fate.

  But at least Oliver’s letter would put an end to this sickness of suspense.

  She took it upstairs, her heart pounding and her sight blurred.

  Then she looked very carefully for her little blue paper-knife, and when she’d found it, slit open the envelope, very slowly, making no haste at all.

  It was quite a long letter — two whole sheets — and her eyes raced down the pages, but not one word conveyed itself to her mind, and she was obliged to begin again.

  She read it all through twice, and then at last her perceptions cleared and she understood what she was reading.

  It was a lover’s letter, for he used lover-like expressions, and told her that he missed her, and that she was sweet to write so often; he adored getting her letters. And he said Brittany had been like a heavenly dream, and they’d always remember it and one day they must do it again.

  So that, as one had known, he wasn’t coming back, but he hadn’t given her any reason.

  He would never give her any reason.

  She’d just go on wondering whether it was because Valerie wanted him, or because he really couldn’t come, or because he didn’t particularly want to any more. It seemed odd, Catherine thought, to love somebody as Oliver really did love her when they were together, and then not any more when they weren’t — because of course if you loved someone all the time, you didn’t leave them in Hell, not knowing, just imagining and wondering....

  Later on, Miss Lump and Miss Dump invited her to join them in a walk. There was, as they pointed out, really nothing else to do.

  “I hope you don’t mind us suggesting it,” Miss Dump said coyly. “But you being all by yourself—”

  In fact, they were sorry for her.

  That was funny, when you remembered how, at the beginning, Catherine and Oliver had felt rather sorry for them, because they didn’t talk, or share any silly jokes together, or look happy.

  “We felt quite sorry for you,” said Miss Lump. “So I said, let’s ask her to come for a good strapping walk with us, I said.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine answered.

  One might as well go. It would pass the time until the afternoon, when she could pack.

  Miss Lump and Miss Dump walked on either side of her, spasmodically offering disconnected observations on the advantages and disadvantages of a holiday in Brittany.

  THE INDISPENSABLE WOMAN

  1

  “MY dear, I shall have to go. I shall HAVE to go,” had said Helen Blunt to her friends.

  “Leave London?” they had replied, aghast.

  “Yes. Four little motherless children — the eldest only eight — and poor Edward. If I don’t go — the governess will marry Edward.”

  At the hint of so frightful — and so probable — a calamity, Miss Blunt’s friends had had nothing more to say.

  She went to look after her widowed brother, his four children, his governess, his cook, his house-parlourmaid, and his dog and cat.

  It was a difficult situation.

  Her predecessor, Edward’s wife, had always allowed chaos to prevail in her small household, and when she died she left chaos behind her, further complicated by loyalty to her memory.

  It took months and months to bring order and beauty into the household.

  Helen was wonderful.

  “Leave everything to me, Edward.”

  Edward, who was vague and gentle, and interested only in fly-fishing, thanked her, and did leave everything to her.

  The governess — she had been chosen by the children’s mother — tried quite as hard as Helen had expected to marry Edward. She was called Rachel Prendergast, and was under thirty and quite nice looking.

  Beyond a doubt, Miss Prendergast would have to go. But it was difficult to get rid of her without distressing the children, who were fond of her.

  Helen did manage it in the end, and found a gentle creature of her own age — thirty-seven — who was just efficient enough to manage the children, and who openly and honestly admired Miss Blunt’s much greater efficiency. The children were won easily by Aunt Helen. They responded instinctively to her firm, kindly treatment, that was never capricious or unconsidered.

  Secretly, Helen was deeply touched and gratified at the affection shown her by Michael, Stella, Simon, and Celia.

  They were interesting children and consequently faulty, and she studied them individually with great care.

  Michael was certainly indolent, Stella dictatorial and overbearing, and little Simon was inclined to be disobedient.

  Celia was only a year old.

  They had all of them been alternately spoilt and tyrannized over by Miss Prendergast and the servants and were thoroughly undisciplined, but after six months at Cloverleigh, Helen could quite feel that they were coming into line.

  So were the servants — she had made two changes, both for the better.

  The only things that sometimes worried her a little were Edward’s extraordinary reserve — he never talked upon any but the most impersonal subjects, even to h
er — and her increasing consciousness that the Cloverleigh household depended upon her for its very existence.

  She would never be able to go back to her comfortable flat in Chelsea, her modest but regular expeditions to concerts and plays and lectures with intimate women-friends of a culture equal to her own.

  She could certainly not leave Cloverleigh until Stella was grown up — unless Edward married again.

  It was a sacrifice, for Helen Blunt had made a niche for herself in a certain small and academic section of society, and she did not really care for the country.

  “But,” she wrote gallantly to her best friend, a successful woman doctor, “isn’t it worth it? To make a home for poor Edward, after the miserable discomfort in which he lived, and to play mother to these four young things, and watch them growing and expanding day by day — why, my dear, it’s wonderful! I’m so busy I never have a moment in which to read or write, until I go upstairs at what ought, I suppose, to be ‘bedtime,’ and I’m taking an interest in all sorts of things that have never meant anything to me before. You’d laugh if you could see me gravely discussing the respective merits of Virol and Maltine with Miss May, the govvy, and attending local Flower-Show Committees and Meetings of the Nursing Association!”

  By the time that Helen had been eighteen months at Cloverleigh she no more thought of leaving it than little Celia would have done. It was even with real reluctance that she occasionally forced herself to go up to London for a day, in order to arrange for the sale of her flat and the relinquishment of her various activities there.

  They seemed rather paltry activities now, by comparison with all that she was doing in her new home.

  Helen had a genius for administration, and she was well seconded by little Miss May. Between them, they established order and maintained regularity in the lives of the children.

  In spite of the acknowledged difficulty in getting servants for the country, Helen secured — and kept — two well-trained maids.

  Meals were served well and punctually, the house was tidy, the children becoming better behaved. Even the dog and the cat learnt to lie on the hearthrug instead of in the armchairs.

  “Routine,” said Helen, “I feel we’ve really got into our routine now. That’s so important, especially when there are children in a house.”

  It was unfortunate that Edward should be as naturally unpunctual and dilatory as his sister was the reverse. It made it necessary for her to assume almost the entire responsibility for the household and all its arrangements — simply because he could never be counted upon.

  “Children dear! I have to go to the village. Whose turn is it to come with Auntie?”

  “Mine!” piped Simon.

  “And mine,” said Stella.

  They always took turns about everything — the treats, as well as the duties, so that there need never be any foolish disputing for privileges.

  “Come along then. I shall be ready in five minutes.”

  In five minutes Helen was ready, and had walked off with the two children and the terrier.

  “Just time to get there and back before lunch,” she said cheerily as she automatically noted the time by her watch.

  It was a spring morning.

  The Lords and Ladies might be out by now,” said Stella eagerly. The children had been hoping for them for days.

  “I don’t really think so, dear. You know they weren’t out yesterday.”

  “They might have come out during the night,” Stella persisted. “We’ll look in that clump near Bradley’s Field.”

  “Not this morning, Stella darling. We haven’t got time.”

  “But why not, Aunt Helen?”

  “Because,” said Aunt Helen patiently and pleasantly, “it will take us a little while to get to the Post Office and back again, and by the time we get home, Sarah will be just ready to sound the gong for lunch!”

  “It won’t take a minute to climb over the gate and just look and see—”

  “Perhaps it wouldn’t take you more than a minute, but you must remember that Simon’s legs aren’t as long as yours and that it would certainly take him more than a minute.”

  “Simon could wait in the lane.”

  “No, I want to come too!” shouted Simon vigorously.

  “Hush, dear. Neither of you can go this time. We really must get on—”

  They were good children on the whole. Stella pouted a little, but Helen began to tell them a story, and they soon forgot about the Lords and Ladies, and walked beside her briskly enough, little Simon every now and then breaking into a trot.

  Helen executed her commissions, made clear to the postmistress an important question concerning the next meeting of the Mothers’ Union, and succeeded in bringing her charges home with exactly five minutes to spare (for hand-washing and hair-brushing) before the gong rang.

  “What were you all thinking of doing this afternoon, Miss May?”

  “It’s such a lovely day, Miss Blunt, I thought we might take the pony-cart and go up to the woods. It’s rather a long drive, but we could be back by five.”

  “Hardly,” smiled Helen. “You couldn’t very well start before quarter-to-three, because of the children’s rest.”

  “Oh dear — I’m afraid I’d forgotten that. What a pity they didn’t have it this morning instead. I suppose they couldn’t—”

  Helen pretended not to hear that. Miss May did not always quite realize that regularity was of the first importance, in dealing with children.

  “To-morrow will do just as well. This lovely weather looks as if it had come to stay. It really seems a shame to go to London — but I shall have to, just for the day. The children had better have their rest before lunch, then, Miss May, and you can all drive up to the woods afterwards.”

  “Now, Simon darling, say Grace. We won’t wait for Celia.”

  “Here’s Daddy! Just as we’ve all finished!”

  Edward made some vague apology.

  Helen nodded dismissal to Miss May and the children, and, without any sign of the slight vexation that she was certainly feeling, prepared to keep her brother cheerful company whilst he ate his belated lunch.

  The next day, unfortunately, was not fine at all. It was extremely wet. Helen, hurrying along the slippery London streets, found it trying.

  She almost decided to catch an early train home, but remembered that she had intended to go to Selfridge’s and there inspect coal scuttles.

  Oxford Street was crowded, and the splash of rain on umbrellas had a depressing sound.

  Helen had to wait nearly five minutes on the kerb, wet and jostled, until it seemed possible to cross the road.

  Someone else made a dash at the same instant, pushing against her. Helen lost her foothold on the slippery edge of the pavement, slipped, and fell heavily, her left leg twisted under her.

  A nightmare of pain, confusion and noise, followed. She contrived to give the address of her doctor friend before she fainted.

  When at last she really found her senses again, she was lying in bed, and Dr. Marian Arrows was with her.

  “That’s better, dear. Don’t try and move. You’re quite all right with me. I’m so thankful you came here. I’ve a trained nurse in the house — we shall be able to look after you all right!” The doctor was professionally cheerful, but Helen’s anxiety was almost more overpowering than the pain that was causing her to frown, and bite her lip.

  “Marian, what is it? My leg’s broken, isn’t it?”

  “My dear — thank Heaven it’s not much, much worse than that. When I think what the state of the streets is, now, and how easily—”

  The doctor broke off, with a little gesture. “You’re a brave woman, Helen, and you know I wouldn’t deceive you. You’ve sustained a compound fracture of the left tibia and fibula, and of course the whole leg is badly bruised and you’ve had a shock — but I’ve telephoned for the best surgeon I know — Birkett — and I’m almost certain he’ll say that everything is going to be all right. He’ll b
e here in half an hour.”

  “Thank you, Marian.”

  Helen lay very still, the doctor watching her anxiously.

  “Can I send a telegram?” she asked at last faintly.

  “Home? Of course, dear. They’re not on the telephone?” —

  “No.”

  “I’ll call nurse and you can dictate a message, and I promise to write myself directly I’ve heard what Birkett says. But you must not worry. It’s the worst possible thing for you, after a shock like that.”

  “I can’t help it,” groaned Helen.

  “But it’s going to be all right. I’m certain of it. And I’m so thankful to have you here. It may be a longish business — you’ll be my first resident patient, Helen.”

  Helen contrived to smile, but she felt a great deal more inclined to weep hysterically.

  “It’s not exactly the pain, Marian,” she contrived to say, “and to be with you is the greatest comfort in the world — but I know it’s bound to take ages, and what will poor Edward and the children do?”

  “I know, my dear. But don’t worry, if you can possibly help it. Things do arrange themselves, somehow. Can you trust the governess?”

  “Oh yes, certainly. She’s a good little thing. But it’s been hard work to get the house going properly and to establish some sort of order into the lives of those poor children. And Edward is so terribly casual. I’m afraid everything will be allowed to get into the most awful muddle. Oh Marian — how long do you suppose this will take?”

  “My dear, honestly I don’t know. Birkett will be here directly now.”

  The surgeon arrived almost as she spoke, and was ushered upstairs.

  After an excruciatingly painful examination, and the administration of an anaesthetic that Helen welcomed as she had never yet welcomed anything in her life, the leg was set, and she woke to pain that was at least endurable.

  “How long will it take?” was her first enquiry.

  “Five to six weeks, approximately.”

  “Not five to six weeks in bed?” gasped Helen.

  “Well, at least without putting your foot to the ground. My dear, don’t take it to heart so dreadfully! Indeed, it might have been much worse and the pain won’t be so bad, I hope, after a day or two.”