A pause, and then a voice said:
‘Is that Highgate 00078? Mr Challis’s house? This is Lady Challis speaking. Are you all right?’
‘All the children are safe but Lamb Cottage is damaged,’ answered Margaret loudly and calmly.
‘Oh dear! Badly damaged?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’
‘Are Hebe and Alex all right?’
‘I don’t know, Lady Challis,’ answered Margaret with heart beating fast, ‘they aren’t back from the theatre yet.’
‘Oh yes – I’d forgotten. How did the children get over to Highgate? (Who are you, by the way?)’
‘(I’m Margaret Steggles, a – a friend of Zita’s.) Mrs Grant was with the children in the shelter when a bomb came down opposite, and Cortway went over in the car and fetched them.’
‘Are they very upset, poor little things?’
‘No, they don’t seem to be.’ A smile came into Margaret’s voice as she glanced over her shoulder at the group by the fire. ‘Barnabas has been so good, and Emma is asking for cocoa. Jeremy’s asleep.
‘Co – co!’ repeated Emma cooingly from Grantey’s lap.
‘Thank God,’ said Lady Challis cheerfully. ‘And how’s my poor Grantey?’
‘She – she seems rather tired but –’ said Margaret hesitatingly, glancing round again and receiving a series of violent shakes of the head from Grantey, ‘but there’s nothing really wrong with her, I think.’
‘You mean that her heart’s bad and I don’t wonder,’ retorted Lady Challis. ‘Well, that’s all I wanted to know, so I shall ring off now, but give them all my love, and if Hebe and Alex are all right don’t ring me up; only ring up if there’s anything wrong. Good-bye,’ and she rang off.
Margaret returned to the fire and took Emma on her lap again.
‘I hope you didn’t give her ladyship the idea there was anything the matter with me,’ said Grantey, with a touch of her old sharpness. ‘There’s enough to worry about without me. When I think of all Miss Hebe’s things blown to pieces –’
‘Piccy –’ suddenly cried Barnabas, and burst into tears. ‘Oh, poor Piccy – I left him behind!’
‘It’s his monkey,’ explained Grantey, looking anxiously at him. ‘Now cheer up, there’s a good boy; I’m sure Piccy’s all right, and to-morrow Grantey’ll go over and find him and bring him back.’
‘Piccy! Piccy! I want Piccy!’
Margaret went quickly over to the fire with Emma and sat down on the hearthrug.
‘Look, Barnabas,’ she was beginning persuasively, when there was a confused sound of the front door hastily opening and of voices, and the next moment she almost lost her balance as Hebe snatched Emma up and smothered her with kisses, while her eyes, looking black in the extreme pallor of her face, darted from Jeremy to Barnabas as if to make certain of their safety.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ screamed Barnabas, stumbling over to her, and Jeremy stirred, awoke, and began to cry. Alexander, who had come in behind Hebe, looked tired and dirty, and had no hat, and his coat hung open, showing his evening clothes. He stared at the children as if he were bewildered.
‘We thought we’d never get here,’ said Hebe with a long sigh, sinking on to the hearthrug and putting the laughing Emma down on the outspread skirt of her dress while she gathered Jeremy into her arms. ‘We tried to ’phone the cottage from the theatre, and of course we couldn’t get through and we couldn’t get a taxi for any money and so we had to go by tube; jam-full and everybody smelling like mad. Well,’ turning abruptly to Margaret, ‘let’s have it. The cottage is flat, I suppose?’
Margaret started violently; she had retreated into a dark corner and was hoping to slip away unobserved.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied hesitatingly, ‘I think the bomb fell on the Black Bear. It’s the front of the cottage that’s damaged, Cortway said.’
‘The Shrapnel Hunters is what I’m thinking about,’ muttered Alexander, who had seated himself on the hearthrug beside Hebe.
‘Front blown clean out, sir,’ said Cortway with gusto, approaching with a laden tray. Behind came Zita, carrying another tray. ‘I couldn’t see much because of the dust and those silly bleeders (begging your pardon, Miss Hebe) of wardens getting under your feet and telling you off, but it looked like the drawing-room’s a gorner, and the nursery too. Nice goings-on!’ he ended deeply, and put the tray down rather hard.
‘If they’re gone, The Shrapnel Hunters will be gone as well.’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. All the windows are gorn, for certain.’
‘Und all the glass into the canvas has been driven,’ said Zita funereally. ‘It will be ruined – your masterpiece, Mr Niland.’
Alexander stared miserably at her.
‘Sit down, sit down, for goodness’ sake,’ said Hebe impatiently, waving a sandwich at her husband. ‘It’s probably quite all right; I put it in the cupboard before we came out. I always do.’
Alexander knelt down and put his arms about her and Jeremy, whom she was supporting with one hand.
‘You darling girl, thank you very, very much,’ he said, taking her sandwich.
‘Yes, well, don’t get in such a flap,’ said Hebe, returning his kiss and taking another sandwich. ‘And now have something to eat, do. Here –’ and she pushed the plate across to Margaret with her satin-sandalled foot. Margaret gave a nervous laugh and remarked that she really ought to be going, but as no one took any notice and she very much wanted to stay, she accepted a sandwich and ate it in her shadowy corner, glancing from time to time at Hebe surrounded by her children and deciding that she might be rude and a flirt, but that she undoubtedly did love them.
‘I pour out?’ inquired Zita, kneeling among trays and children in front of the fire.
Hebe nodded, working off her shoes by rubbing one against the other. Barnabas was sitting between his father’s knees eating a piece of Spam which he had picked out of a sandwich.
‘This is the latest I’ve ever sat up,’ he said proudly. ‘What’s the time, Grantey?’
‘Nearly ten. You’ll all be dead in the morning,’ she said resignedly, but she looked less exhausted and her colour had returned.
‘Co-co,’ implored Emma sweetly, holding out her arms.
‘In a moment you shall haf,’ said Zita, smiling down at her and giving her a biscuit. A peaceful silence followed, filled with sippings and munchings. Nobody seemed inclined to talk about the play, and Margaret, who had looked forward to discussing it with Zita, suddenly found herself so tired that she only wanted to go home and get to bed, but she did wonder how the Challis’s party at the Savoy was going, and presently observed in a low tone to Zita:
‘I do hope Mr and Mrs Challis are all right?’
‘Oh, no bomb would dare fall on Pops,’ said Hebe, making signs to Alexander to carry Emma, who had fallen asleep, back to the chair where she had first been lying, ‘especially on a first night. Look, Jeremy’s asleep too, isn’t he a lovekin.’
‘I go und put up the beds,’ said Zita, standing up.
‘Put Alex in the Peach Room and all the brats in with him,’ called Hebe after her. ‘I’m dead, and I want some sleep to-night. You don’t mind, do you?’ to her husband, who shook his head.
‘I’ll take Jeremy in with me, Miss Hebe,’ said Grantey, beginning to bestir herself. ‘The cot’s in the first attic; Douglas, get it down into my room, will you? I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Can I help?’ asked Margaret, also getting up.
‘So I should hope!’ said Zita, with the laugh that meant she was cross. ‘Dere is much to do und we all are tired.’
As she followed Zita across the hall Margaret heard Hebe mutter, ‘I suppose this means camping here for the next week or so. What a bore.’
It was nearly two hours later that Margaret at last left Westwood, having seen all the beds made up and the children asleep in them. The only exciting event in the latter part of the evening had been a telephone-call from the
Savoy to know if everything were all right, and she had gathered that Mrs Challis, not Mr Challis, had made it after many failures to get through which had naturally alarmed her, and that she would come home at once. (Margaret herself had telephoned to her mother while she and Zita were waiting at the Tube station, and told her not to wait up as she might be late.)
The waning moon was rising as she walked quickly down the hill. In the air there was the beginning of that beautiful sensation, which reaches its height in full summer, of night being not a separate condition but a deepening of the day in which hidden beauties become visible. There was no sound save the ring of her footsteps along the empty street, and although she had intended to think about Kattë and make up her mind about it, the stars and the strangely shaped setting moon and the bright veils of cloud drifting swiftly across the sky were all so beautiful that she ended by thinking of nothing but how delightful it was to be walking alone at night.
19
The next morning she was aroused out of a deep sleep by someone shaking her and her mother’s voice saying crossly:
‘Margaret! Margaret! Wake up – Mr Fletcher wants you on the telephone!’
Margaret sat up, pushing the hair from her face and repeating stupidly:
‘Telephone! What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Mr Fletcher, I tell you. He wants to speak to you on the ’phone; he’s holding the line.’
‘What on earth does he want me –’ Margaret muttered, getting unsteadily out of bed and putting on her dressing-gown. She was not fully awake.
‘I don’t know what he wants you for. He sounds very upset. Hurry up, do. I’ll go and tell him you’re coming,’ and she hurried away.
‘Hullo? Mr Fletcher?’ said Margaret, struggling with a great yawn as she took up the receiver.
‘Margaret? Is that you? I’m sorry to get you out of bed, but I’m in a hole and I want your help. Can you meet me outside Brockdale Station in half an hour?’
Margaret answered at once: ‘Yes.’
His voice was so urgent and unhappy that the thought of refusing never entered her head.
‘Thanks. It’s awfully good of you. I’ll explain when we meet,’ he said gruffly, and rang off.
Mrs Steggles was hovering in the background, her face alight with curiosity.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know, Mother. He just said he’s in a hole and wants me to help, and will I meet him in half an hour outside Brockdale Station. I’ll have to hurry. Will you be an angel and make me some tea?’
‘It’s ready – I’ll bring you up a cup while you’re dressing,’ said Mrs Steggles, going into the dining-room. ‘But what an idea, dragging anybody off at eight in the morning! Has his wife turned up again, do you think?’
Margaret was hurrying into her clothes and did not answer. Her thoughts had flown at once to Westwood. She had planned to telephone Zita after breakfast, and ask if she could be of any help during the day (which was fortunately a Saturday) by looking after the children or fetching things from the ruins of Lamb Cottage. Now this plan must be postponed. It was annoying, and she wondered crossly and without much interest what could be the matter with Dick Fletcher? Nothing interesting, that was certain!
Ten minutes later she was hurrying down the long staircase leading into Archway Tube station and feeling as if a strong force were drawing her back to Westwood while she was compelled to go in the other direction. It was a lovely summer morning, and in other circumstances she would have enjoyed the journey, but she was wondering whether Alexander’s picture had been saved from Lamb Cottage and if she would get away from Dick Fletcher in time to telephone Zita before lunch, and scarcely noticed the sunlight and the cloudless sky.
He was waiting for her outside the station, and started eagerly forward as she came towards him. He was very pale and looked as if he had not slept.
‘Hullo, Margaret, this is good of you,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry to have got you up so early. I did wait until eight o’clock.’
‘That’s quite all right, it doesn’t matter a bit. Er – I hope it isn’t very bad news?’
‘Oh –’ He hesitated a moment, looking at her and biting his lips and she was just thinking that her mother’s guess must be right and that his wife must have turned up again, when he said impatiently:
‘Oh, it’s nothing serious, it’s only that I’m in a hole, and you’re the only woman I know; well, the only nice woman’ – laughing awkwardly – ‘and I want you to help me. Let’s go this way.’ He took her arm and began to walk rapidly away from the station towards the High Street. ‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you in a minute.’
He was suddenly silent. Margaret felt that he was trying to decide the best way to tell her, so she kept silent too, and they hurried along through the sunshine, both frowning and quiet.
She was very conscious of his arm thrust carelessly through her own, like that of an old friend or another girl. Women who are not often touched by men naturally respond strongly when they are touched, however casually, and Margaret was no exception to the rule. She did, however, like his arm thrust through hers. She at once felt closer to him and more friendly and willing to help. A number of miss-ish prejudices seemed to drift away and she glanced at his face and thought, I do like him, really.
‘My housekeeper was hurt in the raid last night,’ he said suddenly, as if her glance had made him decide to speak, ‘and she’s in hospital and likely to be there for at least three weeks. The trouble is, there’s no one to look after my daughter.’
‘Your daughter? I didn’t know –’
‘Didn’t know I had a daughter?’ turning to look at her with a troubled smile. ‘Oh yes, Linda’s nearly twelve.’ His voice was tender as he spoke the name. ‘That’s where I go on Sundays, to see Linda.’
‘Do you?’ said Margaret, in a low tone, much ashamed of her past suspicions.
‘Yes. I’ve got a little house out here where she lives with Mrs Coates, my housekeeper. You see, the trouble is’ – he hesitated, then went on quickly – ‘Linda isn’t quite like other children; not quite up to the standard for her age, and so she doesn’t go to school or anything of that sort or see many people. I wondered if you could spend the day here, just until I can get a nurse or somebody – she’ll be all right when once she’s used to the new person – she’s very loving, bless her, and gets on with anybody, but I’ve got to find somebody absolutely reliable.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Margaret, feeling revulsion, though her tone expressed only sympathy.
‘At home. Oh, she can be left quite safely for half an hour,’ glancing at her suspiciously, as if trying to detect signs of shrinking. ‘But she doesn’t like being alone for long. She – she’s so gentle. You’ll love her,’ he ended confidently.
‘I’m sure I shall. She sounds –’ Margaret left the sentence unfinished, in a vague murmur. Like most people who worship physical beauty, she had a horror of deformity and her imagination at once began to paint a monster.
‘Could you stay for a bit?’ he said eagerly, as they crossed the noisy High Street and approached a quieter road. ‘I should be so grateful, and it would be such a weight off my mind.’
‘Of course I will,’ she answered at once, and was rewarded by his look of relief and a smile that made him seem years younger. She put out of her head all thoughts of going to Westwood that day and reluctantly decided that if she refused him or made excuses, she would never forgive herself. Heart and duty both told her clearly what she ought to do. All the same, she was so dreading the first sight of Linda Fletcher that she was afraid he might notice her agitation, and exclaimed, ‘What unusual houses!’ in order to distract his attention from herself.
‘Yes, no two of them are alike. I wanted somewhere really nice for her to live, quiet, you know, and pretty, and we were lucky enough to find one to let here.’
‘Have you been here long?’
�
��Ever since I came to London.’
Margaret could not make up her mind if it was a relief that no two of the houses were alike, for they were so ugly that it was as well they should not be duplicated, and yet uniformity must have imposed some of the restfulness of monotony. Each house looked as if it had been designed by a border-line gnome. Towers, gables, rustications, lanterns, dormers and leaded panes abounded, and so did angles, bright tiles and horizontal windows, the gnomes having combined Pseudo-Tudo with Lutyens-Functional. At the end of the avenue there were two houses built of small bricks in a plain Georgian style that looked good enough to eat.
‘Those aren’t so pretty,’ said Dick Fletcher, indicating them as he went down a side turning.
Here the houses were smaller, and so madly fanciful, with their gardens full of fuchsias and pink hollyhocks, that they had lost all contact with reality. The scene made Margaret think of the Lollypop house in the opera, Hansel and Gretel, for beyond the gnome-houses the sky was blue as a forget-me-not, and butterflies were fluttering over brilliant flowers still dewy with morning. In the quietness, broken only by the ordinary sounds of a suburban road at nine o’clock in the day, she heard a faint silvery tinkling like water-fairies singing.
Dick Fletcher was smiling. ‘Can you hear Linda’s windbells? She’s got them all over the house. I thought they might get on people’s nerves but no one seems to mind.’
‘It’s a lovely sound,’ said Margaret, nervously biting her lips.
‘Linda loves them. She’s very fond of music, too. Here we are,’ and he pushed open a little blue gate of fanciful design.
The icily sweet noise of the wind-bells was loud here, and Margaret could see the long strings of painted glass dangling at every window. She followed him up a stone path, between two miniature lawns of grass that really were smooth and green as velvet; in the middle of one was a little pool with two golden fish poised between the dark stems of a budding water-lily, and on the other a bird-bath where some sparrows were drinking and splashing. All was bright, doll-like, delicate, as if nothing ugly or disorderly were ever allowed to intrude here. The name of the house hung above the front door in gold letters. It was Westwood.
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