At last I gave Daisy a little push. ‘You and Den can go out into the garden. It would be fun to explore, wouldn’t it?’ I said.
‘But, Mums, I don’t want——’
‘You heard,’ muttered Den. ‘We’ve got to be good.’
They went out together through the french windows and disappeared.
‘What delightful children!’ said Zilla insincerely. ‘You must be proud of them, Kit.’
I smiled vaguely and said nothing.
‘They aren’t a bit alike, are they?’ said Zilla. ‘The boy looks very delicate. You should give him malt.’
‘Den is rather small for his age,’ I admitted.
‘And so pale! Really, Kit, you ought to do something about it. Why don’t you take him to a doctor and have him overhauled. My doctor is quite marvellous, I’m sure he would discover what was the matter with the child.’
This enraged me—goodness knows why. ‘Oh, Den’s all right,’ I said casually.
Zilla was peering out of the window. ‘I hope they won’t do any damage, Kit. They won’t pick the flowers, will they?’
I was pretty certain they wouldn’t pick the flowers, but I took a chair near the window so that I could keep an eye on them while I listened to Zilla talking. Presently I saw Alec coming from the direction of the garage; he joined the children and they went away together and disappeared from view. Obviously there was no need to bother about them any more.
Zilla was telling me about the arrangements for her holiday with the Carews; they were going in August, taking their car and making an extensive tour of the Loire valley. She had a book about the châteaux and showed me the pictures.
‘I like to know about the places I’m going to visit before I go. It makes it more interesting,’ she explained.
I agreed with this wholeheartedly—and looked at the pictures—and did my best to banish my envious feelings. Envy is wicked, I told myself firmly. Besides, you aren’t really envious of Zilla. You’ll be perfectly happy at the cottage with the children. You wouldn’t change places with Zilla, would you? I had just made up my mind that nothing on earth would induce me to change places with Zilla when the gong rang loudly. Immediately afterwards Daisy appeared, walking across the lawn with her hands full of sweet-peas; she was followed by Den and Alec in earnest conversation.
Zilla was intent upon her pictures so she did not see the little party until they were coming up the veranda steps. Then she saw Daisy.
‘Who said you could pick sweet-peas!’ she exclaimed angrily.
‘We didn’t,’ said Daisy. ‘Mums said we weren’t to, so Mr. Maclaren picked them for us. He said they belonged to him.’
‘Alec!’ cried Zilla. ‘Alec, what are you doing here? I thought you had gone to Muirfield.’
‘I decided not to go.’
‘I’d no idea you intended to be home for lunch!’
‘I’m sorry, Zilla. I didn’t think you would mind.’
‘Oh well, it doesn’t matter. There’s plenty of food.’
‘He brought us in his car!’ said Daisy. ‘It was lovely. We went like lightning; we passed all the other cars on the road.’
Zilla turned to me. ‘I told you to come in the bus.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We intended to, of course, but your brother very kindly gave us a lift in his car.’
‘It was ever so much nicer,’ put in Den.
Zilla’s eyes flashed. ‘Alec!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘How did you know they were coming?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Alec in soothing tones.
‘It isn’t all right. You’ve no business to upset my arrangements. How did you know they were coming?’ she repeated.
‘Ellen happened to mention it,’ replied Alec uncomfortably.
‘Ellen? It wasn’t her business to——’
‘Don’t worry, Zilla. It happened quite naturally. I was just leaving the house this morning and Ellen was there seeing me off, as she always does. She said you were expecting visitors to lunch—Mrs. Wentworth and the children—and asked if there were any strawberries in the garden. There aren’t, of course, it’s too early for strawberries. I advised her to make meringues.’
‘Good for you!’ cried Daisy ecstatically.
‘That’s how it happened,’ said Alec.
‘It was most inconsiderate of you,’ declared Zilla. ‘You know perfectly well that it upsets me to have all my arrangements altered at the last minute. I told Kit to come in the bus. She has come in the bus before—it’s quite easy. What induced you to bring her?’
‘I was there, so I thought——’
‘You told me you were going to play golf.’
‘I changed my mind, that’s all,’ said Alec. ‘Let’s go and have lunch, shall we?’
‘I must put my sweet-peas in water,’ said Daisy. ‘Where can I do it, please?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Alec. He took her hand and they went away together. I followed with Den for his hands were dirty, and I wanted him to wash. Near the front door there was a little flower-room with a sink which suited our purposes.
Alec said in a low voice, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Katherine. It’s all my fault, of course—I should have phoned—but I never thought for a moment she would be upset.’
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.’
‘I expect it’s because she wanted to have you to herself. I’ll disappear after lunch . . . but I’ll run you home whenever you like. Just say the word.’
‘We’ll go home in the bus.’
‘No, I can easily——’
‘It will be better,’ I said firmly.
By this time the children had washed their hands and Daisy had put her flowers in a bowl of water, so we went into the dining-room where Zilla was waiting for us. I saw that she was still cross so I talked feverishly about Dinwell and reminded her of a match we had played against St. Leonard’s. We had been beaten of course—that was inevitable—but Zilla had made a very creditable fifty and carried her bat.
The treatment was successful. She actually smiled.
After that everything went quite smoothly: Alec began to look less miserable and the children behaved well.
There was no time to think about the curious little scene until late that night when the children were in bed (Alec had disappeared after lunch, murmuring that he had some letters to write; I had chatted to Zilla while the children played in the garden and we had returned home in the bus), but late that night as I sat by the window making a summer frock for Daisy, I thought it over seriously. Why had Zilla been so furiously angry? Alec had been of the opinion that it was because he had come home unexpectedly to lunch, but my opinion was different. Zilla had been angry because he had picked us up and brought us to The Cedars in his car. I don’t know why I was sure of this; but I was sure.
*
3
Some days later Alec called at the flat. It was eleven o’clock and I was getting ready to go out, but I asked him in and we had coffee together. He had had a letter from Simon and had brought it to show me.
‘Wasn’t it good of him to write?’ said Alec. ‘It’s a delightful letter; I was sure you would like to see it.’
There was nothing in the letter that I didn’t know already—Simon was a good correspondent—but I was pleased that he had written to thank Alec for all the trouble he had taken during the holidays.
‘You see he’s in his house eleven,’ said Alec. ‘They haven’t chosen the first eleven yet. They’ll be fools if they don’t choose Simon.’
Alec looked so worried that I almost laughed. ‘We must hope for the best,’ I said. ‘After all he’s only sixteen; it’s a bit young, isn’t it? He’s sure to be in it next year.’
‘I want him to be in it this year,’ said Alec.
There was a short silence while I poured out the coffee.
‘I was wondering if you were doing anything special on Saturday,’ said Alec as he took his cup. ‘I thought you might like to come for a spin in
the car. We could go to Moffat and have lunch; it’s a beautiful road up the Tweed valley. I just thought . . . perhaps . . . you might like it.’
‘It sounds lovely,’ I said. ‘The only thing is——’
‘Simon said you were usually free on Saturdays.’
‘Yes, usually,’ I told him. ‘But next Saturday I promised Aunt Liz to go to lunch with her. I have to go occasionally: I can’t always dump the children on her and get away.’
‘Well, what about the following Saturday? Would that be all right?’
‘I thought you always played golf on Saturdays.’
‘Yes, but I’d rather take you for a run. Do come, Katherine. I’m sure you would enjoy it.’
I hesitated.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Alec.
‘It’s Zilla. I don’t think she would like you to take me.’
‘She needn’t know anything about it.’
‘That seems—rather queer.’
‘Oh, I know it sounds queer, but I can’t tell Zilla everything. I must have some sort of life of my own. I simply must,’ said Alec earnestly. ‘You see Zilla doesn’t like me to go anywhere without her—except to Muirfield which bores her stiff—she doesn’t like me to have friends of my own; she doesn’t like it when I go about and meet people or do anything different from my usual routine. For instance the other night one of my partners, Andrew Forth, asked me to dinner—he’s a very good fellow with a charming wife. When I told Zilla I was going she was terribly upset because they hadn’t included her in the invitation. But it wasn’t a party or anything. Andrew had asked me because he wanted to discuss some business matters. I explained that to Zilla but she wouldn’t listen, she wanted me to ring up and say I couldn’t go . . . but I wanted to go, so I went. When I got home Zilla was very ill.’
‘Very ill!’ I echoed.
‘Yes. She was lying in bed. She looked dreadful. She was in a sort of coma. Her eyes were wide open and staring but she didn’t seem to recognise me at all. I was so alarmed that I wanted to ring up the doctor . . . but she wouldn’t let me.’
I could not help wondering how she had prevented Alec from ringing up the doctor when she was in a coma. ‘Wasn’t Ellen there?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but Ellen hasn’t much sympathy with Zilla.’
I hadn’t much sympathy either.
‘You understand, don’t you?’ said Alec anxiously. ‘If I were to give in to Zilla, and do everything she wants, life wouldn’t be worth living. If I take my own way it upsets her and makes her ill, so it’s better not to tell her things, isn’t it?’
Alec’s problem required serious consideration. I said slowly, ‘Of course it would be ridiculous to give in to her and let her rule your life—why should you?—but if I were you I should take a strong line. Say what you’re going to do, and do it.’
‘How can I!’ he exclaimed. ‘If you had seen her lying there, in a sort of coma! And it has happened before, several times. She gets upset so easily—you saw that the other day at lunch—and her nerves go all to pieces. The doctor told her she might die some day; that’s what frightens me.’
I felt inclined to say that we shall all die some day. ‘Did the doctor tell you that?’ I asked.
‘He told Zilla. I haven’t seen him. Why do you ask?’
‘Because it’s a funny thing for a doctor to tell a nervous patient—that’s all. Alec, why don’t you let her take a flat in London? That’s what she wants, isn’t it?’
He gazed at me in absolute astonishment. ‘Let her?’ he said. ‘I’ve done my best to persuade her to do it. I went the length of asking a friend of mine to find a suitable flat. It isn’t easy, of course, but he’s in the business and he managed to find two. Zilla wouldn’t even look at them. She had a frightful attack of nerves and said I wanted to get rid of her. She was in bed for three days.’
There were various things I could have said—and wanted to say—but what was the use of saying them? Instead, I gave him another cup of coffee and promised to go to Moffat with him on Saturday week . . . if possible.
‘Good!’ exclaimed Alec, smiling happily. ‘Splendid! Let’s hope it will be a lovely day.’
‘If possible,’ I repeated warningly.
‘What does that mean, Katherine?’
‘It means I’m a mother, that’s all.’
Chapter Nine
When you are busy the days pass and quickly lengthen into weeks. It was the end of June now and Edinburgh was looking lovely, with lilac and laburnum and hawthorn flowering in all the gardens. I had promised to go to Moffat with Alec if possible but there seemed to be a sort of fate militating against the expedition. One Saturday Den was in bed with a cold, another Saturday Aunt Liz was obliged to go to Glasgow to attend a conference inaugurated by one of her charitable societies; yet another Saturday was quite impossible because Daisy’s dancing class was having a display and Daisy was taking part in a Parasol Dance.
During this time I saw Alec quite often, he called in to see me about one thing or another, principally to ask for news of Simon.
One afternoon I was out shopping; I did not hurry back as I knew Aunt Liz was coming to tea at the flat and would look after the children. They were having tea together when I came in; Aunt Liz, her back as straight as a ramrod and her glasses perched upon her nose in their usual precarious fashion, the twins lounging with their elbows on the table. They were laughing so uproariously that they did not hear me come in. I stood and looked at them in amusement . . . Aunt Liz would never have allowed me to behave like that when I was a child!
Aunt Liz saw me first. ‘Oh, Kit, there you are!’ she exclaimed, raising her voice to be heard above the noise. ‘There was a telegram for you.’
‘A telegram? What was it about?’
‘We don’t know what it was about,’ said Den.
‘It was silly nonsense,’ cried Daisy.
‘Be quiet, children,’ said Aunt Liz. ‘I can’t hear myself think. Kit, listen, I took the telegram and wrote it on the pad. I don’t know what it means but I asked the girl three times so it must be right.’
‘“What I tell you three times is true,”’ said Den solemnly.
I took the pad and looked at it. The telegram had been despatched from Newcastle. There was only one word in the message—‘blackbird.’
‘Goodness, what can have happened!’ I exclaimed.
‘Don’t you understand it?’ asked Aunt Liz anxiously.
‘No. I mean why is he coming?’
‘Who is coming?’
‘Simon, of course. Something must have happened. Why is he coming home in the middle of the term? And what on earth is he doing at Newcastle?’
‘How do you know he’s coming?’
‘Oh, it’s from an old song called “Bye-bye Blackbird.” Simon used to sing it in his bath. I’ve forgotten how it goes, but it means he’s coming home tonight.’
‘Why on earth couldn’t he send a sensible message?’ demanded Aunt Liz.
‘Perhaps he hadn’t enough money,’ I said.
*
2
It was very late when he arrived. When I had kissed him and had emerged breathless from his bear’s hug he stood back and looked at me.
‘I had to see you,’ he said.
‘Simon, why? What’s the matter?’
‘I had to see you,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry I’m so frightfully late but I couldn’t help it. I started at six o’clock this morning——’
‘Simon! Did something happen to the train?’
‘I didn’t come by train. I walked as far as the main road and got a lift in a long-distance lorry. We didn’t come straight to Edinburgh—he had to pick up loads at different places—that’s why I’m so late. I hadn’t enough money to come by train, besides——’
‘Simon!’ I cried in dismay. ‘You didn’t just——’
‘I didn’t do a bunk—I’m not as crazy as all that. I went to Mr. Talbot and said I had to see you. At first he was a bit sticky a
bout it so I showed him the letter and explained. Then he took me to the Head and I had to explain all over again—and he said I could go. He’s awfully human, you know, and I think he saw I was pretty desperate. I was desperate,’ said Simon frankly. ‘I’d made up my mind to come whether Mr. Desborough gave me permission or not.’
I gazed at him in amazement.
‘Could I have some food?’ he asked. ‘I mean if it isn’t too late. I’ve had nothing all day except a cup of coffee and a bun when we stopped at Newcastle. You see, I hadn’t much money. Mark lent me what he could, but I wanted to tip the lorry driver, he was an awfully decent fellow, so——’
‘It’s all ready,’ I said. ‘But you’d better wash first.’
He held out his hands. ‘Yes, they are a bit dirty. That lorry——’
‘And your face too,’ I called as he went out.
His hands seemed much larger. They were almost a man’s hands, I thought, as I hurried to heat up the soup . . . and his wrists were quite thick and bony. Funny how quickly they grow! It did not seem long since his wrists had been thinner than mine, and much more delicate. Simon was almost a man, but he had gone to wash when I told him as if he had been seven years old. My first anxiety—that he had run away from school—had been put at rest but it had been replaced by another anxiety. There must be something seriously wrong if Mr. Desborough had allowed him to come.
‘Look!’ said Simon, holding out his hands. ‘I gave them a good scrubbing—and my face too. Glory, what a feast!’
‘Sit down and eat it,’ I said. ‘Here’s some hot soup to begin with.’
He sat down and started on the ‘feast.’
Now that he had washed and had brushed his hair I saw that he was very pale and there were blue shadows beneath his eyes.
‘You’re not ill?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Goodness no, just a bit tired, that’s all. I’ve been on that rackety lorry all day—and I haven’t been sleeping well.’
‘Not sleeping well?’
‘Thinking,’ he explained.
Obviously he was hungry—quite ravenous in fact—so I waited with what patience I could until he had demolished a large plateful of cold tongue and potato salad and several slices of brown bread and butter. After that the pace slowed down and he was ready to talk. I poured out his coffee with plenty of milk and sugar in it and said, ‘Well, what’s it all about?’
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 7
