“That’s why they have come,” I said. “And I really ought to go and look after them, Madge.”
“See here, I’ll gang ben the hoose an’ gi’e ye a haund,” she said.
“Miss Drysdale is making coffee, I hope—”
“Weel, I’ll can dae the washing-up. I’ve plenty time,” said Madge. “Ma man’s on day-shift, and wee Helen doesna get hame for an ’oor yet.” She would take no denial, but marched off round the corner of the house to the back-door.
I led my party into the drawing-room where we found Catherine setting a tray of cups and saucers, coffee-pot and milk-jug, on a table.
“You’ve been very quick,” I said to her under cover of the general conversation.
“Hush!” she whispered rather guiltily. “I filled the kettle with almost boiling water from the tap!”
“Oh, Cath!”
“The coffee is perfectly all right, you’ll see,” she assured me. And it was.
At least, it must have been, for everyone had two cups and showed no disposition to leave. They were all so deep in absorbing talk that except to say vaguely, “Oh—er—thanks,” when I offered more coffee, or another biscuit, or a cigarette, they paid no attention to me. I might not have been in the room, and could not help thinking that their conception of cheering me up was a curious one—unless the mere fact of having to entertain them was supposed to be cheering in itself?
Retreating to an empty corner, I smoked a quiet cigarette and watched my uninvited guests as they talked. Miss Bonaly was laying down the law in her usual manner to Colonel Greenhill, who was listening to her with such an air of courteous attention that I felt sure his thoughts were miles away. On the sofa, side by side, sat Joan Whitburn and Mrs. Kilmartin, discussing clothes while Sylvia, perched on the arm, was obviously taking notes for her own future use. Catherine stood by the table where the coffee-tray had been set, in one of her unconsciously graceful poses, idly watching the sugar run out of the spoon she held into the silver sugar-basin as if it were of the greatest importance. A faint smile curved her lips, her thick lashes showed like golden-brown fans on her cheeks, and as I looked at her, she raised her eyes and made some remark to Lawrence, who leaned against the wall beside her. It struck me that I must have been mistaken in thinking that Catherine had been looking pale and tired; this morning she was vivid, almost brilliant both in looks and manner. Either even the short time she had been at home resting had done her a great deal of good, or there was something else—but I expect it was just the result of being at Carmichael with her people.
I was beginning to wonder if they intended to go home at all, when Madge opened the door and entered with a tray in her hand. By the simple expedient of taking the cups, fortunately empty by this time for the most part, from people’s grasps and piling them on her tray, she conveyed the impression that it was time for guests to leave. They came to with a sort of start, there was much glancing at watches and several surprised exclamations that my dear it can’t be so late! and they began to make a move.
“Thank you so much for coming to cheer me up,” I could not resist saying, as I shook hands with them all in turn at the door.
Miss Bonaly took this remark at its face value as her due and gave me a smile compounded of a great deal of disapproval and a very slight graciousness; but the Whitburns and Colonel Greenhill laughed in rather a shame-faced way, and Miss Whitburn said it really was rather a disgrace to descend on me in such a body and then waste my whole morning with their idle chatter.
“‘The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold’—what?” exclaimed Colonel Greenhill, delighted at his own readiness in quotation.
“Well, don’t imagine that you and Lawrence are ‘gleaming in purple and gold,’ Toby,” was Miss Whitburn’s lightning retort. “You both look too disreputable for words. Come along home, we’ll be late for lunch.”
Sylvia, bless her innocence, thanked me artlessly for the lovely party, adding that she had needed cheering up, as she was off to “that beastly old Dough School” in two days.
Mrs. Kilmartin was silent, as she always is. She smiled at Catherine and me and slipped away next-door.
When they had all gone I looked at Catherine.
“There isn’t much time to make our lunch, is there?” I said. “If we are going for a walk I’m afraid we’d better just have sandwiches.”
“I feel so full of coffee that I don’t need much,” she said with a laugh. “It was all rather fun, wasn’t it? A surprise party often is . . . but, oh dear! I’d forgotten—what about the washing-up?”
I explained that Madge had offered to do it, and at that instant Madge herself appeared.
“It’s all done and put past. Lucky I’d got my dinner going before I came away up here,” she said severely. Can it be possible that there is a likeness to her Aunt Nettie latent in Madge and only now beginning to show itself? I almost expected her to sniff à la Miss Marchbanks, but she didn’t.
“I’ve run the rest of yer cold joint through the mincer an’ made a shepherd’s pie with mashed potatoes on the top for the two of you. It’s browning in the oven now. See and not let it burn.”
So Catherine and I had an adequate though far from exciting meal, and were able to set off on our walk in good time.
Oddly enough, the party did cheer me up!
CHAPTER XVII
EARLY OCTOBER, 1952
The cheering-up programme has been maintained at quite a dizzy pace. Invitations to dinner, to lunch, to a quiet Sunday evening supper, to bridge and tea, to tea without bridge, to see a meet of the county foxhounds at Bartram’s Bridge, to morning coffee at the Crescent Tea-rooms, have been poured upon me by the kind people in and near Ravenskirk. The difficulty was to decide which I could refuse without offending the inviters; and once again I wished very heartily that dear Elizabeth had not temporarily taken leave of her senses and sent the fiery cross round all her neighbours to rally them in support of me.
“Boiling oil isn’t bad enough for what I’d like to do to you,” I told her grimly, when I happened to meet her one morning outside the baker’s.
“Why, what’s the matter? What have I done?” she asked, raising her eyebrows with a most provoking air of innocent surprise.
“Do you realise that I have been asked out fifteen times in ten days?” I asked. “And you needn’t look like that, Elizabeth. You know as well as I do that you egged people on and stirred them up to invite me to all these tea-parties and things.”
“Egged on? Stirred up? You sound as if I’d been making a Christmas pudding,” was all she said.
“You’ve been making an absolute hotch-potch of my nice quiet life,” I said.
“It’s good for you, Sara. You would only have sat at home and moped when Atty went back to school.”
“But if I wanted to sit at home and mope, why shouldn’t I?” I said. “Not that I would have moped. I never do. You must have gone mad, Elizabeth.”
“Not a bit of it. I’ve provided you with a perfectly good counter-irritant,” she replied complacently. “And after all, you didn’t have to accept more than a few of the invitations—”
“True,” said I with bitter meekness. “And think what a gorgeous time I’d have had trying to make up my mind which people would be least likely to take offence when they heard that I had accepted their friends’ invitation and refused their own! Counter-irritant is just the right word for it.”
“Oh!” For a moment Elizabeth looked a trifle disconcerted, then she began to laugh, and after a moment I joined in, though unwillingly.
“I’m sorry, Sara dear!” she gasped. “But it is funny, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought of all the people who would be offended, I must admit!”
“Exquisitely humorous,” I said drily, when I had stopped laughing. “I thought you hadn’t considered that aspect of it.”
“Well, don’t let us stand here on the pavement, which is damp and cold. Come to the Crescent Tea-rooms and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.�
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“Thank you,” I retorted with gloomy triumph. “I am on my way there now to have coffee with Miss Bonaly and Mrs. and Miss Garvald.”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Surely you didn’t have to accept that invitation?”
“Don’t be silly, Elizabeth,” I said crossly. “It was the only one I knew I couldn’t refuse. Miss Bonaly dislikes me quite enough without my giving her a real reason to do so. Good-bye for now. I must go, I am late as it is.”
“But, Sara, wait a minute! I never said anything to the Bonaly, honestly. I wouldn’t have wished a coffee-party with her onto you for the world—”
“Girls! Have you any idea what a noise you are making? The whole of Ravenskirk is wondering why you are quarrelling in the street.” Catherine’s voice broke in, Catherine herself, just coming out of the baker’s with a basket of loaves and scones, looked at us with amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Blame your mother,” I said.
“But what is it all about?” demanded Catherine.
“Oh, Cath!” Elizabeth was divided between mirth and dismay. “I’ve gone and been and landed poor darling Sara with a coffee-party given by Miss Bonaly!”
“Mother, I told you so!” said Catherine. “There, I’m sorry, I know it’s the most maddening thing to say, but really, you asked for it, and I simply could not resist it! Poor Sara, what a shame!”
“Good-bye again,” I said sadly. “I can’t wait another second.”
“I know. We’ll come with you,” Catherine said suddenly.
“But we haven’t been asked—” began Elizabeth.
“I suppose we can go and have a cup of coffee in the Crescent if we like?” said Catherine. “Miss Bonaly hasn’t bought up the whole place. We’ll sit in a corner, Sara, and give you moral support.”
“As long as you don’t make me laugh,” I said doubtfully, and we all went across the wide street together to the low doorway of the Crescent Tea-rooms.
I think this is new since your Ravenskirk days, Hugo, but you will not make the mistake of supposing that the “Crescent” has any connection with Turkey and hence with coffee! Of course it is named for the most noticeable part of the crest belonging to the Border family which in days long ago owned Ravenskirk and most of the surrounding country. I had only once been in it, when I first came here, and finding the coffee weak and the service bad, never went back.
Inside it was very dark, for the gloomy effect produced by a low ceiling and small windows was deepened by heavy curtains draped so that they excluded any light which might otherwise have struggled into the room. A hum of conversation rose above the clinking of teaspoons and china, and there was such a powerful smell of coffee that I had hopes of being given a reasonably drinkable cup. After even the mild dove-grey light of the autumn day, I was quite unable to distinguish my hostesses, but stood blinking like an owl and being banged into by the waitress as she fluttered to and fro with fresh cups for her thirsty patronesses.
“They’re over there, in the far corner behind that potted geranium,” Catherine hissed in my ear, and with a final blink I moved uncertainly towards a secluded table above which I could see three hats nodding together with tremendous vigour; hats which could only belong to Miss Bonaly, Mrs. Garvald, and her daughter Kitty.
“Ah, here you are at last! We had almost given you up!” cried Miss Bonaly with alarming playfulness as I reached them. “Miss Wilkie, another cup of your delicious coffee, please, for Miss Monteith. And some more biscuits.”
Miss Wilkie, a wispy creature who did not look solid enough to have given anyone the hearty bump I had recently suffered from her, produced the coffee and biscuits in her own good time.
“Such a gifted, cultured woman,” said Miss Bonaly to me in a loud aside, as a cup was set splashily down on the table in front of me. “Artistic, too—the lampshades—all her own work.”
I could well believe it: one glance at them was enough; so I turned my eyes hastily from them and gazing Miss Bonaly and her friends in the faces—they at least owed nothing to Art—apologised for my lateness.
“The shops were all rather full,” I said. “And I met the Drysdales.” For I saw no reason why Elizabeth should not be given her share of blame.
“Delightful people,” Miss Bonaly said. “A pity the girl is so much less good-looking than her mother, but that is often the way.” She darted a sharp glance at the Garvalds—evidently not even her so-called friends are immune from her tongue.
“Do you think so?” I murmured. “Of course Elizabeth must have been exceptionally pretty as a girl, but I think Catherine most attractive, and she has a delightful manner, especially with older people.”
“I cannot say I have noticed that,” Miss Bonaly answered at once. “Have you, Mrs. Garvald? Or you, Kitty?”
Mrs. Garvald, whose attention was on the plate of biscuits, smiled affably as she rapidly took the largest and sweetest. Miss Garvald said gloomily that girls were not what they used to be. They always seemed to be running after men nowadays. I could not think of a more unfair criticism of Catherine Drysdale, but I had made up my mind to be as uncontroversial as possible, so I said nothing.
“Not only girls,” said Miss Bonaly, with such a weight of hidden meaning that her voice sounded as though it came from the soles of her sensible shoes.
Mrs. Garvald looked at her in a bright enquiring way. Miss Garvald made a sort of sighing, groaning noise to indicate both agreement and disapproval; a very difficult feat, but she accomplished it.
In a mad attempt to change the subject to something less personal, I said: “Do tell me how Miss Wilkie makes those charming lamp-shades? She must put a great deal of work into them—” But I might just as well not have spoken, for the three hats all came forward as one, until they nearly met above the middle of the rickety little table, and lampshades were obviously of no interest to them any longer.
There was no room for my head to join them even if I had been longing to, so I leant back and sipped my rather nasty coffee, and wondered how much longer I should have to remain in the Crescent Tea-room.
It was impossible to see Elizabeth and Catherine, in the thick haze of cigarette-smoke; probably they had gone and left me to my fate, I thought; but at least, by leaning back as far as I could, I was able to avoid hearing what my hostesses were saying. An odd word now and then reached me, usually a name, and a name that I recognised. I defy anyone, without actually putting her fingers to her ears, not to listen to something said about an acquaintance. The familiar name strikes its own note in one’s memory, conjuring up its owner to the mind’s eye, and almost unconsciously one is listening. I kept on determining that I would not listen, that if they chose to mention Lawrence Whitburn and his sister, or Mrs. Kilmartin, or the Drysdales, they could not possibly be saying anything interesting, and still I found myself wondering what they were talking about. To give them their due, I believe in their zest for gossip they had entirely forgotten that I was sitting there with them. At least, when in desperation I got up, pushing my chair back rather noisily over the artistic linoleum, and said, “I am very sorry, Miss Bonaly, but I really must be going now, and thank you all so much—” the Garvalds gave audible gasps of dismay.
“Dear me! Quite forgot! Such great friends of yours, Miss Monteith!” Miss Garvald looked quite agitated as she made these disjointed remarks. Miss Bonaly, that woman of iron, showed not a trace of discomposure.
“I fail to see why you should work yourself into a state, Kitty,” she said. “There is no reason why we should not—in a perfectly friendly way, of course, discuss our neighbours.” She turned to me. “And you are such a friend of the Drysdales, and I believe, of Major Whitburn’s, Miss Monteith, no doubt you will be able to tell us if it is true?”
“If what is true, Miss Bonaly?” I asked.
“The—er—the little matter we have just been talking about,” said she.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you were talking about,” said I.
&nb
sp; Miss Bonaly’s beady eye said “O you liar!” quite plainly, but since she could not very well put this into words, she was forced to explain.
“We hear,” she said, “that Catherine Drysdale is greatly interested in Major Whitburn. It would be rather a pity, don’t you think?”
I stood looking down at their avid faces.
“If it is so, I have neither noticed any signs of it, nor heard anything to bear it out,” I said. “Major Whitburn knows the Drysdales very well. He may be ‘interested’ in Catherine, if you like to put it that way”—(they had put it the other way round but I was not going to have that!)—“Why shouldn’t he be? She is a most attractive young creature. I can’t think why you should say it would be a pity.”
There was a silence. For once I really believe that Miss Bonaly could find nothing to say. It was Miss Garvard, finally, who piped up, just as I was about to say my farewells again.
“But—Miss Monteith—then what about Mrs. Kilmartin?”
It didn’t make sense to me at all, but rather than stand there discussing my friends with these harpies, I only said baldly, “I don’t know. Thank you so much. Good morning,” and fled, making my way recklessly among the little tables and narrowly escaping being bumped into by Miss Wilkie all over again.
Outside I stood breathing the fresh air in great gulps, and vowing that on no consideration would I ever enter the Crescent again, even if it meant giving up coffee altogether.
It was wonderful how quickly the change from that stuffy interior revived me. After muttering: “Horrible old vultures!” I felt much better, and started to walk home at a good pace. Elizabeth, tooting madly, overtook me just as I reached the turning to Piper’s Cottage.
“You might have waited. I’d have given you a lift,” she said reproachfully.
I noticed that Catherine was not with her.
Dear Hugo Page 17
