Dear Hugo

by Molly Clavering

  I thought it was really very sweet of him, and Atty was immensely amused.

  “You’ve made a hit with monsieur,” he hissed much too loudly, as after more compliments we went out into the blinding sunshine of the narrow crooked street.

  Can you imagine the manager of a British hotel making such a gesture? I felt cheered and much readier to go sight-seeing than I had a few minutes earlier.

  Not that the most enormous bouquets of carnations could make up for having to say Good-bye to you, Hugo. I suppose as one grows older it gets harder and harder to part from a friend, and your leave seems to have passed in a flash. However, I do not mean to write in a moping dismal strain, for nothing can take away those four months which we all enjoyed so much, when you were at Corseburnhead and we met every day. I only wanted to let you know that we—Atty and I—are missing you. Northern Rhodesia seems very far off, even though you are making the return trip so swiftly by air. You must have left Rome on the first lap of your journey five or six hours ago, for we have dined, and Atty has retired to bed replete, while I am sitting in my room next door to his, starting my letter to you by the light of the extraordinarily feeble French electricity—a tiny bulb hanging very far over-head near the high ceiling. How in the world do Frenchwomen sew or even mend? Perhaps they accomplish it all by daylight?

  It was an inspiration on your part, Hugo, to arrange to fly back to Nairobi, and so to have those extra days with Atty and me here in Angers. The pleasure of wandering about this beautiful and picturesque old town has been doubled for me by your being here too.

  I don’t think it would be unfair to tell you—and I know you will be amused to learn—that Atty was just a little afraid your ideas might be “too grand” for us! But once he had seen you strolling along the quays under the green shade of the horse-chestnuts, placidly munching crusty bites which you pulled off a petit pain, he was completely reassured!

  Now that I have settled down to write to you my mind keeps on harking back to days in Ravenskirk. Instead of giving you a vivid description of Ponts-de-Cé and all the things we saw on the way there and back, I want to remind you of winter walks in the bare woods round Ladymount, when the low sun striking between the branches gilded the bleached winter grass at our feet. It is absurd that I should have this nostalgic longing for short, chill winter days when the soft night air of spring in Anjon, still warm from the hot sun, is drifting in through the open, uncurtained window of my room. Absurd, and contrary, too, and yet I feel the crunch of frostbound meadow underfoot more vividly than the horrible river-gravel with which they seem to prefer to strew the side-paths here, and over which Atty and I painfully made our homeward way earlier this evening. Instead of the warm smells, part flower-scent, part rich cooking, and part, I’m afraid, inadequate drains, my nose is prickled by sharp freezing air.

  All this is really caused by you, Hugo. If you had not enveigled me away from my proper housewifely activities and taken me for long tramps over hill and dale, I should not be remembering them now, when I ought to be enjoying the present without all these backward glances. Or I should not be remembering them if it had not been that you turned out to be even more of a friend in real life than on paper. The whole truth is that I am missing the person I have been more in sympathy with than anyone I have ever known, not excepting Ivo. Somehow when you are madly in love there does not always seem to be any room left for friendship. Ivo meant men when he spoke of friends, he had no opinion of friendship as such between a man and a woman. With you I have experienced that wonderful pleasure of kindred tastes and shared interests, of free unemotional liking which was quite new to me when offered by a man.

  Another thing I found so interesting to watch was the new life you seem to infuse into everything—and everyone—at Ravenskirk. It was quite extraordinary. I expected it to make a great difference to me, having you there, and it did, but I had not looked to see all our acquaintances so stimulated.

  “Hugo is the most vital person I know,” Mrs. Keith said to me on one occasion. “He comes into a room like a breath of hill air on a sultry summer’s day.”

  You did Mrs. Keith a great deal of good. She did not seem to find the winter nearly so long and trying this year as usual. I am not making this up, or letting my imagination run away with me, as you more than once accused me of doing. Several people commented on her vigour and cheerfulness—even Aliss Bonaly, who appeared to find it slightly disappointing! At least, she gave the most terrific sniff when she said how well and lively Mrs. Keith was.

  All our mild festivities, too, were much gayer, I thought—though I will admit that this may have been largely my own point of view because your being there made them so for me. But Sylvia Currie, whom no one could ever accuse of being over-imaginative, said artlessly that Hugo always managed to make even a dull party go with a bang. And Catherine, I know, felt the same, though naturally she would never babble it out the way Sylvia does. I wish Cath had come with us on this trip, Hugo. I am sure she would have enjoyed it, and she would have taken the cold air off your departure a little, for me. I can’t think why she suddenly decided to stay at home, after almost making up her mind to come. Her mother wanted her to—but mothers very seldom manage to get what they want where their children are concerned.

  I think I will not write any more for a few days. I feel dull to-night, dull and a little lonely, in spite of dear Atty slumbering so peacefully in the room next to mine. I have just looked in on him. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of writing up his diary, for his cheek was pillowed on its open pages, and a quantity of his inky observations had been transferred to his own face. He will be more than disgusted if he finds on waking that he has blotted this laborious commentary beyond hope of reading it! I lifted his tousled head, removed the diary—also his fountain pen, which had got down under his chin—and laid his head back on the pillows, and he never stirred.

  *

  Our time in Angers is drawing very near its end. We have had wonderful weather, sunny, but never too hot, and have explored the countryside by various local buses and trains. Atty has eaten an astonishing quantity of ice-cream, and sampled all the sickly-sweet sirops, and I have discovered that a tilleul (infusion of lime-flowers served boiling hot in a teapot with a tiny metal basket hanging from the spout) is by far the most thirst-quenching liquid procurable, once I had grown accustomed to its odd rather musty flavour. All this you will be able to read in detail when I send you my diary, which I shall do as soon as I am home again.

  CHAPTER XXII

  MAY, 1953

  The brou-haha of getting Atty off to school is over and I am settling down to—what do you think? A belated spring-cleaning, if you please! Last year Madge and Aunt Nettie did it while we were in France, and the same arrangement was made for this year, but woman proposes and in this case woman disposed. I got home to find that Aunt Nettie, as a result of white-washing her kitchen with all the windows open to a strong north-east wind, and she herself with a heavy cold at the time, had been laid low by a bad chill accompanied by a high temperature. Madge, of course, had to stay at home to look after her; and in any case, as Madge is “expecting”, in local parlance, she cannot do anything but light work.

  For one reason or another—the War, and not having a place of my own—it was a long time since I did any real spring-cleaning, but I soon remembered the routine. Before I started I thought it was going to be a frightful bore having to spend all my time cleaning paint and polishing the glass of picture-frames, but once I had got down to it, it was quite absorbing. I enjoyed seeing the rooms so clean and polished and sparkling, smelling of fresh air and furniture cream, and I felt as if I had been doing something worth while; a totally different feeling from the everyday dusting, which has always seemed to me nothing but taking the dust off one table to put it on to another.

  Madge, who came up from the village as often as she could, was amazed at the results I had achieved.

  “My!” she exclaimed, staring round-eyed. “Ye’
ve done well! It’s never been anything but a clean wee house, but now! Ye could take yer dinner off the floor this minute!”

  “How is Miss Marchbanks?” I asked, when I had discarded my overall and sat down to drink the cup of tea she had made for me.

  “Oh, she’s not very grand,” said Madge. “She just sits in her chair and never heeds what’s going on. It’s not like her at all, and I’m fair worried about her.”

  It certainly did not sound like Aunt Nettie, this lethargic acceptance of things without argument or disapproval, and I was not surprised that Madge should feel worried. But worrying was not good for Madge either, just now, and I felt that something would have to be done to rouse Aunt Nettie. The doctor had said that she was now able to do a little, and that she would only begin to recover her strength by being stirred to activity.

  “And who’s to stir her, I’m sure I don’t know,” Madge ended. “I’d as soon poke a wasp’s byke wi’ my finger as try to stir up Aunt Nettie!”

  I heartily agreed with her, though I did not say so, but I was sure that something would have to be thought up which would rouse Miss Marchbanks.

  An idea occurred to me just as Madge was leaving. “Tell your aunt,” I said carelessly, “That I am going over to Corseburnhead to-morrow to see how they are getting on with putting everything away there. I promised Mr. Jamieson I would. Not that Mrs. Dickie really requires supervision, for she is a splendid worker, and so methodical. Mr. Jamieson was delighted with her. I don’t suppose Miss Marchbanks could be bothered to come, could she? I am having the hotel car, because I want to bring back some things that I am storing at Piper’s Cottage, so if she would care for the run—?”

  “Well, I’ll ask her,” Madge said slowly. “But I doubt she’ll not want to bother.”

  I did not feel nearly so doubtful, for I knew that Madge, in giving my message, would be sure to mention my praises of Mrs. Dickie, and Aunt Nettie would have to be sunk in lethargy to a really dangerous extent if she failed to determine that she would see for herself just how good Mrs. Dickie was at a job in which Aunt Nettie considered she was second to none. . . .

  How nice it is to be right, Hugo, smug though it sounds! Aunt Nettie sent Wee Helen (who is growing far too big now to be called “wee”) up that evening to say that she might as well come with me to Corseburnhead as sit in the house, and would be ready for me if I called for her the following morning. This extremely Aunt-Nettie-ish message cheered me most considerably. If she had sounded at all grateful I should have been really worried about her.

  The expedition did all I had hoped, and more. Mrs. Dickie and Miss Marchbanks met as warily as two strange dogs. I quite expected to see them circling round each other, with their respectable back hair bristling like a dog’s hackles. But Mrs. Dickie, fortunately, is a kindly creature, as you know. After the preliminary stiffness she unbent, and invited Miss Marchbanks to accompany her to one of the bedrooms to see what moths had been doing to the carpet. They went off together, and I sat down on the big chest in the hall and laughed a lot.

  When they came back, they were in beautiful accord, two great minds with one thought. Miss Marchbanks wasted no time.

  “There’s just rather much for Mrs. Dickie to manage herself here,” she announced. “And seeing you’ve done the spring-cleaning at the cottage, I wondered maybe if you could spare me to give her a hand for the next week or two? Madge’ll not be going to Carmichael the noo, it’s too far for her the way she is, and she’ll can do all you’re needing. So if you’re agreeable—”

  Of course I was agreeable. Had I not intended to bring this about? But I took care not to seem enthusiastic, and gave my consent grudgingly enough for Miss Marchbanks to set her whole heart on coming to Corseburnhead.

  “How will you get here?” was my final objection to the scheme. “It’s too long a walk for you.”

  “Postie will bring me in the mail-van,” said Miss Marchbanks, and though I felt pretty certain that this mode of transport was not legal, I imagined Postie would not dare to demur.

  I don’t suppose that Aunt Nettie’s recovery will be long delayed; nor do I expect the doctor to give me any credit for my hand in it!

  *

  Between Atty’s departure for school and the spring-cleaning and stirring up Miss Marchbanks, I have had no time to see any of my friends since I came home from France. Elizabeth would have taken no denial on the telephone, but would have come and routed me out of whatever I was doing, but Elizabeth happens to be extra busy just now, as she is a prominent member of the committee which has been formed to decide upon Ravenskirk’s Coronation celebrations. (I am on one of the sub-committees myself, though so far I have not been asked to do anything except attend a meeting and look at a number of Coronation souvenirs for presentation to the children of the parish.)

  No one else seemed to remember my existence, and I had a curious feeling of being entirely alone on a desert island. So that when a notice came summoning me to the school hall for a grand assembling of all the Coronation sub-committees, I was quite relieved.

  It was an enormous unwieldy meeting, and we sat for a whole beautiful evening thrashing out details, bringing the inevitable dissenters into line, and explaining slowly and patiently some point which had escaped a thick-headed or inattentive member. The executive committee, among whom were Lawrence Whitburn (in the chair), the minister, the headmaster of Ravenskirk school, Elizabeth Drysdale, Mr. Currie and one of the postmen, sat in magnificent apartness behind a large table. The rest of us were huddled on very hard backless benches at a respectful distance, facing them. Mrs. Currie, who was beside me, found time to hiss in my ear, “I’m very glad to see you home again,” during a pause in the proceedings, but otherwise there was no opportunity for conversation. Everyone was tremendously in earnest over the whole affair, and this, which I had expected to find rather ludicrous, was not. It was oddly and in a queer way touchingly impressive.

  “Such a fuss!” someone had said to me as we had been making our way into the hall. “Barring the absence of the Queen and a few peers and bishops, the Coronation might be going to take place in Ravenskirk! It’s ridiculous.”

  I could not agree that it was ridiculous. This eagerness to make an historic occasion memorable, no matter in how small a way, is characteristic of Ravenskirk, and is one of the things which makes it such a pleasant place. True, these celebrations mean a great deal of work for the organisers, but help is always whole-hearted, and there is plenty of it.

  So I listened attentively as the conveners of the various sub-committees reported on the progress made, and felt proud to think that I had helped to choose the medals and mugs which my own committee had decided were the best value for the money put at their disposal.

  Before we left I had promised to help with judging the children’s fancy-dress parade and the decorated lorries, and it was only as we streamed out into the playground, dazzling in the light of the westering sun, that I realised what a very full day Tuesday 2nd June was going to be!

  Elizabeth caught my arm and exclaimed, “So you have actually torn yourself away from your spring-cleaning at last! Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about it from Madge. She was most impressed by your efforts—”

  “Coronation day is going to be much more strenuous than spring-cleaning,” I said. “From planting oak-trees at nine-thirty a.m. to lighting the bonfire at ten-thirty in the evening there doesn’t seem to be a moment to spare.”

  “There certainly won’t be time to go home and prepare and eat meals,” Elizabeth agreed. “Suppose we organise picnic food, Sara? If it does happen to be a lovely day we could eat it in a field and if it’s cold or wet or both, we could eat in in the car.”

  After some discussion with Mrs. Currie and the Whitburns, which sounded remarkably like another committee meeting, we decided that all the cars should be parked together, and passengers and food divided according to space available.

  My brain was reeling with all the things it was being asked to remember, an
d of course I had not brought a note-book and pencil with me.

  “I’ll write them down for you on the way home, if Lawrence will drive at a reasonable speed,” said Joan Whitburn obligingly. “We’ll sit in the back—”

  So as we left the village at a stately pace reminiscent of a funeral, she wrote neatly and quickly on a page of her loose-leaf note-book, putting all the events down in their proper order, just as one would expect her to do.

  “You and I are judging the little girls under five, I believe,” she said. “Their fancy-dresses, I mean—mercifully one is not expected to judge the children themselves!”

  “Oh, good. You will know at once who is best and I shall only have to agree with you,” I said thankfully.

  Lawrence, overhearing this, burst out laughing. His sister, with some indignation, asked what was he laughing at. “Only at Sara’s forecast of judging any competition with you, my dear,” he said. “It is just what it will be like, too. You will make your decisions and stick to them like glue and—”

  “If I think Sara is right of course I shall give up my own opinion,” said Joan.

  “Yes, but you won’t think Sara is right unless she picks the same one that you do—”

  “Well, don’t let us argue about it before we must,” said I hastily. “It will be quite bad enough when the time comes, because every mother will think that her child ought to be first, and we won’t be able to please more than one, or two at most.”

  “You are quite right,” said Joan, giving me my page of instructions. “Put that away and don’t think about it again this evening, and we’ll talk of something entirely different.”

  “Such as?” I asked, folding the paper and putting it in my pocket.

  “Such as—” She darted me a quick sidelong look, and intoned, with a very accurate resemblance to the minister’s sonorous delivery: “‘There is a purrpose of marriage between James Clare Greenhill, bachelor, of the parish of Woodford End and of Joan Whitburn, spinster, of this parish. This is for the firrst, second and thirrd time of asking.’”