Men and Angels

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Our home used to be near there in the old days,” said Aunt Anne. “We knew Colin extremely well. We always say he was brought up with us.”

  “But bless m’soul—the fellow’s round about my own age,” said the General in bewilderment. “Brought up with you—he must be a generation ahead.”

  “My father coached him—he came to our house when he was nearing his twenties, and he used to put us both in a wheelbarrow and shut us in the toolshed,” explained Aunt Hester. “He came back year after year for many years after my father’s death. We were very fond of him.”

  “He was a good chap, Colin,” mused the General, lost in the past. “Pity about that—”

  “Yes, that was an unfortunate marriage.”

  “You knew her too, did you?”

  “My sister knew her better than I did—she was charming; but it was an unfortunate case of what’s now known as incompatibles. They couldn’t get on together, that was all.”

  “Yes—a shame. A great pity,” said the General.

  “Wrecked his life, in a way. He stayed with me a good deal after his wife’s death.” He paused and, seeing Richard’s eye on him, cleared his throat.

  “Your niece is a very charming girl, if I may say so,” he said.

  Aunt Hester bowed.

  “She’s an unusual girl, too,” went on the General. “She looks like one of the few who’ll take advice from their elders.”

  “Young people don’t need advice any more,” said Aunt Hester calmly, “and my sister and I seldom give it. The most one can do is what we’ve just finished doing here—clearing up the mess.”

  “Those girls leave a mess?” enquired the General, shocked.

  “Mess? It was some days before I could draw a breath without feeling that I was filling my lungs with the dust of years.”

  “Shocking,” said the General. “Let my own house once, and made the mistake of not leaving the servants. Came back to squalor—I assure you, squalor. People of note, people of rank, people of prominence, they were, but I never thought the same of them after that. Squalor.”

  “That’s the word I’ve been looking for,” said Aunt Hester. “And the cobwebs in the kitchen—one can possibly excuse them elsewhere, but in the kitchen—”

  “Great Scott! And girls like those, too. Well brought up, well educated. What do they teach them?” asked the General.

  “Well, I—” began Richard.

  “You may well ask,” said Aunt Anne. “If you studied the literature in this flat, you’d think these girls never thought of anything but crime.”

  “Crime!”

  “Extraordinary, isn’t it? Rae tells me that they don’t really read them—what does that mean, do you think?”

  “Do forgive me,” broke in Richard, “but—”

  “You’ve got it looking pretty ship-shape,” said the General, looking round with approval. “I’ve never been up here before, but I’m certain they won’t recognise it when they get back.”

  “Would you like to look over it?” said Aunt Hester, rising.

  “I’d like to, very much. Looks such a small sort of place for the enormous rent they pay.”

  Aunt Anne, left with Richard, looked at him speculatively. “I wonder,” she said, “if you’re any good at carpentry?”

  “No, I’m not. Not a bit,” said Richard firmly.

  Aunt Anne was undaunted.

  “There’s a chair here,” she said, rising and showing it to him. You’ll find it hard to believe, but those two girls had left it with a leg off.”

  “Ah,” said Richard non-committally.

  “My sister and I tried to mend it, but it seems to give way—I think it wants some kind of reinforcing.”

  “No doubt,” said Richard, rising as Aunt Hester re-entered the room with the General.

  “Ah, I see you’re just looking at the chair, Anne. Look at that chair, General. A leg off—and tied with a piece of string.”

  “Great Scott!” said the General. “String!”

  “Mr. Ashton was just agreeing that it needed some kind of strengthening,” said Aunt Anne.

  “It wants a bit of wood there,” said the General, bending to examine the damage. “It wouldn’t take very long to put it to rights. If you had a few tools—but women never have tools,” he ended, twinkling.

  “I’ve got a hammer and some nails, and I could find a small piece of wood,” said Aunt Hester. “But you mustn’t—”

  “Nonsense,” said the General. “Won’t take twenty minutes.”

  “It’s too kind of you,” said Aunt Anne. “But you must stay and have some tea afterwards.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Richard, “but you must count me out. I’ve got to—”

  “Show them a piece of work nowdays,” commented the General, “and they shy like mad. I wouldn’t trust that young feller to drive a nail into anything. I wonder if I may take off my coat before starting on this? Thank you. I must talk to my sister about Judy leaving chair legs off without any attempt to have them put right. Tied with string, you say? Tck, tck, tck.”

  “Is your sister’s name Dorothy, by any chance?” asked Aunt Anne. “Colin used to mention a Dorothy Fitzroy— would she have—”

  “Richard’s mother. Married a feller called Ashton and went abroad. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary,” said the General, drawing off his coat and surrendering it to Aunt Anne; “extraordinary how one comes across people. Look here, Richard,” he added, “if you’d like to go off, you needn’t wait for me. I’d like to get this done and stay for a chat and some tea, but there’s no need for you to wait—I can get back on the later train.—No, bigger nails, I think. What other sizes have you there?”

  “Well, good-bye,” said Richard.

  “Good-bye,” said Aunt Anne, placing the General’s coat carefully over the back of the sofa.

  “Good-bye,” said Aunt Hester, seeing him to the door. “How kind of you to come in.”

  “Not at all,” said Richard. “My uncle insisted on my bringing him up to meet you. Good-bye.”

  Chapter 19

  Rae left the Lodge after lunch, followed by Bess, and walked slowly to the farm to say good-bye to Mart and Reeny. She missed the boys’ boisterous greeting, and though she looked about her as she walked through the yard, she could see no signs of Bianca.

  Mart was in the kitchen, looking unfamiliar in a plum-coloured coat and skirt and a formidable-looking hat.

  “You’re looking very smart,” said Rae.

  “This is my second best,” said Mart. “I’m going to take Reeny and walk up to the Castle for the Exhibition. We don’t want to see the pictures, but Reeny likes to get into the grounds and have a look at the flowers.—D’you like me hat? Scotch berry—I saw the Queen in its dead spit in one of the papers the other day, on’y her feather went that way ’stead of this.”

  “It’s very nice,” said Rae. “Where’s Reeny? I came to say good-bye.”

  “She’s upstairs, titivating, but I wouldn’t worry her with good-byes, ducks—it makes her feel sad. You’re not looking too chirpy yourself. Feeling low?”

  “I’m going home to-morrow,” said Rae. “It’s a day or two early, but I wanted to—to get back.”

  Mart ignored this weak evasion.

  “What’s the trouble?” she asked bluntly. “Wouldn’t be your young man, I suppose—he gorn off?”

  To Rae’s surprise and dismay, the simple question acted, without warning, as the key to the floodgates. They opened, and the pent-up excitement of weeks, the hope and disappointment, the confidence and fear, the ecstasy and the disillusionment melted and ran in warm trickles down her cheeks. She had no hope of stemming the flow; she sat on one of the hard chairs behind the kitchen door, her fists, doubled against her eyes, proving as inadequate as her small handkerchief to check the downpour.

  Mart made no attempt at comfort. To Rae’s relief, she went quietly about the kitchen, laying a cloth for tea, getting tarts and cakes out of tins and a
rranging them on plates. After a time, she opened a drawer and, unfolding a large white piece of cloth, tore from it a generous square and handed it to Rae.

  “There, dearie,” she said. “Take that and have a mop up. It’s not as good as a sheet, but it’ll help. That’s right and don’t stop crying. Let it all come; let it all out and you’ll be better for it. That’s what I used to do—wash it all away. It’s natural, and it’s healthy. If pore Reeny had’ve done that, she’d have been all right, but she wouldn’t—and she kept it all in, week after week, month after month, so of course it went to ’er ’ead. It has to go somewhere—’s only natural.— What happened to your young man?” she asked, lifting a piece of pastry on to a dish. “Did ’e just walk off?”

  Rae nodded. “But there was nothing—I mean, you mustn’t think—”

  “I don’t think,” said Mart. “I just use my eyes, and I used them when you first brought ’im ’ere. And I could have sworn he was up to ’is neck in love. Shows you can’t always tell. How far had it gone?”

  “Gone?” Rae looked up, surprised. “It hadn’t really started. It was all just a sort of—a sort of muddle.”

  “Well, don’t you sit down under it,” urged Mart. “What I mean is, there’ll be others. I used to dry my eyes and say, ‘Mart, my girl, if you don’t wipe away the eyedrops, you won’t see the next one coming.’ Men are just men, you’ll find. When I married Joe Harris, I thought to myself, ‘I’ve got one that’s different’—but he wasn’t, and we were happy in spite of it. From the time they’re born, men get the best of it, and they make the most of it. If you start monkeying about and trying to change ’em, you get nowhere—you’ve got to take them as the Lord made ’em. You take my advice, dearie; try’n find one that’ll stick to you, and if you find one that doesn’t, have a good cry like you’re doing, and wait till he comes back. With a pretty girl like you, you’ll hardly get your peepers dry before the next in the queue’ll step up, and when you’re as old as I am, you’ll find that they’re all as like as two peas, under the top covering, I mean.”

  She chose a little cake from a plateful and carried it on a plate to Rae.

  “Eat up,” she said. “That and a glass o’ milk and you’ll wonder what you found in the bloke to cry over. He’ll be back, likely as not, before you’ve got your eyes dry.”

  Rae left the cake while she went out to the sink and put her face into cold water. Returning, she made an attempt to restore the ravages made by the tears. She did not want the cake or the milk, but having forced them down for Mart’s sake, found herself feeling better. She stood up and managed a smile.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m—”

  Mart was not listening. With a shout of “Hey you, there!” she had seized an oven cloth and, dashing into the yard, was laying about her with a will.

  “Go on, you—go on. Take that, you! Go on—in you go, all of you, in there. Go on, I said—ah, would you? Take that!”

  The shouting, snarling and scuffling was muffled as a shed door banged. Mart reappeared, her hat askew, one hand clutching Bess by the collar. She dragged the animal in and banged the kitchen door behind her.

  “You’d better hang on to ’er, dearie,” she told Rae, “but it’s not much good—it’s too late.”

  “Too late?” repeated Rae in bewilderment.

  “Yes. The deed’s done. You’ll catch it when you get home, I shouldn’t wonder, but it’s their fault—they oughter’ve known.”

  “Known?”

  “Yes. And so should you, at your age. I’d get her ’ome, in your place, and keep ’er there.—It’ll be a puzzle of a litter, my word! I know for a fact that Nelson’s got labrador in ’im, as well as bull-terrier and a dash of whippet. Blake’s—well, nobody knows quite what Blake is, and Drake’s related to most of the dogs this side of Thorpe.”

  Rae stared at her in horror.

  “Is it—can’t anything be done? They’re so proud of Bess—they take such care of her and—”

  “Well, she’s a thoroughbred, you can see. You didn’t ought to have let ’er hob-nob with this lot,” said Mart. “You know what sailors are, dearie.—You just take ’er ’ome and don’t you say nothing about it.”

  “But—”

  “When they get to know,” said Mart, “you’ll be safe in London. You just get ’er ’ome before those three sailor boys break out of that shed I’ve put ’em in. Listen to ’em! And you can’t blame ’em, can you? I mean, dogs is only ’uman, after all.—Tell you what,” she added, “you give ’er to me and I’ll take her out to the yard—they’ve got a lorry there going down to the village—they can go past the Lodge and slip the dog into the garden, and then you won’t be bothered with her—and they’ll think she ran out on her own and got into bad company, see?”

  “But they’ll guess.”

  “Guessin’s cheap,” said Mart. “Now you come along with me, young Bess, and we’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Good-bye, Mart—I hope I’ll see you again one day.”

  “ ’Course you’ll see me again—I never saw such a pessimistic girl as you. You listen to me, ducks—that young man of yours’ll be looking for you as soon as he’s got over his little temper. Smile now—go on. Get a smile on your face and keep it there, men or no men. Good-bye for now. Next time I take Reeny up on a trip to see the lights, I’ll bring ’er up to that flat of yours.”

  “Oh do—please! We’d love to see you, Mart! Good-bye, and—and thank you!”

  She stood watching Mart going towards the yard. Bess, after some hesitation, followed her with dignity and every appearance of girlish innocence.

  “ ’Bye,” called Mart. “He’ll be back, see if he isn’t.”

  Richard drove to the farm, left his car in the yard, and stood for a while looking about him. There was nobody in sight but Bianca, and he was not in the mood for listening to her lisping conversation. He went past her, going towards the kitchen, and Bianca jumped off the tree-trunk on which she had been balancing and skipped after him.

  “Mart ithn’t there—Mart’s gone with Reeny to the—”

  Bianca, in her eagerness to impart the information, tripped and fell headlong.

  “There, there, there,” said Richard, picking her up and dusting her absently. “You’re all right. Don’t cry.”

  “I aren’t crying,” pointed out Bianca.

  “That’s right. Big girls never cry. Good-bye—I’m going to find Rae.”

  Richard strode on, and had gone four paces when Bianca’s voice reached his ears. He pulled up and turned. Bianca, proceeding in a series of short hops, reached his side.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  It was some moments before Bianca could understand that she was commanding attention. After a lifetime spent in piping down, shutting up, stowing it and putting a sock in it, she was being asked to repeat a statement. A grown-up stood before her, hanging with undisguised eagerness upon her words. Bianca drew a deep breath and, with a view to clearing the decks, removed a large peppermint drop from her mouth and placed it in the pocket of her dungarees.

  “My canawy didn’t sing when it was little,” she began. “It didn’t sing at all. It only singed when it was—”

  “Fine, fine. Now tell me,” said Richard, “where you saw Rae.”

  “I thaw Rae there”—Bianca waved in the general direction of the fields. “My canawy—”

  “Is she there now?”

  The golden curls shook vigorously. “No, she isn’t there now any more. My canawy—”

  “Yes, you said that. But where?” insisted Richard.

  “There.” Without turning, Bianca jerked one arm in a backward direction. “My wabbit had some little baby wabbits and—”

  “Fine, fine—I hope they’re all doing well. Now tell me where Rae went. Did she go that way through the lane, or did she go that way along there?” Richard’s voice became urgent. He got down on one knee and took Bianca’s hand in his own. “Now look, Bianca,” he said, “
you tell me where I can find Rae. I want to find Rae. Rae. Now will you tell me which way I can go?”

  Bianca turned and pointed a small finger. “There, that way.”

  “Along that lane and through that wood?”

  “Yeth. Near the pond.”

  To Bianca’s intense disappointment, he rose and began to walk steadily up the lane. After a moment’s dismay, she set off in pursuit. Running, stumbling, panting, she did her best to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.

  “I’m coming too,” she called. “Look at me Richard, I’m coming quickly!”

  Richard, without slackening his pace, threw a glance over his shoulder.

  “No, Bianca—go on home. Good girl. Good-bye.”

  He saw her come steadily on, and cursed under his breath. He lengthened his stride to shake her off, and hearing a howl of anguish, turned and saw that she was struggling to disentangle her curls from a blackberry bush. Cursing, he went back to extricate her, and spoke sternly.

  “Now home,” he said. “Go on—good dog—I mean—go home, Bianca.”

  He went on his way, resolved not to look round. A shuffling and a panting somewhere behind him told him that the pursuit was still on, but he knew he was setting a hopeless pace. He vaulted a gate and hurried towards the wood, and heard a yell that could not be ignored. He pulled up with a jerk, and turned. Bianca, scrambling through the gate, had got the seat of her dungarees caught, and was hanging, folded up, in mid-air. With a loud oath, Richard went back and lifted her down, putting her on her feet firmly.

  “I told you to go home!”

  “I’m coming with you to thee Rae,” panted Bianca, getting a firm grasp on his coat. Richard moved on and Bianca moved with him, clinging tightly. She was sometimes on, sometimes off her feet, but the fierce clutch on the coat was never relaxed. Richard’s opinion of children fell at every step, and at last he stopped and, picking her up, carried her along under his arm.

  He found himself presently on the edge of a road. The wood had thinned, and before him was the pond of which Bianca had spoken. Looking round him, Richard saw the figure for which he was searching.