The Stratton Story

by Elizabeth Cadell

  Without a word, he turned the car and drove back to the turning they had passed; soon they were on their way to Downleigh. There was complete silence for two miles.

  “If I was impolite,” he said in cold tones at mile three, “I apologise. But I was asked to call at my godmother’s to pick up a girl who—I assumed, or my godmother told me—was going back to town. I’ve got a date there and I didn’t want to miss it.”

  “She’ll wait.”

  Silence fell once more. At mile six, she gave a brief direction.

  “You don’t go into Downleigh. The farm’s on the Brender turning.”

  “I probably knew that long before you did,” he said. “I used to ride over during school holidays and see old Colonel Weekes.’

  “I’m surprised your parents allowed you to.”

  “My parents thought it would broaden my outlook. It did. Not that I ever got inside the farmhouse. It wasn’t exactly a haven of hospitality. Are you going back to town later tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  This was the only exchange they troubled to make. Julian reached the farm gates, and as they were open, drove into the yard. Parked there were the farm station waggon, the children’s cart and three dust-covered cars.

  “I won’t ask you to come in, as you’re in a hurry,” Gail said. “Thank you for the lift.”

  He had got out and opened the door on her side. The window of the living-room was thrown open, and Noelle put out her head.

  “Tea,” she said, “and home-made scones. Come on in.”

  “He’s in a hurry; he’s got a date in town,” Gail said. “Julian Meredith—my sister, Noelle. And her husband, Alan,” she continued as the kitchen door opened. “And Commander Luke, Commander Godwing, Lieutenant Mount and Lieutenant Orr-Knowles—Tom, Jake, Chass and Carlo respectively.”

  “I made the scones, and they’re magnificent,” Jake claimed without modesty. “Gail, you missed a wonderful lunch.”

  “How come you go out with an old lady and return with a large packet of man?” Chass enquired.

  “He picked me up. He’s got to go; he’s got a date—and car trouble.”

  “Bad luck about the date,” Alan said, “but we’ve got three practically resident mechanics. Let’s take a look.”

  One head, then two, then four bent over the engine. Gail walked into the house and poured herself out a cup of tea.

  “What’s the trouble?” Noelle asked, eyeing her moody expression. “Did he try anything on the way here?”

  “He didn’t even know I was female. I delayed him on his way to some peach-skinned beauty, and all he wanted to do was open the door and hurl me out. He’s Mrs. Westerby’s godson; maybe I forgot to mention it.”

  “He’s very good-looking.”

  “He’s yours. Where are the children?”

  “Totsy took them out. They won’t be long—not with the smell of those scones to draw them home. Do you think we’d better take tea out to those men? They’ll be there hours, by the look of it.”

  She poured tea and took the cups out on a tray, and the men drank as they worked, picking up buttered scones in grease-blackened fingers and turning their attention once more to the job in hand. Gail washed up the tea things, poured milk for the children on their return while Totsy got their bath ready; then she took over the ironing from Noelle to leave her free to prepare the supper.

  She heard the men coming in when they had finished; they washed their hands at the tap outside and then streamed into the warm room.

  “Don’t be silly,” Alan was saying to Julian as they entered. “The garage would have taken hours over the job. You’ve got time to meet the children—and also to have a drink before you go.”

  Gail watched Julian’s entry. It was always interesting to note the reactions of strangers who expected to enter the normal drawing-room or living-room or kitchen. She saw him halt as his astonished eyes took in the scene: Totsy at the table with the children, herself at the ironing board, Noelle standing in the space between sink and stove. A bridge table was opened in one corner; a model battleship was being built in another. Home-at- a-glance.

  “No time for a rubber, I suppose?” Jake asked hopefully.

  Julian, on the point of refusing, must have reflected that he owed something for the efficient repair made to his car.

  “A short one,” he said. “Could I make a phone call first?”

  Telephoning was as public as everything else in that room. Julian picked up the receiver; Alan tactfully turned on the radio, but everybody could hear the shrill protests of someone called Mavis, who made it clear that she was not used to being stood up. Then Julian, his colour considerably deepened, took his place at the bridge table with the three who had been making the best of things with three-handed games. The brief snatches of conversation between games seemed to run on computers. Gail went into the children’s bedroom and began to get her things together.

  “Lost him?” Noelle said, coming into the room.

  “I’ll live. I’m thinking of going back to town with him. The others won’t want to leave until they’ve eaten, and there’s a lot I could do if I went back early.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll be here again before you go out to meet Tim, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Gail said, and went out to speak to the bridge players.

  “If you can spare the new recruit,” she said, “I’d like to go back to town with him. And not too late, either.”

  “You can’t drag a chap away without a drink,” protested Alan. “Besides, you’ll miss Lydia.”

  No hardship, that, Gail mused. Lydia was his sister, and she would come in wind-blown, mud-covered, and the conversation would be entirely horse.

  “Here she is,” she said gloomily.

  Lydia entered and with difficulty prevented her horse from coming in too.

  “Out, Hector, you brute!” she shouted. “Out! Hello, chaps. Guess what—I’ve bought a colt.”

  Julian, with the other men, had risen; he was staring at her in surprise.

  “From us,” he said. “I didn’t connect you with—”

  “Of course!” Lydia, tall, athletic and as strong as the horses she loved, took two strides and gave him a shattering slap on the back. “You must be Julian Meredith! I say, your mother’s a marvel, isn’t she?”

  “She likes animals,” Julian said cautiously.

  “She knows more about horses than anyone I ever met,” Lydia declared. “She stopped me from buying one from those swindlers over at Lowshern. Come on out and take a look at Hector.”

  “I’m . . . Some other time,” Julian said. “We’re just finishing off this game, and then I’ve got to be off.”

  “Oh—bosh!” Lydia gave him a blow on the chest that made him stagger. “Off where to? Come out and see if you approve of the colt’s new quarters.”

  “Go away and let’s finish this game,” Alan ordered. “And take Hector to the stables, where he belongs. Hector, get out!” he yelled.

  Hector withdrew his head from the doorway and followed Lydia reluctantly to the stables. The men resumed their game, and at its end, Julian rose to go.

  He and Gail had a good send-off; no man, she thought, had ever mellowed so much in so short a time.

  “Where’s the flat?” he asked as they reached the London road.

  “Queen’s Gate—one of those old houses converted. Two flats on each floor.”

  “Do you share?”

  “Only with my brother. He pays half the rent, and in return, I entertain his friends.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Both.”

  “I heard your sister talking about a job in Switzerland. Are you leaving the publishers?”

  “I might. I’ve been there about a year. Over a year, in fact.”

  “You needn’t apply at my office. We don’t take transients. What’s the point of training a girl to the point of usefulness and then seeing her melting away?”

  “The agency doesn’t mind h
ow often I move—just so long as I do well in every job they put me in. I suppose you want your secretaries to grow long-service beards?”

  He ignored this, and presently she asked where he lived.

  “Just behind Harrods. I go down to Shern most weekends; I’ve got three dogs which I keep at home.”

  “This trip you’re doing with Mrs. Westerby—is it your vacation, or just an extra?”

  “A bit of both. My father thought she ought to have someone with her. In my opinion, she needn’t make the trip at all; Mrs. Stratton could quite well have looked at the furniture by herself, instead of dragging Blanche out all that way just because she happens to own the cottage.”

  Something in his voice made her turn and look at him.

  “Don’t you want to go?”

  “No.” The word came out with a force that surprised her.

  “Did you get talked into taking her?”

  “Yes.” He spoke reluctantly. “That’s about how it was.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Stratton?”

  “No. I knew Edward—her husband—all my life, of course. I think he was meant to be my godfather, but there was always this feeling that he was going to die young—so Blanche became my godmother instead.”

  “Did he work at anything? Mr. Stratton, I mean.”

  “No. He didn’t have to earn a living—he had a good income, though he lost most of his money later. He used to paint a bit—rather smudgy landscapes. He exhibited now and then at a small gallery in London.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Everybody liked him—he was a nice chap. Pity he left Blanche in the lurch after he married. But one can understand that, too. Do you like her, or do you find her odd?”

  “Both.” She paused. “You didn’t like getting caught up at the farm just now, did you?”

  He hesitated.

  “I don’t feel at home with Service people,” he said at last. “Not your brother-in-law’s age group, anyway.”

  “Alan’s thirty-two. How old are you?”

  “Only two years more than that, but Service people make me feel senile. Perhaps it’s because they’re all full of what’s called boyish charm—or because they talk a language outsiders can’t follow. Does your sister have a crowd like that every weekend?”

  “Yes. They don’t make any work—you saw them helping.”

  “It isn’t my idea of a nice, quiet weekend.”

  “So I saw.”

  He frowned.

  “You shouldn’t ask questions,” he said, “if you’re not going to like the answers.”

  “That’s true. I hope all your future weekends will be nice and quiet.”

  “Do you ever do anything about keeping that temper of yours in check? Would you like to stop for a drink, or would you prefer to go straight to your flat?”

  “Straight to the flat, please.”

  He took her there and carried her suitcase to the lift and watched her go up, and went away feeling that he had not been at his best. His mind went back to the farm, and he found himself smiling as he remembered Lydia and Hector, and the children rosy from their bath, and Noelle rolling pastry for an apple tart.

  And then he remembered his godmother, and the smile faded, and all pleasant thoughts drained out of his mind.

  Chapter 4

  Friday’s lunch with Mrs. Stratton was not at all like visiting Mrs. Westerby and dipping into a steaming casserole.

  The address on Mrs. Stratton’s letter-headings read, simply, flamingo hotel, London, W.I. The simplicity was misleading; the hotel embraced not only the expensive block of flats to the left, but also the building on the right in which a variety of amenities—sauna baths, shops, banks, beauty salons and a swimming pool—were available to residents, thus ensuring that there was no need for them to give themselves the trouble of setting foot outside.

  Mrs. Stratton’s apartment was on the eighth floor. Gail was conducted to it by way of a beautifully-appointed reception room, a long, blue-carpeted corridor and a lift with cushioned seats. She could not decide whether the tall, smiling young porter, the tall, smiling young receptionist or the tall, smiling young lift-man deserved the highest marks for suavity and elegance; in the end she decided that the accolade must go to the tall, smiling young gentleman who took over from the lift-man and who appeared to own all the suites on the eighth floor.

  He led her towards a door on which was written, in silvery letters, Eight-Seventeen. He pressed a bell, waited to hear Mrs. Stratton’s invitation to enter, ushered Gail inside and withdrew.

  “How nice to see you.” Mrs. Stratton held out a hand and smiled in welcome. “Please come in.”

  Gail entered, sent a swift glance round the room and decided that this was the sunny side of fame, the garland round the neck of the champion, the rosette on the winning horse. This was where you could put your feet up and say you’d arrived—though not for long, if you’d arrived at the Flamingo; she knew that even a success like The Desert couldn’t pay the Flamingo fees for ever. There would have to be more books, which meant work—and this was not a working atmosphere. Far from. This charming drawing-room bright with chintz and bowls full of roses was designed for leisure.

  “It’s pretty”—Mrs. Stratton led Gail into the bedroom, took her bag and gloves and laid them on the brocaded bedspread — “and it’s comfortable too. It’s almost cosy.”

  Gail thought it was as cosy as a stately home on public view day, and was surprised that Mrs. Stratton had done so little to offset the half-a-crown-entrance look; there were few books to be seen, no personal touches and not a single photograph. Chintz and brocade and flowers notwithstanding, the place struck her as devoid of life.

  They walked slowly back to the drawing-room.

  “Drink?”

  “Please.”

  “Will you help yourself—and me too, please. I’d like some sherry.” Mrs. Stratton took the glass Gail brought her. “You look so nice,” she said. “I think you must love beautiful clothes as much as I do.”

  “I’m what they call a clever shopper,” Gail said. “I get to the boutiques just as they’re unpacking the new stuff. It’s a useful instinct.”

  She took the chair her hostess indicated, and wondered how much Mrs. Stratton’s suit had cost. Still mauve, she noted; still half-mourning.

  “Have you,” Mrs. Stratton asked, “thought very carefully about taking me on as a passenger? It’s not too late to withdraw, you know.”

  “I’ll enjoy having you,” said Gail, and almost meant it. There was something about Mrs. Stratton that appealed to her; as she had tried to explain to Miss Teller, she admired the ease and swiftness with which Mrs. Stratton, after being shut up so long with a sick husband and very little money, had adjusted herself to fame and prosperity.

  Mrs. Stratton was looking round the room; she gave a shrug, half apologetic, half amused.

  “It’s rather overdone, of course,” she said, “but I’m enjoying it all so much ... I can’t explain how much. You see, in a rather childish way I’m trying to make up to myself for . . . for other things. Poverty and ugliness. If only Edward ... if only my husband could have lived to escape ... I can’t tell you how awful it was to find money getting less, and less, and less. The house we took in Cornwall was horrible; I was ashamed to take Edward down to it but at least it gave us room to have our own things round us. We went down there because he longed to be under his own doctor — the old family doctor, who’d retired in Cornwall—or rather, who’d gone to live down there because he had a delicate wife. I can never tell anybody how much he did for us. He was wonderful. Without him, I think it would have been . . .” She broke off, gave a rather uncertain smile and made a slight gesture as if raising her glass. “To forgetfulness,” she said.

  “To success,” Gail corrected, and heard Mrs. Stratton laugh. It was a low, pretty sound.

  “I’m a hundred years older than you are, but as we’re going to see more of one another, would you consider calling me Anit
a? I shan’t enjoy being Mrs. Strattoned all along the roads of the Basque country. Do you know that part of France?”

  “Only slightly.”

  “I don’t know it at all. I could never persuade my husband to go and stay at this cottage we’re going to. He refused to consider spending winters out there; he wanted to be near Dr. Belldon, and as he relied on him so much—professionally and socially too —I couldn’t bear to press him. I was dreading going out to it until I heard you were going to drive down to San Sebastian—I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you that you’ve . . . rescued me. Without you, I would have found it almost impossible to hold out against Mrs. Westerby’s insistence that I should go with her. Her godson’s car, she told me, could quite well take three in comfort. I—I couldn’t have borne it.”

  “Do you really have to go at the same time? Couldn’t you have gone alone?”

  “If I had, Mrs. Westerby would have found some good reason to follow me out. The cottage belongs to her and she pays the caretakers; I thought it better for us to go out together, especially as whatever furniture I don’t want to keep, she wants to buy from me. I offered to give it to her, but she insists on buying it — that is, if I want to sell. She tried to persuade me to . . . don’t think I’m being unkind, but there’s no other word ... to jockey me into driving out there with her; I said that I preferred to fly to Bordeaux, but I was quite certain she would insist on meeting me there and making me join them for the rest of the way. So when I heard you were going out there, or near there, it seemed like a lifeline and I grabbed it. I’ll try not to be a nuisance.”

  She stopped and put out her hand for Gail’s empty glass.

  “May I give you another?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve got to go back to the office after lunch.”

  “There’s no time limit, I hope? I mean, you can stretch your lunch hour a little, can’t you?”

  “Mr. Frank was good enough to say so.”

  They laughed, and it occurred to Gail for the first time that Mrs. Stratton was not so very much older than herself, but her composure, and a certain staidness in her manner, widened the gap between them.