“Your bath is ready, my lady,” said Selina at the door, “and Miss Leslie’s in bed.”
“I’ll go up and have a look at her in a friendly way,” said Dr. Ford, “and then I must be off.”
“Did you find a dressing-gown for Miss Leslie, and everything she wanted?” Lady Waring asked Selina. “I suppose the station will send her things up to-morrow.”
“That’s all right, my lady,” said Selina. “Jasper was talking to Cook at the door and happened to pass the remark that Sergeant Hopkins and some of the boys were down at the Sheep’s Head, so I phoned up Mr. Pollett, and one of the boys brought Miss Leslie’s cases up on the back of Mr. Pollett’s bike. I was so upset, poor Miss Leslie not having her things, but she’s quite comfortable now, my lady, and she gave me a pair of silk stockings that Mr. Cecil sent her from abroad where he is. It does seem dreadful to think of him at sea, my lady, with the war going on,” said Selina, brimming over suddenly into dewy tears.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Selina,” said Sir Harry, looking up from the paper. “Where do you suppose a sailor ought to be?”
“But Mr. Cecil’s an officer, Sir Harry,” said Selina.
Sir Harry gave it up and went behind his paper.
CHAPTER III
MR. AND MRS. EVERARD CARTER were seated at breakfast, with Master Bobbie Carter, aged four, who could feed himself very nicely when it wasn’t a boiled egg. Everard Carter had the largest house in Southbridge School and was right-hand man to the headmaster, Mr. Birkett. In the early days of the war, the Hosiers’ Boys’ Foundation School had been housed at Southbridge and the two schools had a working amalgamation, but as the war went on most of the London school had gone back to its old quarters, leaving behind it some forty boys and two masters who had by now almost become part of Southbridge. Kind Kate Carter had seen in the refugee boys a good excuse for the managing and fussing for which men, in her opinion, were created, and “Ma Carter” was as popular a figure as the headmaster’s wife, “Ma Birky,” had been in the days when her husband was head of the Preparatory School.
“What a blessing that the hens are laying again,” said Everard. “An egg makes all the difference in my life. If it weren’t for your hens I would chuck being a schoolmaster. If Birkett and I have to run this place much longer with elderly clergymen and middle-aged come-backs and cheerful women with exemption we shall burst. We haven’t had legless officers discharged from the Army yet, but I dare say we shall—poor devils.”
“What would you do if you did chuck it, Everard?” said Kate anxiously.
“That’s just the trouble,” said Everard. “Probably there’s nothing else I could do now. Go into the M.O.I., I suppose.”
“You are far too clever for that sort of work, darling,” said Kate.
Everard looked affectionately at her.
“There is nothing,” he said, “like a Good Woman’s love. And have you heard if Peppercorn is measles or chickenpox?”
Kate said she hadn’t seen Matron yet and at this moment the door was opened with controlled violence and her sister Lydia came in.
Lydia Merton, whom we have not seen since the black days of Dunkirk, when her husband was one of the last to get back, was still the Lydia who had helped Geraldine Birkett to tear the frock she didn’t like and spent a hot Sunday with Tony Morland and his friends clearing out the pond. But during the last two years, married to her own blissful content, willing to please Noel Merton in all outward things in her deep security of pleasing his heart, she had so schooled her old wildness and conformed to his excellent taste in matters of dress and appearance, that we might be forgiven if we did not recognize her for a moment. The well-groomed hair, the well-cut tweeds, the well-made shoes, even the well-kept hands, were what Lydia Keith would have characterized as a lot of rot, but to Lydia Merton they were as comfortable and normal as an old pair of gloves. In her carriage the old Lydia appeared, with brusque though not ungraceful movements, and Noel Merton said he would know her under any disguise if he only saw her as she vanished at the corner of a street, or got off a bus; and her speech was still apt to startle new friends by its downright quality.
“Sorry I’m late for breakfast,” she said, sitting down. “Good morning, Bobbie. How are you?”
Master Carter said he was quite well, and paused with a spoonful of porridge half-way to his mouth, tilting it up so that the milk gradually ran over the handle and his fat hand.
“Small pig,” said his Aunt Lydia, wiping him up in a rough-and-ready way with his feeder. “I say, Kate, the reason I was late was that Noel rang me up. He couldn’t get on last night. It’s frightfully good news. Lady Waring at Beliers Priory will let us stay with her while we look for a cottage or something. Noel says it’s quite near the camp, at least it’s about four miles but they may let him use his car a bit.”
“I am glad, darling,” said Kate. “When do you go?”
“Saturday,” said Lydia. “Do you think my washing will be back by then, Kate? I sent a lot of Noel’s and my things last week.”
“Oh dear,” said Kate, her kind face troubled by care. “The laundry is quite dreadful now. It says it will come twice in three weeks, but of course that means absolutely nothing. Somtimes it is twice in one week and then one has nothing to give it the second time, and sometimes Matron takes all the boys’ sheets and pillow-cases off, ready for it, and it doesn’t come for a fortnight. And it often brings the things back at the next time but one, which is so confusing. Most luckily I bought a lot of sheets soon after the war began, or I don’t know how we’d manage. I will telephone and ask about your things and if they don’t come to-day, which is the day the laundryman told Matron he might come, only he said he thought it might be the last time before the end of term because of the petrol, which will mean leaving the beds unchanged for a fortnight and a half, then I’ll post them on to you, registered of course, because you never know with the post. Not that one thinks anyone is dishonest, but it is silly to let clothes go about the country tempting people to steal them.”
“I do hope they have done Noel’s shirts properly,” said Lydia earnestly.
“I looked through them before they went,” said Kate, “and I wrote in the laundry book, ‘Please note that these shirts have all their buttons,’ so perhaps they won’t break them or pull them off.”
“It’s a bit vague, like all commercial language,” said Everard. “Still, I don’t know that one could put it better. Could you say, ‘These buttons are all on. Please don’t pull them off’?”
“One might offend them,” said Kate, growing pale.
“Yes, I suppose you might,” said Everard. “It’s all part of war blackmail. They know you couldn’t get another laundry round here, and that’s that.”
“Still, they are very nice,” said Kate, who could not bear to think ill of anyone. “Last time they did come they were a hamper short and the man said he thought it might have fallen off near the gates because he heard a funny noise, so Edward went down with the wheelbarrow and there it was and he brought it back. And if the laundryman hadn’t told us, someone might have stolen it.”
“I suppose it didn’t occur to him to go and get it himself, as he heard it fall off,” said Everard. “No, of course it didn’t. I’m sorry you’re going, Lydia.”
“Thank you very much, Everard,” said Lydia with earnest gratitude. “I hate going too, but I’ve not seen Noel for three days, and till Saturday will make nearly a week, quite five and a half days anyway.”
Kate so sympathized with her sister’s feelings that she cast about for a way of cheering her up, and as they had now all finished breakfast she suggested a visit to the nursery before Everard went into school. Accordingly, Kate took Bobbie’s feeder off and he got down from his chair and taking his Aunt Lydia’s hand stumped upstairs, two feet on each step, followed by his parents.
In the nursery Miss Angela Carter, aged two, was sitting in a tall chair made of cane and mahogany. Her stout form was confined to the c
hair by a wooden rod passed through holes in the arms, with a wooden knob at each end that screwed on and off, and she was banging the table with a spoon. By the fire Nurse had just finished bathing and dressing Master Philip Carter, aged very little indeed, and was about to give him his second breakfast, for he had already had a slight repast at seven o’clock that morning.
“Would you like to give Baby his bottle, Miss Lydia?” said Nurse, who had known Lydia before her marriage and did not mean to stand any nonsense.
“Rather,” said Lydia.
So nurse gave the comfortable warm bundle to Lydia who sat down, less ungracefully than Lydia Keith would have done, by the fire and held the baby in a strong, competent arm. Everard took a chair to the nursery table to talk to his daughter for whom he had a distinct partiality. Kate, an exquisite needlewoman, found some mending in the nursery workbasket, Bobbie played on the floor with his bricks, a relic of Kate’s nursery days, the fire burned brightly, the world outside looked perfectly revolting, and inside all was great comfort and peace. Nurse brought the bottle wrapped in a piece of white flannel to Lydia. At the sight of it the baby, which had been lying on Lydia’s arms, its blue eyes apparently seeing heavenly visions, its small features composed in seraphic peace, suddenly went bright red in the face. Its whole body stiffened, its mouth opened wide and became quite square, dry shrieks of rage proceeded from its little throat, and its whole being became rigid with baffled gluttony and milk-lust.
Its unsympathetic aunt laughed so much that she nearly dropped the bottle.
“Give him the bottle quickly, Lydia,” said Kate, a mother’s anguish at the sight of her starving child showing clearly in her mild eyes.
“Greedy little beast,” said Aunt Lydia and shoved the teat of the bottle into the baby’s mouth.
At first the baby was so transported with wrath that it shrieked more loudly than before, but after a while nature asserted herself against imbecility and with one great final heave and spasm of fury it suddenly became like a jelly soother than the creamy curd, its vengeful limbs relaxed, and with long shuddering breaths it began to suck its bottle, both hands clutching the beloved object and an angry suspicious eye roving the nursery against the possible approach of milk-thieves.
Nurse, who was going and coming, emptying the bath and generally tidying things, stopped to look.
“Take it out of his mouth now and then, Miss Lydia,” she recommended, “or he’ll give himself the wind.”
“I can’t think,” said Lydia, forcibly withdrawing the bottle from her nephew’s toothless gums, “how any babies ever lived before people knew how to take care of them properly. I mean anyone might let Philip drink it all up and then he’d feel frightful.”
Kate began to explain how Mother Love had a wonderful instinct for cherishing its young, but the baby, realizing with a kind of delayed action that its second breakfast had left it, rent the welkin again.
“Oh bother,” said Lydia, shoving the bottle back into its mouth. “Come on, baby. I say, Kate, I must go and see Mrs. Birkett this morning. Will you come with me? I want to ask about Rose and Geraldine. Where are they?”
Kate was just beginning to give Lydia what news she had of the Birketts’ married daughters when the baby emitted a wail of misery.
“He can’t get at the milk, Miss Lydia,” said Nurse looking over her shoulder. “Tilt it up a little more, miss.”
“Oh, I say, I am sorry, baby,” said Lydia, tilting the bottle well up.
The baby applied itself to its work again with such concentration that a light perspiration broke out on the top of its bald, crimsoning head. It then seized its bottle in both hands and pushed it violently away, at the same time gnashing its jaws together. The teat came off the bottle and all the rest of the milk fell out on to the baby.
“Hi! Nurse!” said Lydia. “Help!”
“He nearly always does that just before the end of his bottle,” said Kate proudly. “It means he has had enough. Nurse, do you think we gave him another ounce of milk a little too soon?”
But Nurse’s face expressed such long-suffering resentment that Kate quickly said of course it would really be safer to keep him as he was, as changes weren’t a good thing. Nurse relented, picked up the baby and took him away to sleep off his meal.
Lydia got up and gave herself a violent shake, reminding her brother-in-law of the summer he had first met her when she was about sixteen and spent most of her time on or in the river. She was twenty-four now and as handsome a young woman as one could see, but Everard had been very fond of the old Lydia and sometimes felt a little shy of this new, distinguished-looking sister-in-law.
“Gosh! I can’t think how Nurse ever does it!” said Lydia.
“Does what, darling?” asked Kate.
“Oh, all this,” said Lydia, including nursery and babies in a sweep of her arm.
“It’s quite easy when they are One’s Own,” said Kate, whose loving placid nature appeared to thrive on Nurse’s afternoon off and was never happier than when she could get all three children under her wing.
Lydia made no answer and was obviously referring the question to herself for further consideration. Everard said he must be going now, and Kate said she must ring up Mrs. Birkett, so they all left the nursery whose waters at once closed over their heads.
At about half-past eleven Kate and Lydia were preparing to go across to the Headmaster’s House when Matron came in to report that doctor had been, and Peppercorn was only a rash.
“Not that rashes are to be wondered at, Mrs. Merton,” said Matron, “with all these vitamins. My eldest nephew, the one who is a wireless operator and has been torpedoed twice, was in a boat for five days before he was picked up and he had quite a Nasty Eruption when he came home on leave.”
Both Kate and Lydia were doubtful as to the relations of cause and effect in this interesting story, but felt it would be simpler to accept it.
“Oh, I say, Matron,” said Lydia. “Do you think the washing will ever come back? I’m going on Saturday and nearly all my husband’s shirts are at the laundry.”
“Well now,” said Matron, “that was exactly what I wanted to speak to you about, Mrs. Merton. I said to Jessie only this morning—you remember Jessie, the head housemaid, such a nice girl and I used to get quite annoyed with her because she would not wear her glasses and was ruining her eyes, but all things have turned out for the best because her sight is so bad she won’t get called up—Well now, Jessie, I said, the Major will be wanting his laundry, I said to her, because gentlemen cannot understand these little war difficulties and a gentleman like the Major must have his shirts, and you never know when the laundry will call. So Jessie, who is really a thoughtful girl, gave her cousin, who is the manager, a ring and your things will come out with the fish to-morrow, Mrs. Merton.”
Lydia thanked her warmly.
“Well, what is the good of a war, as I said to Jessie,” said Matron, “if officers can’t get their laundry back. We might as well be in peace-time for all the good it does us, Jessie, I said.”
There were renewed thanks and Matron went away to tell Jessie how pleased Mrs. Merton was and what a pity it was there were no children and she had always thought Mrs. Merton would have started early.
“For children, Jessie, are a great comfort,” said Matron, “and what my married sister would have done without my nephew when her husband died I cannot think. He was at sea then, but he wrote her a lovely letter and always takes her to see his dad’s grave when he’s on leave. She doesn’t hear from him for months at a time now of course and then it’s only a wire as often as not, but your son’s your son till he gets him a wife, as the saying is. Poor Mrs. Merton. Still, it’s early days, and now, Jessie, you can do Peppercorn’s bed as the doctor says it’s nothing but a rash and he can get up.”
By this time Kate and Lydia had arrived at the Headmaster’s House and were sitting with Mrs. Birkett. The drawing-room had been shut up and Mrs. Birkett had turned the dressing-room into
her own sitting-room, which made her, she said, feel like Mrs. Edmonstone in The Heir of Redclyffe and also made the room warm for her husband to undress in at night.
“I do all my writing and see my committee people here,” she said to Lydia, “and in the evening we sit in the study, where the fire burns our own wood very nicely and the furnace for the boiler is in the cellar underneath, so I can keep Henry warm. And now tell me all about yourself, my dear. How is Noel?”
“Oh, he’s awfully well,” said Lydia, “at least,” she added, suddenly going pale inside with apprehension of unknown and improbable dangers, “he was quite well when he rang me up this morning. He’s at the hush-hush camp near Lambton now, and some people called General and Lady Waring have very kindly asked us to stay with them till we can find a cottage or something.”
“Waring?” said Mrs. Birkett. “I think we know them. I’ll ask Henry when he comes in. He is taking the Upper Sixth for Latin just now, but he wants to come up and see you. How is your mother, Kate?”
Kate said that Mrs. Keith was still quite happy with her sister at Bournemouth which suited her heart, and she and Everard hoped to have her to stay with them in the Easter holidays when the weather might be nicer, though probably it wouldn’t. And in her turn she asked about Mrs. Birkett’s daughters, Rose and Geraldine, who had married two brothers called Fairweather. Rose’s husband was a sailor and Geraldine’s a soldier.
Mrs. Birkett said Rose was very well. “You know she is in America,” she added for Lydia’s benefit. “John was at sea for eighteen months when they came back from South America and now he is on a two-year job at Washington and got permission for her to join him with the children. She writes very happily and sends us the most enchanting snapshots of Henry and Amy—called after Henry and me, bless her—and she is going to have another baby in June.”
“I say, that’s a bit quick, isn’t it?” said Lydia.
“She was married before the war, and the war will have been going on nearly four years by next June,” said Mrs. Birkett with a sigh, “and she adores the children.”
Growing Up Page 7
