“I really don’t like to—” she concluded.
“Leave it a while, leave it a while,” urged Mr Kay. “See what happens. Friendships are too rare to break.”
“You’re so wonderful, James,” said his wife, admiring.
Days went on, Mrs Kay said nothing. Nobody at school asked anybody to tea. It was disappointing. Lydia became more and more capricious and exacting, though sometimes delightful and amusing. Dot maintained a lower level, but was much more cheerful as a companion. Then one morning Millie made up her mind and summoned up her courage. (After all, one cannot play any game well without some nerve, some dash, and Millie was Mr Kay’s daughter.) In break-time she walked up to Dot and said quite firmly:
“Can I come to tea at your house?”
Dot coloured and looked surprised, but replied:
“Of course. I’ll ask Mother.”
At noon Millie ran gleefully to Mrs Kay.
“Dot Green has asked me to go to tea this afternoon,” she said.
Mrs Kay sighed and looked at her husband. “I have another invitation for you—I’d rather you were going—” she began. A glance from Mr Kay stopped her. “Well, perhaps—in view of what you said, James—”
“Let her go to Dot’s,” said Mr Kay sharply, shaking out his newspaper.
“Do you know where Dot lives?”
“Oh yes. It’s not far from school.”
Accordingly shortly after lunch Millie set off gleefullly to go to the Greens’. It was a beautiful summer’s day; the sky was high and blue, the leaves shiny and green; Millie wore a clean dress and clean socks, and her hair, though not either blonde or dark in an exciting way, was smooth, well brushed. The year being what it was, Millie wore a hat, a round straw curving up all round, with a broad black ribbon round the crown, and a narrow elastic to hold the hat on, under her chin. This elastic was apt to become very much knotted in order to cope with the perpetual pressure of the West Riding wind, but as it chanced, Mrs Kay had stitched in a new elastic the night before, and Millie was proud of this.
She took all the right turnings and arrived rather early at the highly respectable terrace where the Greens lived. She trotted joyously up the garden path and rang the bell on the front door.
There was no reply.
She rang again. And again. And again. With polite pauses between.
Her heart, which had sunk very low, rose with a bound when it occurred to her that bells sometimes went out of order!
She knocked.
There was no reply.
She knocked harder.
No reply.
Now in spite of herself tears began to fill her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned down.
Setting her lips firmly, she stood on tiptoe and banged on the knocker with no thought of politeness, but only an overmastering need.
Suddenly the door of the next house in the terrace bounced open, and a round, plump, greying West Riding housewife stood on the step.
“If it’s the Greens you want, they’re out, love,” said she, advancing to the hedge with this pronouncement.
“Out?”
“That’s right. They’ve gone to their chapel bazaar.”
“Out?” repeated Millie, utterly dismayed.
There was a pause.
“I was expecting to come to tea here,” she explained then, giving herself—how like Millie—completely away.
“I expect there was a muddle over the date, love,” said the housewife soothingly.
“Oh, no. No. No. I don’t think so.”
“You can come and have tea with me if you’ve a mind, lovey,” said the housewife, distressed by the anguish on Millie’s face, which seemed to reveal an incapacity to take care of herself.
“Oh, no. No, thank you,” cried Millie, terrified. “Thank you very much,” she cried again, rushing away down the path. In her headlong flight she knocked off a geranium head, but this misdemeanour, regarded at home as almost a crime (by Roy particularly), made then almost no impact on her mind.
“Well, go home then, love,” cried the housewife urgently over the hedge, standing on tiptoe. “Your mother’ll be worried if you don’t go straight home.”
But this was exactly what Millie had decided not to do. She longed with all her heart for the safety, the security, of home, but was ashamed to go there. What would Mother say? What would Father? What, oh what, would Roy? To be rejected by the Greens was more than she could bear. They had thrown her out, really. Suppose she took a long way home, so long that she did not reach home till nearly six o’clock? After Roy was home from school? Yes, that would be best, decided Millie, her young heart in such pain that her whole body seemed as if torn apart. She turned aside by the church, but oh dear, the clock still proclaimed an early hour. She slowed her pace, but this unfortunately seemed to bring tears nearer. She gulped and swallowed and walked on very slowly and stiffly.
And then—oh what joy—an avenue of safety opened before her. She was passing a rather high wall, somebody’s garden wall; of course, reflected Millie, it was the Royds’; and there swinging above the wall, looking delightfully charming, as usual, her beautiful hair swaying in the breeze, was Lydia.
“Hullo!” cried Lydia cheerfully, vanishing as the arc of the swing took her below the top of the wall. She reappeared in the opposite direction. “Hullo, Millie!”
“Can I come to tea with you, Lydia?” shouted Millie.
“Yes, of course. Go round by the gate,” commanded Lydia.
What relief! What joy! What gratitude! Millie ran round the corner, found the big metal gates she knew, for she had entered by them before, pushed one diffidently, entered what seemed like Paradise, closed the gate carefully behind her, and ran round the back of the house towards the swing.
“How beautiful you look on the swing, Lydia!” she exclaimed, watching adoringly. “Your hair is very gold, isn’t it.”
Lydia laughed, but even Millie could see that she was pleased. She continued to swing.
“Could I have a turn now, Lydia?” pleaded Millie at length.
“Well. Yes. I suppose so,” said Lydia.
She brought the swing skilfully to a standstill, and dismounted. “You get on—I’ll give you a push.”
Joyously Millie mounted. It was not quite as easy as it looked when Lydia did it, but after some wriggling back and forth of her sturdy little buttocks, she managed to seat herself.
“Now I’ll give you a push. But you must help yourself by pushing with your feet,” ordered Lydia rather crossly.
Millie tried hard to obey. But somehow she failed. Her legs crossed each other, the swing’s ropes became entwined, the home-made contrivance came to a sudden halt.
“You are silly,” said Lydia with scorn. “You’re not doing it properly. And you’re too heavy to push. Look—I’ll go and fetch—” she broke off, ran round the corner of the house and disappeared.
Millie, much cast down, waited a few minutes for her to reappear, then as she remained out of sight the little girl slipped off the swing seat and diffidently followed. To her joy she found a nice smooth piece of grass at the side of the house, with a tea-table set and in use, Lydia squatting on the grass eating a sandwich, and Mrs Royd and Captain Lermont sitting in deck chairs. Millie smiled with pleasure and went and stood by Captain Lermont’s knee. He smiled and patted her shoulder.
“Oh, Mummy,” said Lydia, carelessly waving the sandwich in Millie’s direction: “Here’s Millie Kay come to tea.”
“Good,” said Mrs Royd. Millie felt better, because Mrs Royd said this as though she meant it. “Lydia, fetch another cup, dear.”
Lydia, having stuffed the rest of the sandwich into her mouth rather rudely, Millie thought, rolled up off the grass and went towards the front door of the house.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming to tea, Mrs Royd,” said Millie anxiously. She wondered whether to explain about the Greens, but hesitated, thinking it might be unmannerly.
“Not at all, dear,” re
plied Mrs Royd. Her voice was kind, and, of course, she really was very beautiful. “We’re very glad to have you, aren’t we, Jack?”
“Very,” said Captain Lermont, smiling and stroking Millie’s hair. He was such a kind man, reflected Millie, very kind, and of course handsome.
Lydia returned with a cup and saucer for Millie, and they all ate a very good tea. Millie thought that Lydia and herself went on eating perhaps rather longer than was polite; Mrs Royd’s invitations to more cake became rather forced, and Captain Lermont glanced once or twice at his watch.
“Now suppose you two children go off and play with your ball,” said Mrs Royd at length.
“I don’t want to play with a ball,” said Lydia crossly.
“Go and swing, then.”
“Millie doesn’t know how to swing, and she’s too fat to push.”
“I’m not fat, am I?” pleaded Millie, distressed.
“No of course not. I’ll come with you and give you a start,” offered Captain Lermont. “Come along.”
He offered a hand to Millie to pull her up from the grass, and with Lydia bouncing along on the other side of him they went to the swing.
“No—this is how you get on, Millie,” explained Captain Lermont. “This is how you run to get up some speed. Let Millie have a proper turn, Lydia.”
When he explained, somehow it was all easy, and soon Millie was flying through the air, laughing happily. Never a selfish child, she presently—sooner than she wished, but one must not be selfish—brought herself to earth for Lydia’s turn. Lydia, however, was not there, and Captain Lermont was not there either. Millie paused. It seemed to her that she vaguely heard voices round the back of the house in the direction of the gates. Mr Royd might perhaps be coming home now, she reflected, and Lydia might have gone to meet him. Millie was not terribly fond of Mr Royd. He was quite all right, of course, and Mr Kay made no complaint of him; but to tell the truth, he was rather plain. Short and plump and dark, not very well shaved, Mrs Kay hinted, and though kind in general, sometimes a little snappy. Need she go to meet him? Perhaps just a couple more turns on the swing? Why not? She climbed carefully back on the swing, took the ropes in her hands, ran as she had been taught by Captain Lermont, and was soon joyously in the air.
She now perceived what she had not noticed before; that there were windows on this side of the house, windows belonging to rooms, evidently. Yes—there was a room on the ground floor, a kind of morning-room where probably the Royds ate their breakfast. There was a little pointed window on the top floor, an attic where the Royds’ maid slept, probably, reflected Millie wisely. (Where was she today, Millie wondered? And answered herself; her afternoon off, I expect.) There was a rather large window on the first floor, no doubt a bedroom. At this point Millie screamed, her grip on the swing ropes relaxed, and she fell off. The swing hit her in its descent, but fortunately not on the head.
The reason Millie had thus relaxed her control was that as the swing passed the bedroom, the window was violently flung open and Mrs Royd threw herself halfway out of it. She hung there; her beautiful golden hair matted with blood, her arms dangling. It was obvious that she had no idea what she was doing; she was unconscious. Millie, horrified, gazed beyond Mrs Royd into the bedroom, and there she saw Captain Lermont beating Mr Royd. Yes! He struck him again; the blood spurted; the Captain then seized Mr Royd in his strong brown hands, round the throat. Mr Royd’s eyes closed and he fell backwards. It was clear to Millie that Mr Royd had entered the room, that Captain Lermont was already in it with Mrs Royd. Now suddenly Mrs Royd was pulled violently back into the room. Millie screamed and fell off the swing.
When she came to herself again the bedroom window was closed and everything was quiet except that Roy was standing beside her in a fury. His bicycle lay on the grass beside him.
“What do you think you’ve been doing?” he shouted at his sister. “You are the end, Millie, you really are. Here Mother told me to call for you at the Greens’ on my way home, and I called there and the house was all shut, and the woman next door said a little girl in a straw hat had come to the Greens’ for tea and run away, and of course we didn’t know where you could be! Anywhere in Hudley! I’ve been to the Greens’ three times! They were upset, of course.”
“Did Dot cry?” enquired Lydia with contempt.
“Good heavens, no! She shouted at me, you’ve never heard the things she called me—”
“You wouldn’t like that,” said Lydia, pretending sympathy.
“Yes, I did. She was spirited, anyway. Most girls are too soppy. But as for you, Millie—Mother is in fits. Father’s gone to the police.” In a low grumpy tone, as if ashamed (and indeed he was ashamed of publicly showing affection for a sister) he added: “I’ve been in fits myself.”
“But why did Dot go out when she’d asked me to tea?” wailed Millie.
‘She didn’t ask you for today, you donkey. It was to be arranged in the future. How did you come to be here, anyway?”
“She asked herself to tea,” said Lydia. “It was very rude, and you’re rude too, Roy Kay, rushing in like this and making me drop a teacup.” Indeed the cup and saucer lay broken on the grass nearby.
“All right, I’m very rude. I don’t care—I had to find her.”
“How did you know she was here?”
“I saw her on the swing. I shouted at the gate but you didn’t bother to come.”
“I was in the kitchen, fetching a cup and saucer for my father.”
Millie groaned.
“Are you all right? Get on the back of my bike,” urged Roy, lifting the bicycle to its wheels.
“I don’t think I can,” said Millie faintly.
“Don’t be silly. Mother will be in fits till you’re found. Come along.”
Ought she to say anything about Captain Lermont? Ought she to leave Lydia to find whatever there was to find in the bedroom upstairs? Whom to ask to come and help Lydia? Millie had not the faintest idea.
“Come along,” repeated Roy angrily. (He really was in a fearful temper.) The habit of obedience was too much for Millie, and she took a trembling step towards the bicycle. “Please thank Mrs Royd for her hospitality towards my sister,” said Roy, sarcastic as usual.
By clinging tightly to Roy’s waist, Millie managed to remain on the step at the back of the bicycle until they reached home. Mrs Kay, bursting into tears, clasped her erring daughter tightly in her arms, sent Roy for the doctor, and began to put Millie to bed. Millie, however, was not satisfied; she showed a disposition to cling to her father’s neck and murmur something—but what?—in his ear.
“What is the matter, Millie?” asked Mr Kay, perplexed by his daughter’s anguished expression. “We are not angry with you—it was not your fault—it was not anybody’s fault,” he added hastily, glancing at a stern bearded gentleman standing by who proved to be Dot Green’s father. “It was nobody’s fault,” he repeated.
“Thank God she is found,” said Mr Green.
Millie, rather surprised by the introduction of the Almighty into the conversation, not habitual in the Kay household, nevertheless thought Mr Green was rather nice—not a cross man, she thought, and she took courage to whisper to her father:
“Do go to the Royds’, father.”
“Why, dear?”
“Do go, Lydia will be alone.”
Mr Kay and Mr Green exchanged a glance.
“I don’t see why,” began Mr Kay.
There was a pause.
“There are rumours,” said Mr Green in a low reserved tone.
“Do go!”
“Will you accompany me, Green?”
“I will.”
It was not till the next morning—for the doctor had given Millie a sleeping pill—that Mr and Mrs Kay came into her bedroom accompanied by a tall severe-looking elderly man, dressed in navy blue with silver trimmings. A uniform, Millie thought. Could he be a policeman? Millie thought he could. Mrs Kay seemed flustered, flushed and nervous, and propped her dau
ghter up on pillows with a trembling hand.
Mr Kay looked very serious.
“Tell us everything you did yesterday afternoon, Millie,” said Mr Kay.
Millie obeyed. It was painful to detail the Green episode, but Roy’s suggestion that Dot had intended, not a rejection for that afternoon, but the promise of a future arrangement, was soothing, and the damaged geranium lent a suitable air of apology to Millie’s account. Then she had passed the Royds’ wall, then she had seen Lydia swinging, then she had asked if she could come to tea, then Lydia cheerfully agreed, then she went into the Royds’ garden, then she had had tea with Mrs Royd and Lydia and Captain Lermont—Mrs Kay started—then Captain Lermont had most kindly shown Millie how to manage the swing, then she had swung by herself, then Lydia and Captain Lermont had gone away, then Millie had stupidly fallen off the swing, then there was Roy—she came home with him.
“Ask your questions, Inspector,” said Mr Kay, grave.
“When you were swinging, Millie, did you see through the windows of the bedroom on the first floor?”
“I believe I did,” faltered Millie with a false air of brightness.
“Were two men there?” pressed the Inspector.
“Perhaps.”
“Who were they?” Millie was silent. “Did you know who they were?”
“Was Mr Royd one of them?” suggested Mr Kay.
“Sir,” objected the Inspector, but Millie said cheerfully: “Yes.”
“Who was the other?”
Millie was silent, gazing from one to the other of her interlocutors in alarm.
“Oh Millie!” burst out Mrs Kay suddenly, weeping loudly: “Poor Mr Royd and Mrs Royd are both dead. The other man must have murdered them!”
“Oh, no!” objected Millie. “He would never murder Mrs Royd. Mr Royd killed her, and then he killed Mr Royd. That would be the way of it.”
“Who was this man, Millie?” urged Mr Kay. “Millie, if you recognised him, you must say.”
But Millie was silent. Never, never would she reveal dear Captain Lermont’s identity. Get him in trouble? Never. But to resist her father was difficult. And then suddenly she thought she saw—dear Millie—how she could manage concealment.
More Tales of the West Riding Page 9
