Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  Sara’s first instinct was to get the canopy up, but she remembered her father. Quickly she released the mooring line, backed clear of the bank and turned around. It took her only a few minutes to reach the yacht and come alongside it. Her father had the boom hauled tightly inboard and was making slow progress against a wind which had veered to nearly head-on. There was no doubt, however, that he was enjoying himself.

  ‘Take a tow,’ Sara said. ‘It’s too cold for it to be any fun.’

  She nosed the launch forward and managed to make her stern mooring line fast to a deck cleat. Then she went slowly ahead, her father stowing the sail roughly so that he was able to steer astern of her. Meanwhile the hailstones had given way to large, feathery snowflakes, wind-driven as they fell from clouds which came lower and lower.

  Sara turned into the dyke and for a while her father followed her without difficulty. Then he grounded on one of the bends and it took him all of five minutes to push off with the quant. But finally they were in the warmth of the kitchen and laughing about their little adventures as they stripped off wet outer clothes. Clearly, there would be no more sailing today.

  As Sara took off her jacket her letter fell to the floor. She picked it up and put it on the pine dresser, deciding to read it after lunch. In the meantime she put potatoes into a bowl and picked up a peeling knife, but her father took it out of her hands.

  ‘I’ll attend to those. I expect you want to change?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes, I do, but—’

  ‘But you don’t think I can do a little job like this? You run along. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  Sara went up the stairs. This domesticated side of her father and his love of doing things out of doors were a continual amazement to her. All these years together and she hadn’t really known him. Did he know her? Did he understand the necessity she felt for standing on her own feet, being independent of him? Apparently he did, for he had never tried to rule her life, and except for his dislike of Des there had never been even the hint of a quarrel between them.

  The thought of Des reminded her that he had not answered her letter. She doubted if he ever did write letters. It was easier to pick up the telephone. But in any case there was nothing for him to answer. She had made it quite plain that she did not feel any profit which came from the leasing of Fenchurch Mill house should go towards the opening of another boutique.

  Sara went to the bathroom and from the landing she heard her father using the telephone. She wondered vaguely whether he was talking to Mrs. Worthing, but her mind was still on Des. If he didn’t like letter writing he could have phoned. Perhaps he had already tried and she had been out, although it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to contact her in the evenings.

  Her father was in the kitchen when she came downstairs and two pans were simmering gently on the stove. He had also opened a can of stewed steak.

  ‘Have you taken over in the galley?’ she chaffed. ‘That stewed steak was supposed to be for the evening meal.’

  He pulled a face at her. ‘That’s been taken care of as well, my girl. It’s Saturday, so we’re dining out.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘Fenchurch Hall Country Club. Dine and dance to Eric’s String Ensemble. Choice Wines and High Class Cuisine.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea! I never for a moment suspected you went in for the gay life.’

  ‘Ah-ha—I don’t do it very often, but there’s plenty of life in the old dog yet.’ He caught hold of her and whirled her around in a waltz. ‘It’s a good thing I thought to throw in my dinner jacket.’

  Sara laughed and released herself. ‘Let me set the table. I’m as hungry as a hunter, and you must be just about famished.’

  They ate lunch in the kitchen and afterwards Eric Seymour spread a large-scale map on the table and studied it for a few moments. Then he spoke to Sara, busy at the sink.

  ‘Here’s the Hall. Quite near to your Mill.’

  She dried her hands and went to lean over his shoulder. ‘So it is. Two miles up river. That’s just beyond the place where we met the honeymooners’ cruiser.’

  ‘Met it! Aren’t you being over-polite? I see there’s a staithe marked here. I wonder if it’s still usable? I’ll phone the Club again and find out.’

  He was on his feet instantly and walking quickly into the hall. Sara went back to her dish-washing, but was soon interrupted again.

  ‘It’s not only open, there are good lights on the quay and a clear path to the Hall. This could be quite an evening.’

  He folded the map and moved to the window and announced that the snow was turning to sleet.

  ‘I thought it might. Those large flakes were very soft. Why not make yourself comfortable in the sitting room for a while? I’ll follow you in a few minutes.’

  It was a quarter of an hour before Sara picked up her letter and went to the other room. She smiled when she saw her father had taken off his shoes and was dozing comfortably in one of the chairs. She chose the settee and kicked off her own shoes and opened the long envelope. A few moments later she sat bolt upright, shocked and indignant. The letter was from a London firm of solicitors informing her that they had been put to some trouble to ascertain her present address, but that now they had done so they would shortly be filing a petition for bankruptcy on behalf of a number of creditors.

  There was some mistake, of course, but Sara could not think how it had arisen. If it had not been Saturday she would have telephoned the solicitors immediately. As it was she would have to contain her worries until Monday. Then she thought of Des. He must be worried, too.

  She went into the hall and dialled the number of the boutique, but failed to make a connection. After several attempts she rang the operator and explained her difficulty. There was a little delay, then a polite voice told her the number was unobtainable.

  ‘Unobtainable? Surely you mean engaged?’

  ‘Would you like me to put you through to the supervisor?’

  ‘If you would. It’s important that I get through.’ Half a minute later Sara put the instrument down. After some insistence on her part and an explanation of who she was, she had been told that the telephone at the boutique had been disconnected because of non-payment of the account. She went back to the sitting room, her worries doubled, and as she walked past her father he roused from his doze.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Sorry I dropped off. It must be all the fresh air I’ve been having.’

  Sara managed a smile. ‘Plus a fairly substantial lunch. I’ve never known you eat so well.’

  She picked up her letter and put it into the drawer of a little writing table, and as she closed the drawer she determined that her worries should stay inside it until Monday morning. She crossed to the window and looked out.

  ‘The sky’s cleared again. I think it might turn out to be a fine evening.’

  He joined her. ‘I find it difficult to get used to the rapid changes in the weather here. Brilliant sunshine one minute—hail and snow in the next—then clear again.’

  ‘I expect it’s with us being so close to the North Sea,’ she said dully. ‘No land between here and the Arctic.’ It was a trivial subject for conversation, but anything was better than letting her mind dwell on the letter. Unconsciously and in an oblique sort of way, however, her father brought her mind back to it.

  ‘I wish you could find some way of holding on to this house permanently, Sara. I’d love to spend my summer weekends here, but I suppose with that business of yours, it’s pretty well impossible.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  Sara felt she had to escape for a while and made the taking of a bath and the resetting of her hair an excuse for going upstairs. For a long while she stood gazing out of the window, wondering just what had happened to bring about this state of affairs. When she had first read the letter she was certain that it was all some stupid mistake which could be cleared up by some telephone call or a quick trip to London. But the cutting-off of th
e telephone had made her feel very uneasy. That was one account which had not been paid. How about the others, totalling nearly a thousand pounds? They were mostly bills from manufacturers of teenage fashions and she remembered quite clearly signing some of the cheques for them. There must be a mistake. There must.

  Sara managed to sound lighthearted and amused as she left the house later with her father, and any other time her laughter would have been genuine enough at the idea of setting out for a dinner-dance wearing a wisp of a frock beneath a heavy coat and Wellington boots. However, her father’s laughter was real enough and the weather was kind to them, so that by the time they reached the staithe, Sara had managed to push her troubles into the background. She clumped from the launch to what seemed a rear entrance to the Hall and her father held open a door for her to step into a softly lighted, oak-panelled vestibule. There was a massive cloak and umbrella stand there with two pairs of wellingtons alongside it. Sara pulled off hers, stepped into her shoes, then entered a door marked Powder-room. A few seconds later she rejoined her father.

  The strains of a Viennese waltz reached them as they stepped into a wide, half-panelled corridor and before Sara had time to look about her they were being greeted by the head waiter. He ushered them through a doorway into a large, high-ceilinged room and to a table in a window recess.

  Sara looked about her with interest. At the further end of the room in a large alcove with a half-shell design for its ceiling, a three-piece string ensemble was accompanied by a piano. Only three couples were dancing and they seemed to have grouped themselves in the very centre of the room under a perfectly huge glass chandelier which was the focal point of a much ornamented ceiling. The heavy plaster work of the ceiling finished at a deeply-moulded cornice and beneath that was a wide frieze depicting a country scene, lavish with garlanded nymphs and shepherds. The lower part of the walls was practically covered with large oil paintings enclosed in massive gilt frames. Sara had the menu in her hand, but was so carried away by the Victorian extravaganza she had hardly glanced at it.

  ‘I’ll take the soup and the Norfolk duckling,’ her father said. ‘How about you, Sara?’

  ‘Oh yes. The same, please.’

  The music stopped and her attention went to the other people. About a dozen tables were occupied, mostly by parties of four, and from them came a discreet murmur of conversation. The atmosphere was grand, yet warm and intimate; that of a great house. She couldn’t help wondering whether Hugh had not been here.

  ‘Will a hock suit you?’ her father asked.

  ‘Yes, please. Sorry, Father, I was miles away.’

  He gave the order and smiled at her as the waiter left them. ‘How distant were you?’

  ‘Only distant in time. I was wondering whether—what the people who first lived here were like,’ she amended swiftly.

  ‘Very solid and respectable, I should think. Father with his frock coat and mutton-chop whiskers standing, in front of that marble fireplace. Mother all in black with a bustle which kept her on the edge of her chair while she crocheted yards and yards of something or other.’

  ‘How about the children?’

  ‘Numerous, but not seen very often, and scarcely ever heard.’ He turned his head as the music began again.

  ‘Come along. Once around the floor while we’re waiting for our soup.’

  Sara thought this might be a time of testing for both of them, but to her surprise her father danced very well. She complimented him on it and he smiled at her.

  ‘You’re not too bad yourself. Guiding most of you young girls is like steering a car with the accelerator jammed hard down.’

  ‘Oh? Where did you get your experience of young girls?’

  ‘A few of my young business associates have even younger wives and they condescend to dance with us ancients. Ah, here’s the waiter with our soup.’

  Sara enjoyed the excellent meal, and after it her father lit a cigar and reminisced about the days of his youth.

  ‘It was at a dance that I first met your mother, not a swell affair like this, of course. What we called a hop. It was in a church hall.’

  Sara felt her eyes grow misty. Very rarely did her father speak of her mother and she realized for the first time how much he must miss her.

  ‘Poor Father,’ she said softly. ‘Life must have been very lonely for you.’

  ‘It was at first, but I had you. But enough of dwelling on the past. Let’s dance. That’s why I brought you here.’

  It was a waltz and they were halfway around the floor when to her surprise Sara saw Hugh and a blonde girl walk into the room. He saw Sara at once, smiled and gave a brief nod, then led the girl into the dance.

  A blonde, Sara thought dully. Not the dark-haired beauty she had imagined, but lovely, nevertheless.

  ‘Isn’t that your bird-man over there?’ her father said suddenly.

  ‘Where?’ she asked with feigned surprise.

  ‘Just passing the trio. He has a girl with him. I wonder if she is the Rosamond of the yacht?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  Sara found herself watching the pair. As she might have expected Hugh danced well and she found herself envying the girl.

  The dance ended and as Sara and her father were walking towards the table they crossed Hugh’s path.

  ‘How nice to see you both,’ he said politely. ‘And how are you liking Fenchurch Millhouse, Mr. Seymour?’

  ‘It’s a marvellous old place. But where’s the young lady who was with you?’

  ‘Gone for her cloak.’ He laughed. ‘As a matter of fact we’re gate-crashers in a small way. A meeting I was addressing upstairs has just ended and Rosa managed to persuade me into bringing her in here for just one dance.’

  ‘Oh, but you mustn’t go yet,’ said Eric Seymour. ‘Join us at our table.’

  Hugh hesitated, then smiled and thanked him. ‘I’ll go and wait for her coming out.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I went for her?’ Sara suggested. ‘She can hardly have got her cloak on yet.’ Hugh nodded and Sara went swiftly towards the cloakroom. She met the other girl coming out, however, and quickly introduced herself.

  ‘Hugh sent me to find you. We—know each other slightly. He’s talking to my father and we’d like you both to join us at our table.’

  ‘Super! Hugh’s meeting was rather stuffy and I’m afraid I’ve heard it all so often before. I’ll just hang my cloak up again. Won’t be a tick.’

  At close quarters Sara thought how young the girl looked. Even younger than herself. How mistaken one could be about a man’s taste in women.

  They went back to the table together, where four chairs had already been arranged. There were no formal introductions, merely an exchange of first names, and Sara was not very surprised to see champagne glasses on the table and a bottle cooling in a silver pail. Her father’s idea, without doubt. She simply must try to enjoy the evening for his sake. Rosa—short for Rosamond—was indeed the girl after whom Hugh’s boat was named.

  The cork popped and the champagne frothed into the glasses. Sara felt the bubbles tingle her nostrils and looked over the edge of her glass at Hugh. He raised his eyebrows slightly and she wondered what he was thinking. She gave a side glance at Rosamond and saw she was laughing gaily at something her father had said.

  ‘Did you—enjoy your lecture tour?’ Sara asked Hugh.

  ‘It was worthwhile,’ he answered, then leaned towards her. ‘They’re playing a slow foxtrot. Can you—’

  ‘Of course.’

  They had taken a few steps together when he said, ‘I confess I’m puzzled about you. How is it you do this kind of dancing so well?’

  She laughed. ‘Father’s efforts to broaden my education. He said he didn’t mind my jiving and twisting so long as I learned real dancing. We argued about what was real, but he finally convinced me I was actually stuck in a rut when it came to dancing. How about you? Pop’s been around for a very long time.’

  ‘I was never a pop add
ict. A good tune—the Latin-American dances—yes. But standing in one spot and just swaying glassy-eyed to beat—no.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Your father seems pretty good at broadening people’s minds. He’s got Rosa on her feet. So far I’ve only managed to get her into the first steps of a waltz.’

  Sara saw that the other girl was thoroughly enjoying herself and thought Hugh must love her very much indeed, especially as they were apparently so different in outlook. To Sara, Rosa seemed the very embodiment of what Hugh disapproved of in herself. At least, to some extent. Rosa must possess some rare qualities indeed.

  The dance over, Hugh led her back to their table murmuring a polite thank you.

  As they sat down, Rosa came tripping toward them.

  ‘Sara, your father’s a wonderful dancer, and he’s a much better teacher than Hugh.’

  She pulled a face at Hugh and sat down. ‘Is it true you live in a windmill?’

  ‘Well, in the house attached to the mill,’ answered Sara.

  ‘I’d love to see it. May I?’

  Sara smiled. It was impossible not to like the girl. ‘Just get Hugh to bring you along. Any time. I’d be glad to show you over it and give you tea or coffee into the bargain, according to the time of day. What about tomorrow?’

  Disappointment showed in the eager young face. ‘I don’t think tomorrow will be any use.’ She half turned. ‘Will it, Hugh?’