“Yes,” says Roger. “The fact is—it’s rather silly, really—I went to a fortune-teller at the fête. She was a most extraordinary woman.”
“Tell Hester about her,” says Margaret, who obviously has been told.
“I don’t believe in fortune-tellers,” declares Roger. “They’re usually idiotic, but this woman was different. She was hideous, of course, and frightfully dirty and disreputable—a regular old gypsy queen, a sort of Meg Merrilees—but there was something positively uncanny about the old hag, believe it or not.”
“She told Roger to take prompt and vigorous action,” explains Margaret, laughing a little. “And Roger took her advice.”
“And got my heart’s desire,” adds Roger, smiling at her fatuously.
There is no more need for me—that’s very plain—so I say good night as quickly as possible and make for the door, but Margaret turns and seizes my hand.
“It was you,” says Margaret, smiling at me with tears in her eyes. “It was all you, really—fortune-tellers are nonsense. I was angry when you said I was a coward, but afterwards I saw—I saw it was true. O Hester, how can I ever thank you enough! I’m going to make Roger happy—it’s going to be all right!”
MONDAY, 22ND APRIL
Bryan has been staying with the Edgeburtons for a fortnight and is arriving at Tocher House today. He is to spend a few days here and then go on to Aberdeen to stay with another school friend for the remainder of the holidays. All this has been arranged by Bryan, who takes after me in liking to have his plans cut and dried, and we have agreed by letter that although it is very distressing to have so little time together it will be better if Bryan is not at Tocher House too long. The summer holidays will be different, of course. We shall spend them at Cobstead en famille—that also is arranged.
As I am too busy to go to the station to meet Bryan, I arrange with Todd to go. To be quite honest I am tremendously excited and yearning to behold my son, but as Erica is extremely scornful and has teased me for days about Bryan I am obliged to dissemble and assume a calm front.
We meet on the steps of the hotel under the eyes of the assembled guests who are waiting for the lunch gong to sound. Erica, also, is present and this being so I greet Bryan with a cool kiss and enquire whether he has had a good journey. Bryan is equally calm. He has grown enormously, and with his long slim legs and his long sleek head seems taller and old for his age. In fact he is so “grown-up” that I feel quite shy of him; he seems a different being from the cheerful schoolboy with the untidy hair, the Bryan who is familiar to me. It is obvious that the assembled company does not disturb him; he takes them in with a smile—not really looking at them at all—and follows me into the house without a backward glance. As I lead the way upstairs we are both completely silent, perhaps because there is nothing more to say. For my part I am already deeply regretting that cool welcome and wishing with all my heart that I had thrown my arms round his neck and hugged him—and be damned to Erica!
It is too late now, of course. The deed is done.
We reach the third landing and I open the door of the little room with sloping roof, which is to be Bryan’s room, and show him in.
“It’s rather small,” I begin, “but I daresay—”
Suddenly I am seized in a bear’s embrace and almost strangled. The strong young arms are hard as steel. They go round me like a vice. “Darling!” cries Bryan. “Oh, what a dear wee Mummy! I’d forgotten you were so small.”
“Bryan!” I gasp. “You’re—breaking—my ribs!”
He gives me another squeeze, more gentle this time, and then releases me, and I collapse onto the bed, laughing in a slightly hysterical manner. Bryan laughs too.
“You’re enormous!” I cry, looking up at him as he stands in the middle of the room.
“I know,” agrees Bryan. “I’ve outgrown all my clothes. But I didn’t realize how absolutely enormous I was until I saw you.” He stretches his arms above his head and touches the ceiling. “Look!” he says grinning.
“You’re a giant.”
“As big as Dad?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
He smiles down at me. “Wasn’t it funny?” he says. “All those queer old beans standing about watching us—they don’t know, do they?”
“No, they certainly don’t.”
“You said, ‘Hullo, Bryan, did you have a good journey?’”
“You said, ‘Yes, thank you. The train was well up to time.’”
“Ha, ha!” laughs Bryan in an uproarious manner. “It was rich, wasn’t it? We took them in beautifully.”
He sits down beside me on the bed and puts his arm round my waist. “Let’s look at you,” he says. “Are they decent to you here? Are you getting lots of food and not being worked to death? Dad says I’m to write and tell him honestly. I shall keep my eyes open and see what’s what, and if I don’t think it’s all right there’ll be trouble. Where’s the kid?”
I inform Bryan that his sister is spending the day at Ryddelton with some friends.
“It’s just as well,” says Bryan. “I’ve got lots to tell you. It will be nice to have you all to myself.”
The lunch gong sounds—a welcome sound to Bryan—and we go downstairs together, once more cool and withdrawn. There is a tacit understanding that this is the way in which we shall behave in the company of our fellow creatures, an understanding arrived at without words.
Erica has started her soup when we reach our seats. She glances at Bryan in a puzzled manner; it is plain he is different from what she expected and that she resents his coolness and poise. We talk about this and that—Bryan behaves beautifully and is neither too voluble nor too silent—but in spite of this I begin to feel as if I were skating on thin ice, ice that cracks in an ominous manner as I go. My nervousness is no help, of course; Erica senses it and becomes more gruff. It is her habit to trample upon people who grovel at her feet.
“I suppose you expect me to let you off for the afternoon,” says Erica suddenly, scowling at me as she speaks.
This remark, though ungraciously worded, does not worry me unduly—for I am aware that Erica intends me to take the afternoon off and spend it talking to my son—but Bryan, not knowing that the thing is arranged and that Erica’s scowl is used by her as cover for a kindly action, is plainly horrified at her rudeness and resents it on my behalf.
“There’s no need for my mother to have the afternoon off,” declares Bryan, getting very red in the face. “There’s no need for her to be here at all, if it comes to that. My mother has plenty of friends to go to—people who appreciate her.”
“You don’t think I appreciate her?” enquires Erica grimly.
“It doesn’t look like it,” replies Bryan, boldly. “I was going to say you speak to her as if she were a scullery maid, only no scullery maid would stand being spoken to like that.”
Erica laughs. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she says. “I say what I think to everybody—it doesn’t matter whether it’s your mother or the scullery maid. Ask your mother, she’ll tell you that’s true.”
Bryan is about to reply but I shake my head violently and he relapses into silence.
Fortunately we have finished our meal, so we need not delay our departure. Erica rises and goes without another word and I lead my son into the lounge.
“Crumbs!” exclaims Bryan, sinking down beside me on the sofa. “What a frightful woman! I suppose I should have held my tongue, but how could I when she spoke to you like that? Are you frightfully fed up with me?”
“No, of course not. It was the best thing you could have done.”
“The best thing . . .” says Bryan, looking at me with eyes like saucers.
“She says what she thinks and she respects people who do the same. It’s logical, but rather unusual.”
“She was furious!”
“She was slightly annoyed, but she’ll get over it and respect you for standing up to her.”
Bryan digests this. “I think sh
e’s awful,” he says at last. “Why on earth do you stick it? Why don’t you go away?”
“I’m perfectly happy here. I like the work.”
“Oh well,” says Bryan in a bewildered manner. “If you like it . . . What have you got to do this afternoon? I mean can we do it together?”
“I’ve got the afternoon off.”
“She said—” begins Bryan, looking at me in surprise. “She said—”
“It was all arranged beforehand. That’s just her way.”
“A mighty funny way!” says Bryan vehemently.
It is no use trying to explain Erica to Bryan, so we leave the subject and make plans for the afternoon. I suggest a visit to the ruins of Salvers Castle, and Bryan agrees and asks if we could take tea with us and have a picnic there.
“What did you do at Langmer’s End?” I enquire, as we set off together through the woods.
“We rode a lot,” replies Bryan. “It was tremendous fun. We helped to cut down trees—Sir Percy is selling a lot of timber. I liked Sir Percy. Hedgehog is frightened of him, of course, but I got on with him all right. I played chess with him every evening. He’s too good for me—very wily—but he gave me a few pieces and it improved my game a lot.”
“Why is Hedgehog frightened of him?” I ask.
“He looks rather terrifying—like an eagle—and of course he jumps on Hedgehog a good deal. He thinks Hedgehog is silly. Fright makes people silly,” says Bryan in a thoughtful voice. “Hedgehog is an absolute terror, really. He’s always getting into trouble. If he gets annoyed he goes for people twice his size without the slightest hesitation—if anybody calls him Percy he just sees red. I told Sir Percy that.” Bryan smiles and adds, “I’d forgotten for the moment that the old man’s name is Percy, too, but he didn’t mind a bit. He laughed and said he used to do the same thing himself. After that he was nicer to Hedgehog.”
“That was good.”
By this time we have reached the ruins and Bryan is suitably impressed by its age and magnitude. He spends about an hour exploring and joins me on the little terrace for tea. We sit in the sunshine watching a heron circling over the river, its great grey wings outspread, circling higher and higher and then turning and sailing downwind in a slow stately dive. It is lovely to be here with Bryan—whom I adore—it is almost too perfect. The sun is warm, the turf is soft, there is a smell of gorse in the air—a golden scent. In the distance is the sound of the river chattering in its stony bed.
“He’s very generous,” says Bryan suddenly. “I mean Sir Percy, of course. When I went to say good-bye he gave me—what do you think! He gave me five quid. He said it was for playing chess with a disagreeable old man and I was to spend it and not put it in the bank . . . so I spent it. I had a whole afternoon shopping in London, it was fun.”
“What did you buy?” I enquire.
Bryan puts his hand in his pocket and brings out a small parcel done up in tissue paper and opening it discloses a little necklace of blue beads. “I thought it was rather pretty,” says Bryan, looking at it doubtfully.
“It’s very pretty,” I declare.
He drops it onto my lap. “For you,” he says gruffly.
“Oh, Bryan!”
“It didn’t cost much,” he assures me. “I mean I had lots over for other things . . .”
WEDNESDAY, 24TH APRIL
Bryan has been here for two days and is leaving tomorrow, and this being so I must make the most of him. He has had his bath and got into bed and when I go in to say good night he motions me to sit down.
“Let’s have a good old talk,” says Bryan persuasively.
This was always his plea at bedtime, so it makes me smile.
“I know,” says Bryan nodding. “It’s like old times, isn’t it? I used to think up all sorts of excuses to keep you talking.”
I sit down on the bed. “Shall I tell you the story of the three bears?” I enquire.
“One bear is enough,” replies Bryan seriously. “She’s a terror. It’s just as well I’m going away tomorrow—”
“I thought you were getting on better with her, Bryan.”
“Yes,” he replies. “Oh yes. We haven’t actually come to blows, but I don’t like her at all. She gets my goat.”
“She’s very kind-hearted.”
“She’s rude,” declares Bryan. “She may have a kind heart—I’m willing to believe it if you say so—but why should people have to put up with her rude manner?”
“You put up with Sir Percy,” I remind him.
“That’s quite different,” says Bryan quickly. “He wasn’t rude, exactly. He was just a bit crochety, and Sir Percy is old and ill. I’m terribly sorry for him. Miss Clutterbuck is as fit as a fiddle so she shouldn’t need special consideration. You see, don’t you?”
“Yes—but—”
“Everybody treats her as if she were an invalid or something!” exclaims Bryan. “Everybody kow-tows to her as if she were a queen! And all the time it’s only because she’s got a devilish temper and they want a little peace—it’s disgusting!”
I think about this seriously before replying. To a certain extent Bryan’s dictum is true, yet it gives a completely false picture of Erica, a picture in which the really important features are missing. Bryan has seen the ungracious manner; he has not seen the woman who hides herself behind it, the woman of pure gold. If I were in trouble I would go straight to Erica, knowing I could depend upon her loyalty and strength and that she would stand by me through thick and thin without counting the cost. She has other good points, but this alone makes her a worthwhile friend. Why can’t Bryan see the real Erica? It is all the more curious because Betty, who is less intelligent and much less sensitive, saw the real Erica at once.
“She’s difficult to know,” I tell Bryan thoughtfully. “I didn’t like her at first. It’s only when you get to know her that you realize—”
“Oh yes,” agrees Bryan, interrupting. “I can see you like her and I can see she’s quite decent to you according to her lights, but that isn’t the point. The point is why should people have to bear her rudeness?”
“You don’t understand her, Bryan.”
“Listen,” says Bryan earnestly. “Listen, Mummy. This is important and I want to know. You always say nothing excuses rudeness—it’s one of your things—so why do you excuse it in her?”
I can find no answer and I tell him so.
THURSDAY, 25TH APRIL
Bryan’s short stay at Tocher House comes to an end today and we set off together in the car for Ryddelton Station. He is going by the three o’clock train and seems a little surprised when I suggest starting shortly after two, but I explain that the car is old and unreliable and we must not risk losing the train.
It is colder today, windy and showery, with grey skies—and these tone in very well with my depressed mood. Bryan is such a dear that I hate parting from him, and he feels the same as I know by his forced cheerfulness and his repeated assurances that we shall all be together for two whole months in the summer holidays.
The car behaves well. It careers along merrily and even consents to be coaxed into top gear on level stretches of road. We shall be at the station far too soon, of course, and shall have to walk up and down the platform, getting thoroughly chilled before the train is due. I feel annoyed with myself for my over anxiousness. Why can’t I behave like other people and take a chance?
Bryan is annoyed, too. His mood has suddenly changed—probably because of the imminence of his departure—and he has become tetchy and irritable. He points out there was no need to start so early, we shall be in plenty of time to catch the train before the one he wants to go by.
I agree that it looks like that, but you never can tell.
Bryan says what’s the matter with the car? It’s old, of course, and looks as if it had come out of the ark and the gears seem rather queer—unless it’s the way I’m driving it.
I reply that the gears are more than queer.
There seems to be
plenty of life in the engine, Bryan says.
I tell him to touch wood, but Bryan says no, it isn’t a case for touching wood. You touch wood when you’ve been boasting about something. He isn’t boasting.
“And anyhow,” says Bryan crossly, “we oughtn’t to pander to silly superstitions, they’re absolutely pagan. They’re a survival of belief in malignant gods, that’s what they are.”
At this moment the engine ceases to function. It simply dies. We drift very gently down to the bottom of a steep incline and come to rest at the side of the road.
“What’s up?” enquires Bryan.
“It’s stopped, that’s all,” I reply.
“Try the self-starter,” suggests Bryan hopefully.
I try it with determination but without result.
“Let’s see now,” says Bryan, who has quite recovered his temper. “You’ve plenty of petrol, I suppose. Yes, the tank is full. It might be an air-lock, of course. I’ll try cranking it.”
He cranks until his face is crimson and I beg him to desist.
“It’s no good,” I tell him. “We had better walk. It’s only about a mile and we might get a lift.”
“I’ll have a look at the carburettor, first,” says Bryan cheerfully.
He looks at the carburettor, he takes out the plugs, he examines the magneto. I help him as best I can, handing him the tools and encouraging him with words of praise. To tell the truth I am filled with admiration and astonishment for he knows exactly what he is doing and he is doing it quite calmly and without the slightest fuss. If this had happened to Tim he would have been irritated beyond measure, he would have worked to the accompaniment of muttered curses and consigned the car to the nether regions—to which I am convinced it belongs. It is not so much that Bryan is better-tempered than Tim, but merely different and therefore annoyed by different things. I reflect upon this curious dispensation of Providence as I hand Bryan the box-spanner and send up a silent prayer that his wife—when he gets one—will appreciate him and assess his qualities at their true worth.
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 23
