Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  He passed over this lightly, for even now he could not bear to think of it (it was beyond all limits of endurance). Even now he sometimes awoke in the middle of the night and imagined himself in that dim cell with the stone walls and the grated window, and he would have to get up and walk about to calm his nerves and to control the trembling of his limbs. What alarmed him most was the fact that the accusation was a trumped-up charge with no shadow of truth behind it — and this meant they had something else against him, he didn’t know what. He was not questioned nor had he any trial, he was simply put in prison and kept there for months … and then one day the prison door was opened and he was told to go. No explanation was given, Robert never knew the real reason for his imprisonment nor the reason for his sudden and unexpected release. It remained a mystery.

  The shock of his release was almost too much for him, he could hardly walk. He waited until dark and made his way to the British sector of the city and fainted in a sentry’s arms. After that he remembered no more until he awoke in hospital and the nurse told him he had been ill for weeks.

  Robert told them all this and more. Once he had started he found it easier than he had expected and it was a relief to get it off his chest. They listened intently and without remark; Caroline sat gazing at the fire, she did not move, she did not look at him. At last he came to the end of his story and there was silence.

  James was the first to speak. “How frightful!” he said in a low voice. “I couldn’t have stood it. Few people could have come through it alive — and sane.”

  “I don’t think I was very sane when I came to Ashbridge,” Robert replied.

  “What made you come here?” asked Harriet.

  “It was pure chance,” he told her. “I was standing looking at the ruins of Chelsea Old Church when a girl came up and spoke to me. She was the first person in London who seemed to care what became of me, and I was grateful to her. I told her a little of what I was feeling and she listened — I felt her sympathy. ‘You must go away,’ she said. ‘Go anywhere. Go to Ashbridge. It’s quiet enough there!’ The girl was Rhoda Ware.”

  “Rhoda!” exclaimed James in amazement.

  He nodded. “Yes, Rhoda. Of course I didn’t know it was Rhoda until I saw her last night. I remembered her at once, there couldn’t be two people in the world with hair like that, and surprisingly enough she remembered me. She was astonished to find I had taken her advice and come to Ashbridge; she seemed quite shocked. I had taken her casual words seriously and acted upon them. ‘But I might have said anything,’ she told me, ‘I might have said go to Timbuctoo. Would you have gone?’”

  “How like Rhoda!” said James, smiling.

  They all smiled, it was a relief to smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PETER PODBURY was the son of Silas, the ironmonger at Ashbridge, he was nine years old and he held the distinction of being the only only-child in the Podbury connection. Silas had to endure a good deal of chaff on the subject of his family but it worried him not at all; he usually replied to it by saying that one was enough — when that one was Peter — and that more than one Peter would have driven him and Lily, stark, staring mad. Peter was angelic in appearance; he had fair curly hair, a wide, innocent forehead and large blue eyes; and when he sat in the choir attired in a large Eton collar and a snowy white surplice he looked too good to live … but beneath that snowy surplice there beat a heart full of mischief and behind that wide, white forehead dwelt a brain that was forever plotting devilries.

  Peter was popular with his contemporaries for he was amusing and his imagination was fertile. There was never a dull moment in Peter’s company. It was Peter who led a band armed with catapults to an empty house and instructed it by example and precept to break a number of windows; it was Peter who baited the bull at Betterlands Farm, who found a board saying ROAD CLOSED and diverted the traffic in the High Street; it was Peter who haunted the building site and set booby traps for the workmen, and it was most certainly Peter who climbed on to the roof of the village hall and put back the hands of the clock.

  This last exploit, undertaken in company with his faithful crony, Ted Mumper, was the most amusing in Peter’s estimation, for the bus to Wandlebury went by the village clock and was twenty minutes late in starting — and therefore twenty minutes late in arriving at its destination. Passengers who had important appointments in Wandlebury were annoyed to find themselves belated, and passengers who had intended to catch the London train were even more annoyed to arrive at Wandlebury station in time to see the train disappearing rapidly in the distance.

  Silas Podbury was an old-fashioned parent and used the strap freely. Lily Podbury had modern ideas about bringing up her child; she bought books on child psychology and tried out the methods recommended, but neither the strap nor the psychology had any effect upon Peter. He was incorrigible. It was not that Peter intended to be naughty — far from it — but when an idea came into his head he could not resist putting it into practice. It was such fun to watch the traffic turn into a back street and become hopelessly entangled. (When you knew that you, yourself, had accomplished this diverting mess it was absolutely enchanting.) It was such fun to watch the bus standing idle and to know that it should have been well on its way to Wandlebury by this time — and would have been but for you. It was such fun to aim a stone at a window and to hear the satisfactory crack which meant a direct hit had been registered … and to see the splinters flying in all directions. It was such fun to hear the workmen swearing when a pail of water tipped on to their heads. Was it Peter’s fault that he was visited by so many marvellous ideas — ideas of such a varied nature?

  Caroline had promised Anne Severn to help with the Christmas carols, so she walked over to church on Saturday morning. The choir practice had begun when she got there so she sat down in a front pew and watched and listened. Peter did not look quite so angelic as usual without his surplice, but his voice was lovely; he was singing a verse of The Holly and the Ivy as a solo … his singing reminded Caroline of a bird. When she shut her eyes she could see a thrush upon a spray of hawthorn. It was spring and the sun was shining in a clear blue sky.

  Several other people had come for the practice: the Meldrums and Robert Shepperton and Violet Podbury, who was in the telephone exchange.

  When Robert saw Caroline he came across the aisle and sat down beside her. “What a lovely voice that boy has got!” he whispered.

  Caroline nodded. “He looks so beautiful, too,” she said. “But as a matter of fact he’s an imp of mischief. People say he’s the worst boy in Ashbridge — but you can’t help liking him, somehow.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” said Robert thoughtfully.

  Caroline had not seen Robert since Wednesday, when he had told them the story of his experiences in Berlin, and she felt a little awkward with him. She had been thinking about him constantly, thinking of all he had endured: the loneliness, the danger, the discomfort. The story had moved her so deeply that she could hardly bear it … now, here he was, sitting beside her and smiling at her as if nothing had happened. She realised that it was foolish to feel like this for it was all past and Robert had come through it without harm.

  “Robert,” she said, looking up at him. “I couldn’t say anything on Wednesday. I wanted to say so much.”

  He was still smiling as he turned his head towards her, but his smile was different. “I could feel your sympathy —” he began.

  At that moment Mrs. Meldrum approached. “I don’t know what you think,” said Mrs. Meldrum in a low voice, “but I think it’s absurd to have The Holly and the Ivy. It’s so hackneyed. We should have something fresh.”

  “But people like the old carols best,” objected Caroline. “And Peter sings it so beautifully —”

  “Peter shouldn’t be in the choir at all,” declared Mrs. Meldrum.

  “How can you say that?” Caroline returned. “It’s good for him to sing and it’s good for us to listen … who are we to say Peter
shouldn’t sing in the choir!”

  Anne had followed Mrs Meldrum; she was amused at the exchange, for it was a well-known joke in Ashbridge that the two ladies always took opposite views. Anne agreed with Mrs. Dering; she intended to have The Holly and the Ivy, and she knew that neither her father nor Mr. Forbes would dream of turning Peter out of the choir (her father because he was of the opinion put forward by Mrs. Dering, and Mr. Forbes because Peter was his best treble), but Anne was the vicar’s daughter and had learned to hold her peace. So, instead of airing her own ideas, Anne smiled and asked if Mrs. Dering and Mrs. Meldrum were ready for the next carol in which they had promised to take part.

  “‘Unto us a boy is born,’” said Anne persuasively. “It’s a lovely carol, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely,” agreed Mrs. Meldrum. “And so appropriate … I mean the little prince, of course.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Caroline. “Oh, but really” and then she stopped, for Anne had caught her hand and was squeezing it gently. The gentle squeeze said a good deal. Don’t, it said. Just leave it. The woman doesn’t mean any harm — she’s a fool, that’s all — and nothing we can say will do any good. So Caroline swallowed the things she had meant to say and opened her book of carols without more ado.

  It was raining when they came out of church. Those who had brought umbrellas unfurled them and hastened away, but Caroline was umbrella-less, so she sat down in the porch hoping that the shower would soon be over. She was joined by Robert, who sat down on the opposite seat.

  “I think it will be over soon,” said Caroline, looking out at the slanting spears of rain.

  “Not too soon, I hope,” replied Robert. “As a matter of fact I want to talk to you about something, Caroline.”

  At this moment the church door opened and Peter Podbury and his friend Ted Mumper appeared. They lingered in the porch.

  “You aren’t frightened of a little rain, are you?” inquired Robert.

  “Not us,” replied Ted. “We’re just waiting for — for something.”

  “You sang beautifully, Peter,” said Caroline.

  “Yes,” agreed Peter, who had no false pride about him. “Yes, it was pretty good, wasn’t it? I like carols — they give you a nice feeling inside,” and he began to sing softly:

  “The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown,

  “Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown

  “The rising of the sun and the running of the deer,

  “The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing of the choir.”

  The others joined in. Robert had a very pleasant soft baritone. It was really a delightful rendering of the quaint old lay.

  Mr. Spawl, the verger, came out just as they were finishing. He locked the church door with a large key. “That was nice,” he said. “You ought to be in the choir, Mr. Shepperton. I suppose you’re waiting for the rain to go off, Mrs. Dering. What are you boys waiting for?”

  “For the rain to go off, Mr. Spawl,” replied Peter, looking up at him with large blue, innocent eyes.

  Mr. Spawl stared at him suspiciously. “Waiting for the rain to go off?” he said in doubtful tones. “You’ve got your waterproofs —”

  “There isn’t no harm in sheltering, is there, Mr. Spawl?”

  “Well … no pranks, Peter,” said Mr. Spawl, and with that he hurried away down the path.

  The boys giggled.

  Caroline felt pretty sure they were up to something. “What are you waiting for — really and truly?” she inquired.

  “For Mr. Spawl to go off,” said Ted, grinning mischievously. “The rain don’t bother us, but he does. He’s a silly old geezer.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s nothing wrong,” Peter assured her. “Old Spawl wouldn’t like it, but that don’t mean it’s wrong. Old Spawl thinks the churchyard belongs to him — but it don’t.”

  “It belongs to Peter,” added Ted.

  “The churchyard belongs to Peter?” asked Caroline in surprise.

  “’Cos why?” said Peter. “‘Cos there’s hundreds of Podburys here — an’ if that don’t mean it belongs to the Podburys what does?”

  “So the churchyard belongs to you,” said Robert with a thoughtful smile. “I don’t know whether the law would agree with that, but it certainly seems to give you a claim. What do you intend to do with your property, Peter?”

  The boys looked at one another. “’Tisn’t wrong,” declared Peter. He took a piece of cord and some large wooden pegs out of his pocket as he spoke.

  “Rabbit-snares,” nodded Robert. “Yes, it’s quite a neat little poacher’s trick. I used to set them when I was a boy.”

  “’Tisn’t wrong,” repeated Peter with some anxiety.

  “No, I don’t think your ancestors would object. They probably knew a good deal about these toys. Let me see — how does it go?”

  Caroline was less easy in her mind. Peter’s ancestors might not object, but she felt sure Mr. Spawl would be shocked at the idea of a rabbit-snare in the churchyard … and Mr. Spawl was the custodian, he was alive and active, whereas Peter’s ancestors were not. She tried to explain her views to her companions but they were deaf to her words. She was one against three — one female against three males imbued with the instinct for hunting and killing, an instinct which has survived since prehistoric ages when man went forth from his cave armed with flint arrows to hunt the mammoth in forests and swamps. Caroline might have saved her breath and, being a sensible woman, she soon realised this fact and ceased to interfere.

  The boys had discovered a rabbit-run between two gravestones (Podbury gravestones, said Peter, who obviously was of the opinion that this gave him a legal right to set his traps there) and they had seen several rabbits using the run. They explained to Mr. Shepperton that they wanted to catch two if possible, one for Peter’s family dinner and one for Ted’s. Mr. Shepperton took the cord and the pegs and showed them how the noose should be made and the distance from the ground at which the noose must be suspended to catch the rabbit’s head. The boys leaned against him — one each side — and absorbed his instruction avidly.

  Caroline felt it was the wrong place for instruction of this nature, but in spite of her misgivings she was enchanted at the sight of Robert manipulating the cord and the pegs, and of the boys leaning upon him so confidingly. Robert had always seemed so mature — so much a man of the world — this was a new side of Robert and a side which seemed to Caroline very endearing. She thought of Philip and decided that Philip had chosen wrongly when he had given up this father and attached himself to another … Mr. Honeymoon might be everything that was good and kind and generous, but Robert was an ideal father for a boy.

  It was still raining but there was a brightness in the sky and the slanting spears of silver rain were full of rainbow colours. It would be fine in another ten minutes and Caroline would get home dry. Meanwhile the boys, having absorbed all the information possible upon the subject of rabbit-snares, had begun to chat about other matters. They had accepted Mr. Shepperton as a friend so their conversation was uninhibited and amusing.

  “It was a loverly pick-cher,” Peter was saying. “Me an’ Ted went over to Wandlebury an’ saw it. You’d like it, Mr. Shepperton — wouldn’t he, Ted? It was about a chap what had a father an’ a mother, an’ there was another chap, an’ he poisoned the chap’s father — see? Nobody knowed about it. He did it quiet-like. Then, what does he do but marry the chap’s mother straight off. Well, the chap doesn’t like this much, an’ he begins to get a bit suspicious, an’ then he goes out in a fog an’ he meets a funny old geezer what tells him his father was murdered — spills the beans good and proper. So then the chap gets in a wax an’ goes after his mother an’ nearly shakes the life out of her … an’ then he finds an old chap listening behind the curtain so he lays him out … he’s gone a bit queer in the head, see?”

  “You’ve forgotten the bit when he has a row with his girl,” put in Ted.


  “Crumbs, so I have! This chap has a row with his girl an’ he knocks her down an’ leaves her lying on the stairs, howling,” said Peter with relish.

  “What a dreadful film!” Caroline exclaimed. “It’s positively wicked to make films like that!”

  “It’s great,” declared Peter. “You’d like it, Mrs. Dering. Honestly you would. It gets more exciting and more exciting all the time. The next thing is the chap goes for a cruise an’, while he’s away, his girl goes off her chump an’ throws herself in the river an’ drowns herself — see? So then they have to dig a grave for her. Lots of people have been buried there before — just like Ashbridge churchyard — an’ they digs up a whole lot of bones. Then they gets busy burying the girl, an’ ’alfway through the service Hamlet arrives home—”

  “Hamlet!” cried Caroline in amazement.

  “That’s the chap’s name — see?” explained Peter.

  Peter could never understand why his audience, which had been listening so intently to his story, suddenly burst out laughing … and laughed and laughed and laughed. He was very anxious to continue, for — as he had so truly said — the story became more and more exciting as it went on; but the laughter spoilt everything, and when at last Mrs. Dering and Mr. Shepperton managed to control themselves and were blowing their noses and wiping their eyes, the rain had stopped and it was nearly time for dinner.

  “I dunno,” said Peter in perplexed tones as he and Ted watched the audience walk down the path together.