Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s a funny name — Hamlet,” suggested Ted.

  “Not as funny as all that,” objected Peter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “WE OUGHT to have a party,” said Leda. “We haven’t had a party for years — not since we were children.”

  Caroline was dubious. “What sort of a party?” she inquired.

  “Not a dinner, of course,” replied Leda.

  “No indeed!” cried her mother in horrified tones.

  “An evening party,” said Harriet. “We could have hock-cup and cake and little biscuits. What about that?”

  Caroline said that was more like it, she had just received an American parcel full of dried fruit and fat and crystallised cherries, so a large cake and some little biscuits were not beyond her powers.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Herbert about hock, or something,” said James. “You can leave the drink to me.”

  “Let’s have it soon,” said Leda. “Let’s have it next week — it’s horrid waiting for things. I’ll ring up Derek and see what day he could come.”

  “That’s very short notice,” objected Caroline. “Why not wait till after Christmas?”

  “Nonsense,” exclaimed Harriet. “You never send out long invitations nowadays. I’m often asked to parties the same day — and they aren’t fiddler’s invitations. We’ll make out a list and the girls can ring up everybody and tick them off, it’s much the easiest way.”

  Caroline protested feebly but was overruled, for if Miss Harriet Fane didn’t know what was what, who did?

  The list was not difficult to make; it was the sort of party to which everybody they knew could be invited (everybody within ten miles, for you could not expect people to come farther with petrol so scarce and precious). There were thirty names on Leda’s list and Caroline added a few more.

  “Not enough,” Harriet said. “The room will be bare and the party will be a flop. We can count on about half the people accepting, so—”

  “Half the people!” Caroline cried. “You may know all about London but you don’t know the first thing about Ashbridge. If we ask thirty people we may expect at least thirty-five. People ring up and say ‘I’d love to come, may I bring Aunt Susan? She loves parties.’ Or else ‘My niece will be here for the Christmas holidays, do you mind if I bring her along?’ Thirty-five people will be enough. We can open the double doors between the drawing-room and the dining-room.”

  “We can act a play!” cried Bobbie. “Here’s Aunt Harrie! It would be a frightful waste not to act a play.”

  “Not unless I can be an animal,” said the famous Miss Fane firmly. “I don’t mind acting with you if I can be an animal … we might do Goldilocks and the Three Bears or Beauty and the Beast —”

  “Or St. George and the Dragon,” suggested Caroline sarcastically. “I should love to see you and James as St. George and the Dragon.”

  “We might and all,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “A Morality Play … yes, it’s quite an idea.”

  Harriet was intrigued with the idea of a Morality Play — it would be amusing and it could be quite informal — and after some persuasion, James said he was willing to play the part of St. George if he didn’t have to speak.

  “If you don’t have to speak!” exclaimed his aunt in surprise.

  “I can’t stand up and spout in front of all those people,” said James firmly. “I’ll do it if I don’t have to speak.”

  This pronouncement might have discouraged a woman with less initiative and resource, but it did not discourage Miss Fane. She decided that it must be a Mumming Play and she would have a spokesman to speak the lines and explain the action. Her choice for this role fell on Robert Shepperton. Robert needed even more persuasion than James, but at last gave in and said he would be the spokesman if he need not appear upon the stage. Harriet pinned him down at once, he could remain hidden behind the curtain. She was thus possessed of a cast, one of whom refused to be heard and the other refused to be seen, but she was still quite undaunted. She was undaunted by the fact that she was author, producer, wardrobe-mistress and one of the chief actors; nothing could daunt Miss Fane … except silence and burglars.

  The production necessitated a great deal of rehearsal, which meant that Robert was to be found at Vittoria Cottage pretty frequently and for long periods, and the cast of three shut itself up in the drawing-room. From the beginning the producer found her cast obstreperous. Robert and James had their own ideas about the production and aired them without fear or favour.

  “Those doggerel rhymes of yours are frightful, Aunt Harriet,” said James. “A Mumming Play should be written in Spenserian English.”

  It was the outraged author who replied, “Write it yourself, then,” but nobody was more surprised than she when James sat down and re-wrote it and presented her with something a good deal better than her own crude effort (she acknowledged at once that James had outdone her, for there was nothing small or petty about Harriet). Robert was surprised, too. He realised that James had managed to catch the true atmosphere of the Mumming Play — his lines had the authentic touch, Robert thought.

  Harriet had not intended that the play should be a secret from the other inhabitants of Vittoria Cottage, but the interruptions nearly drove her mad. Caroline looked in to see if there was anything they wanted; Bobbie looked in and giggled uncontrollably; Leda looked in and offered useless advice; Comfort came in to make up the fire and lingered to chat. The cast was difficult enough to control without the complication of fond admirers and half-baked critics, and at last the producer lost patience and locked the door.

  “I’m sorry,” said the producer, “but if we don’t get a little peace we can’t possibly be ready by Wednesday.”

  So the Mumming Play was nourished in secret, and in secret it took form and grew to maturity. A great deal of talk and laughter came from behind the locked door and occasionally shrieks of agony — which might be supposed to emanate from a wounded dragon. It was obvious that Harriet and James and Robert were having a good time.

  Caroline was glad to hear them enjoying themselves … or at least she tried very hard to be glad. It was ridiculous to feel shut out. They were rehearsing the play and, as she was not taking part in the play, they did not need her. She told herself this several times a day, she besought herself not to be silly. Robert had liked her … he still liked her, but he liked Harriet better. How natural that was! Harriet was younger than herself, younger, gayer and prettier, naturally Robert liked Harriet, any one would … and of course Harriet liked Robert; that, too, was natural.

  There was no doubt about it in Caroline’s mind. She had seen, at the Wares’ party, that Robert and Harriet had liked one another immensely, and her surmise had been confirmed when she had watched them playing with the leaves. Robert was still friendly and kind towards her — he had been delightfully friendly the day they had gone to the carol practice — but with Harriet he was on a different footing altogether.

  James noticed it, too, and teased his aunt gently about her boy-friend. “Gooseberry is my middle name,” said James, heaving a sigh.

  “Donkey is your middle name,” retorted his aunt, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  It was not until now, when she saw that she had lost Robert, that Caroline discovered how much he meant to her … she looked back and tried to determine exactly when her friendship for him had grown into love. It was a useless occupation, of course, and quite fruitless, for now it seemed to Caroline that she had always loved him. Perhaps the seed had been sown all those years ago at Elsinore and had lain dormant in her heart. She loved him in all sorts of different ways: she admired his character and enjoyed his humour, she felt an immense tenderness towards him and her heart beat faster when he was there. These feelings were so strong that they were difficult to disguise, and it was only by damping herself down that she could bear to be in the same room with him.

  Fortunately Caroline had learnt the lesson of renunciation; her life had taught her how to withdraw gra
cefully inside herself and how to bear disappointment and heartache with a smiling face, so instead of brooding upon her troubles she tried to banish them. She set to work and made a cake for the party. It was to be a magnificent cake, large and rich, full of eggs and fruit — an absolute pre-war cake. Comfort stood at her elbow, watching eagerly, helping to beat the mixture, breathing heavily with her exertions and chatting the while.

  “They’re having fun, aren’t they?” Comfort said. “It’s nice, isn’t it? It’s nice for Mr. James to have a bit of fun after all those years in Malay. I like that Mr. Shepperton, he’s nice, isn’t he? When he looks at you he really looks at you — with his eyes smiling — as if he really sees you. It sounds silly-like, but lots of people don’t. Lots of people look at you as if you were a chair or something — but he doesn’t. It’s almost as if he knew all about you,” said Comfort thoughtfully. “Not that he could know, of course — him being a real gentleman as anybody can see — I mean he couldn’t know, what it’s like to be poor and fat and have troubles, could be, Mrs. Dering? But it seems as if he did.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” said Caroline.

  Comfort was aware that something was worrying Mrs. Dering. It was that Miss Leda, she supposed. She wanted to do something for Mrs. Dering, to cheer her up and make her feel better — but what could she do?

  “It’s nice having the house full of people, isn’t it?” continued Comfort with determined cheerfulness. “Beryl was saying to me the other day, ‘You must be having a time of it,’ she says. ‘All those people in the house,’ she says. ‘I wonder you stand it — I wouldn’t.’ But Beryl’s lazy, that’s what’s the matter with her. I like the housefull. It’s cheery. Mr. James — well, he is a caution, isn’t he? And Miss Fane is nice. I like Miss Fane … the things she says! She doesn’t ’arf make me laugh. You’d never think she was a wonderful actress, would you?”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Caroline agreed.

  “It’ll be nice on Wednesday night,” Comfort continued. “I like parties. I like a bit of excitement. Mother wondered if you’d like her to come and help; she looks nice in her black dress and I could lend her an apron. She’d be nicer than me for handing round trays and that, wouldn’t she?”

  “Nobody could be nicer than you,” said Caroline in a shaky voice. She turned from the table and stood looking out of the window.

  Comfort was aghast. Something frightful was the matter — and what could she do? What could she do to help?

  “I’ll have that treatment,” said Comfort, playing her last card.

  “You’ll … what did you say?” asked Caroline in surprise.

  “I’ll take that stuff,” said Comfort. “That celluloid or whatever it’s called … the stuff to make me thin. I will, really, I’ll go and see doctor to-morrow.”

  “But, Comfort —”

  “You’d like me to, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Bering?”

  “Comfort …” began Caroline, and then she stopped. What on earth was she to say?

  Comfort had intended to cheer up Mrs. Bering and take her mind off her trouble (whatever it was), and, although she might not have accomplished her first object, she most certainly had accomplished her second. She had given Mrs. Bering a problem which required careful thought, and Mrs. Bering immediately banished her own problem and gave her mind to the problem of Comfort. She turned round and leant against the dresser and looked at Comfort earnestly. “Do you really want to have the treatment?” she asked.

  “Yes,” nodded Comfort.

  “I don’t want you to have it if you’re frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened,” said Comfort boldly. “I’ll see about it to-morrow. You’d like me to be thin, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Bering?”

  “You won’t be thin,” said Caroline hastily.

  “Well — thinner,” amended Comfort. “You’d like that —”

  “I don’t mind,” said Caroline, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t mind a bit, Comfort. I like you as you are and I should like you just the same if you were thinner. It’s for your own sake I should like you to be thinner — not for mine.”

  She had put it as plainly as she knew how, but she had little hope that Comfort would understand — and Comfort didn’t.

  “But you’d like it,” Comfort said.

  Caroline sighed. The responsibility was hers and whatever she said or did she could not escape it. “Why not wait?” she suggested. “Ask your mother —”

  “I know what she’d say — just the same as she said before — and it isn’t a bit of use waiting. I want to be thin soon.”

  “Really?” asked Caroline. “Are you quite sure?” Comfort nodded. “You’d like it,” she said.

  The responsibility was firmly fixed. “Yes,” said Caroline, making up her mind and at the same time deciding that, if it were to be, there must be nothing half-hearted about it. “Yes, I should like it. I’ll come with you to Dr. Smart and we’ll find out all about the treatment and fix it up. Meantime I think it would be better not to tell any one — not even your mother.”

  “Not tell Mother?” asked Comfort in surprise.

  “Not tell any one,” said Caroline (for the responsibility was hers and she was taking the risk, and the risk would be greatly increased if Mrs. Podbury knew what was going on and worried Comfort by prodding and poking at her and asking if she were beginning to feel “queer”). “Not tell any one at all,” repeated Caroline firmly. “It will be a secret between you and me.”

  So saying, Caroline took up her spoon and began to beat her cake mixture with energy and determination … and, to Comfort’s joy, she looked quite cheerful.

  *

  The day of the party arrived. It was a busy day for everybody. Caroline was polishing furniture. Bobbie was polishing glass, Harriet and James had undertaken the all-important task of mixing the “cup,” and as this necessitated a good deal of tasting they became quite merry over it. The telephone had been ringing all morning (some of the guests had found they could not come after all, and others were anxious to bring someone else with them), so it surprised nobody when it rang again, and James had no qualms as he lifted the receiver.

  “It’s Oxford,” said James. “Where’s Leda? Somebody tell Leda it’s Oxford.”

  “Leda has gone out,” said Bobbie. “You had better take a message, James. I hope it isn’t to say Derek can’t come; she’ll be in an awful rage.”

  The same idea had occurred to Caroline and she listened anxiously while James took the message, for although only one side of a telephone conversation is audible to eavesdroppers, it is often possible to guess its trend.

  “Yes,” said James. “Yes, I’m James Dering. Can I take a message? … Good heavens!” cried James. “How did it happen? … Gosh, what bad luck! … Yes, I see … yes, is he getting on all right? … yes, it was … no, of course not … yes, tell him we’re all very sorry indeed …”

  “Derek has broken his leg,” said James as he laid down the receiver. “That was a Miss Bright. Derek was staying at the Brights’ house for the night, and this morning he fell down the stairs and broke his leg. The doctor set it and says it will be all right, but he’s not to be moved. Miss Bright phoned to let us know he couldn’t come to the party.”

  Everybody exclaimed at once and continued to exclaim and to ask James questions which he could not answer. They were still discussing the matter and regretting poor Derek’s misfortune when Leda returned. Leda was horror-stricken at the news, she wanted to ring up the Brights and ask for further information, she wanted to start off to Oxford at once, she wanted to put off the party.

  “Don’t be an ass, Leda,” said James with brotherly candour. “Derek will be all right; the girl said so. A broken leg is nothing; it simply means he’ll be in bed for a few weeks, that’s all. He wouldn’t thank you for making a fuss. I expect he feels an awful fool — anybody would. Fancy falling down the stairs!” said James, chuckling heartlessly. “Falling down the stairs! As for puttin
g off the party that’s impossible and absurd. It’s far too late to put off the party … and why should we anyhow? You’d think the fellow had broken his neck!”

  Leda listened to James — he was the only person who could make her listen. “Yes,” said Leda quite meekly. “Yes — well — perhaps he wouldn’t like a fuss. You’re sure they said he was getting on all right, I suppose?”

  “I’ve told you,” said James. “1 can’t tell you any more. We can ring up to-morrow if you want to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  VITTORIA COTTAGE looked very gay in its gala attire. The drawing-room had been arranged to make more space for the guests, the folding doors were open, there were flowers everywhere. Caroline made up the fire carefully and had a last look round to see that everything was as it should be. She moved a chair slightly and rearranged a bowl of white chrysanthemums and then went slowly upstairs to dress. It was so long since she had given a party that she was nervous — she felt quite shivery with nerves — and the fact that she was upset about other matters added to her unease.

  Like Martha, she was anxious about many things. First and foremost there was her own private and secret trouble and the necessity for keeping it a secret, the necessity for hiding it behind a smiling face so that nobody should guess she was unhappy. Then there was the responsibility of Comfort’s treatment. Comfort was taking the treatment for her sake — she knew that, of course — and therefore it was up to her to see that it was properly carried out. Caroline had undertaken to measure out the medicine and give it to Comfort at the proper hours; a most necessary precaution; for Comfort, though a perfect dear, was also a perfect fool and was quite capable of forgetting the medicine for a whole day and then taking a double dose to make up for lost time. Comfort had now been taking the medicine for three days and so far she was no thinner; this did not surprise Caroline, who had not expected a miracle to occur, but it surprised and disappointed Comfort, who had. Comfort measured herself all over several times a day with a tape-measure which she had bought for the purpose, and several times a day she reported the lack of progress to her mistress. It had been funny at first, but now it had ceased to be funny and had become annoying and slightly alarming. Was this the first symptom of “queerness”? What would happen if the thyroid did not have the desired effect? Then there was Derek’s accident, Caroline was worried about that. It was not a serious accident, of course, and, as James had said, it would simply mean bed for several weeks until his leg mended; but somehow or other Caroline was worried about it. Derek’s accident seemed just about the last straw.