Things not to be talked about, thought Bel. Well, of course you didn’t talk about them—even to Margaret—but they were there in the background which was their proper place; mysteries shared and understood and taken for granted as a part of ordinary everyday life.
Obviously Margaret had been thinking the same for after a short companionable silence she said, “We’ll be friends, won’t we, Bel? Real friends. It’s awfully nice to have a friend like you—I mean somebody young and married. Sylvia is my greatest friend—and always will be, of course, just like you and Louise—but she isn’t married. Somehow it makes a difference; I don’t know why, really.”
“Yes, it makes a difference,” agreed Bel, smiling at her guest affectionately.
The bond was sealed.
They talked of other things after that. Margaret admired the drawing-room. “It’s tremendously improved,” she said. “I can scarcely believe it’s the same room.”
“Have you been here before?” asked Bel in surprise.
“Yes. It was ages ago—I suppose I must have been about twelve years old. I was selling poppies, and Fletchers End was on my list of houses to call at for a donation to the fund. Everyone told me it was no good asking Miss Lestrange—Daddy said she would bite me—but I thought I’d have a try, so I bicycled over one Saturday afternoon with the tray of poppies and my collecting tin.”
“Did she bite you?” asked Bel smiling.
“No, she was frightfully kind. She asked me to come in and gave me ten pounds—wasn’t it amazing? When I tried to thank her she shut me up and said she wasn’t giving it to me, she was giving it to the soldiers and sailors who were wounded in the war, fighting for their country, so it was silly of me to say thank you.”
“Yes, I see what she meant,” said Bel thoughtfully.
“She asked me to stay to tea,” continued Margaret. “It was funny of her to ask me but I think the old lady was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. As a matter of fact I would much rather have gone home but I didn’t know how to get out of it—you know how it is when you’re twelve—and anyhow she had just given me ten pounds. Even though it wasn’t for me, I was very pleased to get it because I wanted to give in a nice fat sum of money—more than Sylvia, if possible,” added Margaret chuckling.
“It’s like that when you’re twelve.”
“Exactly. And when you’re twelve you enjoy a good tea, don’t you? Well, it wasn’t a good tea at all,” said Margaret regretfully. “Thin little sandwiches with some sort of savoury paste in them and a cake with caraway seeds—quite horrid! All the same I enjoyed myself because it was interesting to listen to her talking. She talked to me as if I were the same age as she was. It made me feel grown-up.”
“Did she talk about the house?” asked Bel eagerly.
“Yes, quite a lot. She was born and brought up at Fletchers End and she was very proud of it. She said her father had left it to her, because she was the eldest of the family, so it was her very own—to do what she liked with. She said she would live here till she died and bequeath it to one of her family. Then she laughed in a mischievous sort of way and said, ‘They all want it, but I can leave it to anyone I like and I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s fun to keep them guessing, Miss Musgrave’.
“I was thrilled to bits at being called ‘Miss Musgrave’,” added Margaret with one of her infectious chuckles.
Bel laughed. “Go on, Margaret, tell me more.”
“You’re like the ‘satiable’ elephant’s child,” Margaret declared. “Well, then she said did I think she should leave it to her nephew or to her sister, Dora? I thought from the way she spoke that she wanted me to say she should leave it to her sister, so of course I said it but it was quite the wrong thing. All of a sudden she was very angry and exclaimed, ‘This house has belonged to the Lestrange family for a hundred years and if I leave it to Dora it won’t belong to a Lestrange any more’.”
“That was true, wasn’t it?” said Bel nodding.
“I tried to pacify her,” continued Margaret. “She soon calmed down. She said she would think about it—perhaps she wouldn’t leave it to either of them—and anyhow there was no hurry because she didn’t intend to die just yet. Then she smiled quite nicely and asked if I were frightened of her. ‘I suppose you think I’m mad,’ she said.”
“But you weren’t frightened?”
“No, not a bit. And she certainly wasn’t mad—just different from other people.”
“Eccentric?”
“Yes, that’s the word. Awfully queer and unpredictable—you never knew what she was going to say next. Presently I said I must go home, so she came out to the gate with me and when she saw my bike she said, ‘That’s a new bicycle, isn’t it? Has it got a free-wheel?’ I didn’t know what on earth she meant. She explained that when she was a girl she had a bicycle with fixed pedals; there weren’t any free-wheels in those days. She said, ‘If you wanted to free-wheel downhill you had to put your feet on the handle-bars; I suppose you can’t believe I ever did anything so wicked.’”
“It sounds frightfully dangerous!” exclaimed Bel.
“Yes, but I could believe it quite easily. There was something dangerous about Miss Lestrange; she was rather a wicked old lady.”
“Did you tell her so?”
Margaret smiled. “I said ‘daring’. It seemed more polite. She liked that. She laughed and said she was more daring than her brothers. ‘I was the ring-leader,’ she said. ‘I used to lead them into awful scrapes.’”
“How amusing!”
“Yes, but I’ll tell you something even more amusing,” said Margaret. “Just as I was getting on to my bike she said, ‘Do you know Isabel?’ I knew several girls called Isabel so I said, ‘Isabel who?’ and she said quite solemnly, ‘Is a bell necessary on a bicycle?’”
Bel laughed. She thought it very funny.
“Yes,” agreed Margaret. “I thought it was an awfully good joke. I told her I’d try it on Daddy—he loved jokes. So then she laughed and said, ‘Your Daddy will know it.’ And he did,” said Margaret nodding. He said it was a hoary old chestnut . . . but I tried it on some of the girls at school and caught them out properly!”
All this time Bernard had behaved beautifully; he had been sitting on the floor playing with some empty cotton reels and a couple of little boxes which was all that Bel could produce in the way of toys, but now he began to get restless.
“It’s time for his bath,” said Margaret rising. “Bath and supper, and bed. He’s exactly like a clock,” she added. “And an alarm clock at that. Come on, my bunny! We’ll have to go home.”
Bernard was tucked securely into his pram and they set off briskly; Bel walked with them as far as the bridge.
*
3
Margaret Warren was the first of Bel’s visitors; after that quite a number of people called at Fletchers End. Sometimes Bel was out when they called and was told about them by Mrs. Warmer when she returned; sometimes she was in and entertained her visitors to tea. Many of Bel’s visitors had known Miss Lestrange and were induced to talk about her. (Bel had become very interested in Miss Lestrange). The queer thing was that everyone had something different to say about her—one might have thought that Miss Lestrange was half-a-dozen different people instead of one lonely old lady ‘with a straight back like a Guardee’.
Mrs. Warmer was delighted with all the visitors, she welcomed them cordially and when Bel was not at home she tried to persuade them to stay and offered them tea. She took their visits as a tribute to Fletchers End. For years and years her beloved house had stood empty and neglected; nobody had been near it except the people who thought of buying it and had looked round casually and gone away in disgust. It was a different matter now. Everyone who came admired the house, praising its old-world beauty, marvelling at the huge oak beams. Fletchers End had taken its proper place in the world according to Mrs. Warmer.
There was one visitor who came nearly every day and was always welcome. Bel had tol
d Mr. Fuller to come into the garden whenever he liked and he took full advantage of the invitation. Often when she looked out of the window she saw the small bent figure with the snow-white hair prowling about, walking along the paths, stopping every now and then and looking round with pleasure at the bare beds as if they were full of ‘luvverly’ flowers—as they had been long ago.
In the far corner of the garden near the little gate which opened on to The Church Walk there was a stone seat; it had been discovered when the jungle was cleared. The stone was stained and discoloured, covered with green slime, but when Mrs. Warmer had ‘had a go at it’ with a scrubbing-brush it proved itself to be an ornament to the garden. One morning when Bel looked out of the window she saw Mr. Fuller sitting there so she hurried out with a rug for him to sit on, a small attention which pleased him immensely. She told him that if he wanted to sit there he was to call at the house and get the rug—the stone was much too cold and hard. After that he often called for the rug.
Sometimes Bel went out and talked to him—or to be more exact she sat and listened to him talking. She found it pleasant and peaceful to sit there in the sunshine and listen to his funny squeaky voice flowing on and on like the stream. It was his thoughts flowing out, thoughts about the old days, thoughts about Miss Lestrange and the garden.
“There was ’oily ’ocks over there up against that wall,” said Mr. Fuller. “I can see ’em now, tall and straight, all sorts of different colours. Miss Lestrange used ter say that when ’olly ’ocks grew ’igh it meant that a woman was the boss of the ’ouse . . . and I never seen ’olly ’ocks grow ’igher than they did at Fletchers End. He—he!” chuckled Mr. Fuller. “That was all right, that was. Miss Lestrange was the boss and she didn’t never let you forget it. I can see ’er now coming down that path in a grey dress with a red thing round ’er neck and calling out, ‘Fuller, where are you? Why ’aven’t you picked the peas? Why ’aven’t you weeded the rockery? Why ’aven’t you planted out the vi—olas?’ Very impatient she was. Wanted everything done quick. She used ter stand at the kitching door and ring a bell—clang—clang—clang—and I ’ad ter go quick and see what she wanted. She used ter ’ave a letter she wanted posted or she wanted strawbries or a cabbage and she wanted it quick. ‘Do it now, Fuller,’ she used ter say. Sometimes she wanted me to write my name on a paper. She used ter say, ‘Clean your boots on the mat and wash your ’ands. Be quick about it, Fuller’. Then I went into the droring-room and wrote my name on the paper and she give me ten bob. He, he!” chuckled Mr. Fuller. “I did that two or three times. There was one time Dr. Whittaker was there and ’e wrote ’is name too. There ’ad ter be two people, see? Dr. Whittaker sed ter me, he sed, ‘That there siggature of yours is a lot neater than mine, Fuller.’ And it was, too. I was always a neat writer—got a prize for writing at school. He, he, he! That weren’t yesterday, nor the day before neither . . .
“There was pee-onies over there,” continued Mr. Fuller pointing out the place. “Miss Lestrange was a great one for pee-onies. I didn’t like pee-onies much. They’re pretty when they’re in bloom—all red and pink and white—but you get a ’eavy shower and see what ’appens! And they ain’t got no smell. There’s something unnatural about a flower that ain’t got no smell . . .”
The squeaky voice flowed on; Bel was only half listening. Presently she would have to go in and get ready for lunch, because Louise was coming over, but there was plenty of time.
“That south wall would be a good place for apricocks,” continued Mr. Fuller. “Apricocks would grow noice up against that brick wall.”
‘Apricocks’ thought Bel. ‘Go bind thou up those dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight . . .’
Yes, of course, thought Bel; it was a Shakespearean word and how natural it was to hear it fall from the lips of old Mr. Fuller, who had lived all his life within measurable distance of Shakespeare’s home!
“Oh yes, we must have apricocks!” exclaimed Bel, envisaging the south wall with the little trees spread out upon it, their branches bowed down with the weight of dangling fruit.
“You get ’em from Mr. Middleton at the nursery garding,” said Mr. Fuller. “I’ll come and see that they puts them in proper. That’s what to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
In Dr. Armstrong’s opinion the best time of the day was after supper when he could settle down comfortably with a book of travel or memoirs with his daughter sitting opposite to him reading or sewing some feminine garment or knitting a little jacket for one of the numerous babies in whom she took an interest. Of course they could not depend upon a peaceful evening; quite often they were disturbed by the telephone-bell, but that was one of the annoyances that had to be borne.
Sometimes the two sat together in companionable silence, and at other times they talked of what they had been doing during the day. Louise was very interested in the affairs of her father’s patients and although he was discreet—as befitted his calling—he told her a good deal. There was no harm in telling Louise—she was perfectly safe—and as a matter of fact she knew so much already in her capacity as secretary that he saw no object in withholding information from her.
On this particular evening he had told Louise about old Mr. Hart, who had fallen off a ladder and fractured a bone in his ankle, but had now recovered and was perfectly fit. He and his cross old wife had returned to Willow Cottage and were pursuing their usual avocations.
“Quarrelling like cat and dog,” said Louise nodding.
Dr. Armstrong chuckled and agreed.
“It’s funny,” said Louise thoughtfully. “I mean she was frightfully upset when he had that accident, so I suppose she must be fond of him.”
“Of course she’s fond of him.”
“Well, why is she so beastly to him, then?”
Dr. Armstrong did not feel capable of answering this extremely penetrating question, so he did not try to do so.
There was a short silence.
“Daddy,” said Louise. “Is it possible to love a person when you despise them?”
For some reason this question gave the doctor a shock, but he answered quite calmly, “I shouldn’t think so, Lou.”
“No,” she agreed in a low voice. “Not properly—love.”
“Or else not properly despise,” suggested her father. “Despise is an ugly word, Lou.”
“It’s an ugly thing,” said Louise sadly. She was about to say more when the telephone-bell rang and as usual she jumped up and ran to answer it.
“If it’s the pneumonia case at the hospital tell them I’ll come at once!” exclaimed the doctor.
Louise had left the door open so he could hear what she was saying—and he listened with a good deal of anxiety. If it were not the pneumonia case it might be Mrs. Ringbolt’s baby . . . but no, obviously it was not.
“Oh Roy, it’s you, is it?” Louise was saying. “No, of course not. We thought it was one of Daddy’s patients with a pain in his tummy or something . . .”
The conversation continued. Dr. Armstrong could hear only one side of it but he had no difficulty whatever in following its trend. Indeed he could have filled in the pauses—almost word for word.
“In London?” Louise was saying. “Oh, I see . . . Yes, I thought you were getting a bit bored with your cousin . . . No, I can’t say I found him wildly amusing . . . Yes, of course—ages ago. Bel always pays her debts; she’s that sort of person. I hope you’ve sent the picture . . . What? That’s too bad of you, Roy. You promised you would send it at once . . . Yes, you’d better.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh yes,” said Louise in a pleased sort of voice. “Yes, I’d like to, Roy. It would be fun . . . No, I couldn’t possibly stay the night in town. It will have to be a matinée . . . Well, I can’t help that. I’ve got nowhere to stay . . . Roy, you really are the limit! I don’t know why I like you . . . Well, naturally. You don’t suppose I’d go up to town and g
o to a Show with you if I disliked you! . . . No, only a little . . . What did you say? . . . Yes, of course I’m laughing . . . Yes, all right I’ll come up on Saturday . . . No, don’t do that . . . No, I’d rather you didn’t meet me at Paddington. I’ll come up by the early train and do some shopping . . . But I don’t like people trailing about after me when I’m shopping, see? . . . Don’t be silly, Roy . . . All right, twelve-thirty at Fortnum’s . . . Yes, it will be fun. Bye for now.”
Dr. Armstrong was disturbed. It was Roy Lestrange of course. Could it be he who was loved and despised? Doctor Armstrong sincerely hoped not. It had been amusing having the young fellow to lunch; he talked well and was extremely entertaining, but it was one thing to enjoy the conversation of a luncheon guest and quite another when suddenly you were forced to consider him as a possible future son-in-law. Loved and despised, thought Dr. Armstrong frowning. Yes, that fitted in with the facts. It was natural that Lou should despise a man who had inherited a valuable property and had allowed it to deteriorate until it was little better than a ruin—as Lestrange had done. Perhaps it was natural also that Lou should be very much attracted by the young fellow’s personality, his charm and vivacity, his undeniable good looks.
His undeniable good looks, thought Dr. Armstrong. Certainly nobody could deny that he was a good-looking young fellow, but he was very irresponsible to say the least of it. Dr. Armstrong had been told about the purchase of the picture—told about it as a joke—but for various reasons he had not been amused. He knew the picture well; he had seen it hanging above the chimney-piece when he visited Miss Lestrange, and had always admired it, so he was horrified to hear of the light-hearted manner in which it had been sold. He was horrified also that the young man had taken all the money that the girls possessed and allowed them to drive home penniless. Very irresponsible to say the least of it, thought Dr. Armstrong.
Fletchers End (Bel Lamington Book 2) Page 17
