“And no ankles?”
“No ankles and no waist.”
They had been perfectly serious but now, at the same moment, they broke down and laughed.
“All the same,” said Elfrida, “all the same she’s a pet—and I love her.”
“Oh, she is! I adore her,” declared Ronnie, chuckling. He added, “You do have funny friends, don’t you?”
“Miss Martineau and Mrs. Chowne?”
Ronnie nodded.
“Mrs. Chowne is a very good cook, isn’t she?” Elfrida continued, smiling happily. “It was a nice dinner—and everything was served attractively. The fish wasn’t a bit greasy. I can’t bear greasy fish.”
“Horrible,” agreed Ronnie. He hesitated and then said, “You had a chat with Mrs. Chowne before dinner. Did you arrange things with her?”
“Arrange things?”
“I was just wondering if you’d arranged how much you’re going to pay them.”
Elfrida gazed at him in silence.
“It’s none of my business, of course,” said Ronnie uncomfortably. “I just happen to know they were getting twelve pounds a week from Mrs. Ware. It’s a good deal—but you’ve got money of your own, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“I thought you had!”
“I haven’t a penny—except what I can earn.”
It was Ronnie’s turn to be silent; he did not know what to say. He had been quite sure, without really thinking about it, that Elfrida Jane was reasonably well off. She was well dressed and she behaved like a girl of independent means . . . she had thrown up quite a good part in that play! The play was rotten and wouldn’t last long but all the same it was rather mad to walk out like that when it was her bread and butter. Unlike his uncle, Ronnie knew a little about theatrical matters and was aware that good parts don’t grow on every tree.
“Goodness, how silly of me!” Elfrida exclaimed. “I never thought about paying the Chownes. They seem part of Mountain Cross (as if they had always been here and always would be here) in fact when I was talking to Mrs. Chowne I felt as if Mountain Cross belonged to them and I was just a visitor. It sounds silly, but——”
“I feel exactly the same,” Ronnie told her.
“Couldn’t I manage somehow? Mr. Sandford said there would be some money.”
“There will be a little, but it won’t be enough for you to live on and pay the Chownes. I’m terribly sorry, Elfrida Jane. I shouldn’t have encouraged you to come and live here. I thought you were fairly well off . . .”
“Why did you think so, I wonder?”
“Various things . . . you chucked up your part in that play.”
“I just couldn’t go on with it. There was a reason.”
Obviously she did not intend to disclose the reason so after a little pause Ronnie said, “You can’t stay here without the Chownes.”
“I might get a girl from the village.”
“No, honestly, it wouldn’t do. I’m afraid you’ll have to reconsider the whole thing. There’s no hurry about it, because it will take the Chownes some time to find another post and they can stay on at Mountain Cross in the meantime.”
“Oh, Ronnie!” cried Elfrida in distress. “It will be dreadful telling them. They’ve been here for years and years; Mrs. Chowne remembers Mother when she was a girl. How can I possibly tell them they must go?”
“Did you say you would keep them on?”
“Well, not exactly, but it never occurred to me that they wouldn’t be staying on so I must have given her the impression that everything would be as before. Yes, I’m sure I did, because she said ‘Ernie’ was going to put up another shelf in the apple-room before September and she told me how happy they were in their comfortable little flat. She asked me to go and see it and I promised to go in to-morrow morning. It will be frightful to tell them!”
“Would you like me to explain it to them?”
“Oh, Ronnie, that would be kind! You could explain much better than I could. Tell them I’m very stupid and unbusinesslike and I didn’t understand. Would you mind doing it for me?”
He smiled ruefully. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? You said I could cope with the Chownes.”
“Yes, but I never thought it would be this kind of coping. It’s really awful. They love Mountain Cross—it has been their home for years—and they aren’t young. What will happen to them?”
“That’s their problem.”
“No, it’s my problem!” she cried. “I’ve given them to understand that I’m keeping them here . . . and now I find I can’t!”
“Don’t worry too much; I’m sure Uncle Bob will be able to get them another post. A caretaker’s job would be best.” Ronnie rose and added, “I’ll go and speak to them about it.”
“Now? But you said there was no hurry!”
“There isn’t any hurry but it’s just as well for them to know that sooner or later they’ll have to find themselves another post.”
When Ronnie had gone Elfrida sat by the fire and considered the matter . . . how incredibly stupid she had been not to think of it before? What was she to do? If she agreed to sell Mountain Cross the people who bought it might be able to keep the Chownes, but she did not want to sell it. She wanted to live here and make it her home—but could she live here by herself, alone in the house? She was not a nervous girl, and would not have minded being alone at night in a cottage with other cottages round her . . . this house was too big, too isolated, too strange! It’s because I don’t know it, she thought. I shall get to know it quite soon . . . and I shall love it dearly . . . besides what else am I to do?
Yes, that was the trouble: what else was she to do? Go back to London, to Miss Martineau, and try to get some sort of work? She had no training for anything except acting and she was aware that she would never get very far on the stage. Miss Martineau had said “You haven’t got it in you”—and Miss Martineau was right.
Elfrida was still thinking about it, worrying herself into a sort of frenzy, when Ronnie returned. He came in and shut the door.
“Were they terribly upset?” asked Elfrida in a low voice.
“They were prepared for it,” replied Ronnie cheerfully. “They knew Mrs. Ware hadn’t much money so they’ve been thinking things out and making plans.”
“Plans for moving?”
“No, plans for staying.”
“But didn’t you explain——”
“Of course I explained! They listened to all I had to say and then out came their plan, cut and dried. They don’t want to leave Mountain Cross so they’re willing to stay on without any pay.”
“What? But they can’t!” cried Elfrida. “It wouldn’t be fair! I couldn’t let them——”
“Hold your horses, Elfrida Jane! It isn’t as altruistic as it sounds; in fact it’s an excellent plan from everyone’s point of view. Your grandmother has left them a pension, and Chowne has a good war pension on account of his disability, so they won’t be badly off if you give them their rooms and fuel and milk and vegetables from the garden. In return he’ll do light work on the farm and she’ll do some cooking . . . but the main thing is they’ll be here to look after you. I said I would tell you and see what you thought.”
“I think it’s marvellous!”
“I was sure you would agree.”
“It’s too good to be true.”
“It’s true, all right. The details will have to be worked out but I don’t think there will be much difficulty about it because they’re very anxious indeed to stay on at Mountain Cross.”
“Did they say why?”
“He never uttered, of course (just sat there and nodded occasionally), but she talked a lot and gave me all sorts of reasons. For one thing their daughter is married to the postmaster in the village; their name is Doubleday and they have a small boy called Henry James—isn’t that nice? I was shown his photograph.”
“I hope you admired it.”
“Enthusiastically,” declared Ronnie, sm
iling. “It wasn’t difficult, really; he looks a nice kid. He’s one of the reasons why they want to stay here; another is that Chowne’s mother—or father—lives at Cherleigh and likes to be visited occasionally . . . but the most important reason is Chowne, himself. You see his disability makes him nervous of strangers and it would be difficult for them to find a place where he wouldn’t have to speak. Mrs. Chowne didn’t mention this until Chowne had gone out, but after that she opened up and told me a lot about him. She has had very anxious times with him, off and on. He has settled down now and is much better but he still suffers from ‘blackouts’ if he’s worried or upset . . . it would upset him to leave Mountain Cross.”
Elfrida nodded. Her eyes were full of tears.
“She talked on and on,” continued Ronnie. “She told me that last year they went to Bournemouth for a holiday; she thought it would be ‘a nice change,’ but it didn’t suit Chowne because there were too many people about. He became ‘so queer and nervous’ that they had to come back after three days. Mrs. Chowne was annoyed with the landlady; they had taken the room for a week and the woman wouldn’t refund the money. I gather there was a row. Well, that’s about all,” said Ronnie, frowning thoughtfully. “And I’m sure the Chownes will do all they can to look after you—she promised me they would—so if you want to stay here you’ll be able to manage. You can try it and see how you get on.”
“I shall manage.” She wanted to say more and to thank him for what he had done, but she could not trust her voice.
“Goodness knows what Uncle Bob will say!” added Ronnie apprehensively.
*
8
Elfrida had promised to go and see the premises in the east wing of the house which Mrs. Chowne referred to as “our flat,” so the following morning after breakfast she opened the red baize door and went down the stone-paved passage to the kitchen. Mrs. Chowne was not there, so it was a good opportunity to look about.
Everything was spotlessly clean. There was a kitchen range, so highly polished that it looked like a museum piece; obviously it was not used but was merely an ornament. The gas cooker was in an alcove; upon it stood a kettle and a pan, simmering gently. The old-fashioned dresser took up the whole of the end wall; its shelves were filled with blue and white china. On the top shelf, high out of reach, there were half a dozen silver-plated dish covers of different sizes, ranging from an enormous one which would have covered a baron of beef to a small one which might have been used for a plate. Elfrida stood with her head tilted back and looked at them. Long ago they had been used for big dinner-parties! This quiet kitchen had been a hive of activity, with cooks and kitchen-maids bustling about and scullery-maids to wash up the piles of dishes and prepare the vegetables!
Above the gleaming dish covers hung a row of bells.
The door to an inner room was half open and led to the Chownes’ sitting-room, which was furnished with a bright carpet, pictures on the walls and easy chairs. The window had a wide sill upon which stood a flourishing geranium in a fancy pot; there was a round table covered with a blue and brown patterned cloth. Above the chimney-piece was a shelf with a row of framed photographs standing on it. These included a cricket team, a group of elderly people, a very good-looking young woman in a pretty hat and a couple who obviously had just been married for they were “all dressed up” and were clinging together desperately and wearing the somewhat dazed expression usual on these occasions. This photograph had faded with age, but it was easy to see that it depicted Mr. and Mrs. Chowne on their wedding day. In the middle of the shelf, and well in the forefront, was a large studio portrait of a small boy . . . Henry James Doubleday, of course!
Having seen all these furnishings and treasures, everything carefully chosen and beautifully kept, Elfrida felt that she understood the Chownes a great deal better. This was a home, dear to its occupants; they had made it and had lived in it for so long that it had become part of themselves.
She was still standing there, looking about her, when Mrs. Chowne came in from the garden.
“Oh, Miss Elfrida!” exclaimed Mrs. Chowne. “I didn’t think you would be coming so early, with young Mr. Leighton here and everything! I was in the garden planting some seeds—it’s a good day for planting. Did young Mr. Leighton tell you about Our Plan?”
“Yes, he told me last night. It’s a very good plan—for me. I couldn’t stay here alone, and I want to stay here.”
“That’s what we thought,” said Mrs. Chowne, nodding. “It’s a good plan for us, too . . . I’ve been worried to death about what was going to happen to Mountain Cross. If it had been left to Mr. Whitgreave—which was what we were afraid of—we couldn’t have stayed. I never liked Mr. Whitgreave. We’d have had to move and goodness knows what would have happened! Did young Mr. Leighton tell you about last year when we went to Bournemouth?”
“He said it didn’t suit Chowne.”
“Suit him! I thought he was going off his nut! I was scared to death, Miss Elfrida, really I was. He’s all right here amongst people he knows, but strangers upset him terribly . . . besides, this is our home and we couldn’t bear to leave it and go away. This is a nice sitting-room, isn’t it?”
“It’s delightful.”
“I was worrying and worrying about what was going to happen to us . . . and then we heard you were coming and I said to Ernie, ‘Well, if she’s anything like Miss Marjory she’ll be all right.’ So then we thought of the plan. It was Ernie’s idea, really; he can’t talk very well but he isn’t silly—not by a long chalk! You’ll have a cup of tea with me now you’re here, won’t you, Miss Elfrida?”
It was not long since Elfrida had finished breakfast but, as Mrs. Chowne had already begun to make preparations to entertain her, it would have been churlish to refuse.
“We’ll fix up everything,” said Mrs. Chowne as she trotted to and fro with an activity surprising in a woman of her build. “You must tell me what you would like me to do, of course. I thought if you could manage your midday meal I’d do breakfast and supper for you . . . unless you have visitors, in which case I’ll do lunch as well. We’ll shut up the dining-room; it takes a lot of cleaning and you’d be more comfortable in a smaller room—Mr. Ware’s library will make a nice little dining-room for you—and you’ll use the parlour as your sitting-room. If you have a party we can take the drawing-room out of dust sheets and get it aired quite quickly. We can share the kitchen . . . unless you’d rather do your little bit of cooking in the pantry. There’s a small electric stove which would be handy for you. I’ll show you where everything is kept; I’m all for keeping things in their proper places and I hope you’re the same. Oh, what about your bedroom? Would you like to move into Mrs. Ware’s room? It’s bigger, of course. I put you in Miss Marjory’s room, because she was your mother and I thought you’d feel more at home, but we can easily move your things.”
Elfrida had become slightly muddled but the last question was easily answered. “I like having Mother’s room,” she said.
“I thought you would,” said Mrs. Chowne happily. “Besides it’s nice for you having a bathroom next door. That bathroom was put in specially for Miss Marjory when she came home from school—it was a birthday surprise. Now I must tell you Ernie’s plans and then we’ll all know exactly where we are. ‘Light work on the farm’ is his intention—as I told young Mr. Leighton—but if I know anything about Ernie—and I’ve been married to him for twenty-seven years—he’ll go on as usual. It isn’t Ernie’s nature to take things easy; he’d be better if he could—that’s what the doctors said. They may have been right or they may have been wrong but I could have told them they were wasting their breath.” With that she gave a hoot of laughter and vanished through the door which led into the kitchen.
The hoot was so loud and sudden, and so unexpected, that Elfrida was quite startled. Later she got used to Mrs. Chowne’s hoots but it took some time.
While her hostess was absent Elfrida looked out of the window and saw a little garden fenced i
n with wire-netting, it was divided into halves by a gravel path. The beds were smoothly raked.
“It’s mine,” said Mrs. Chowne, returning teapot in hand. “I’ve always wanted a little bit of garden of my own to grow snapdragons and sweet-peas and canterbury bells and hollyhocks and love-in-a-mist, so I asked Mrs. Ware and she said I could and Ernie put up the netting. It’s for flowers mostly, but I’ve got a corner for herbs. The big garden isn’t very tidy; Ernie grows potatoes and vegetables and looks after the fruit trees. What with that and Pansy he hasn’t time to do much weeding. You’ll find this chair comfortable, Miss Elfrida; I’ll put it near the table. Just help yourself to milk and sugar.”
“What lovely creamy milk!”
“Pansy.”
“Pansy?” asked Elfrida in a bewildered voice.
“Yes. Mrs. Ware bought her about two months ago. You’ll be keeping her, won’t you? Young Mr. Leighton said you’d let us have milk.”
Until this moment Elfrida had had no idea that she was the owner of a cow; she was delighted at the news but hid her surprise and said, “Yes, of course, Mrs. Chowne.”
“You must drink lots of milk,” said Mrs. Chowne. “You’re thin and peaky.”
“I’ve had a very worrying time; Mother was ill for weeks and I couldn’t look after her properly—I had to work, you see. I managed to get a part in a play. It was a poor play and the producer kept changing it, which meant a lot of rehearsals. Then, when at last it was ready, it wasn’t a success.”
“The Motor Car,” said Mrs. Chowne.
Elfrida was surprised. She said, “Are you interested in the theatre?”
“I never get the chance of going to the theatre but I take a weekly paper that tells you about theatrical productions and films—I wouldn’t miss it! Ernie can’t be bothered to read about film stars and their divorces, and how many times they’ve been married, but Judy likes it so she gets the paper when I’ve done with it.”
The House on the Cliff Page 6
