The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  Mr. Endicott was sitting next to Elfrida at luncheon; he asked what she was doing at Mountain Cross, and obviously wanted to know, so she began to tell him about the pigs. She was getting on quite well when suddenly she realised that everyone had stopped talking to listen to her story . . . and her tongue faltered.

  “Go on, go on, Miss Ware!” exclaimed Mr. Maldon. “We all want to hear. You’ve got ‘ten little pigs and half a big one!’ Please explain.”

  “Yes, please explain,” said Mrs. Endicott.

  “Well, Chowne fell in love with her, you see,” said Elfrida, smiling. “Unfortunately he hadn’t enough money to buy her so I said I’d go halves with him.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “An excellent arrangement,” nodded Mr. Maldon.

  “Are there going to be lots of little pigs?” asked Mrs. Ferrier, with interest.

  “We hope so.”

  “You’ll go halves with them, of course,” said Miss Babbington.

  Elfrida smiled and nodded.

  “What happens if there’s an uneven number of little pigs?” inquired Mrs. Ferrier, her bright brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “They cut one in half—like Solomon,” suggested Mr. Maldon.

  “Shame on you, Edward!” exclaimed Lucius Babbington. “You ought to know better. Solomon didn’t cut the baby in half, nor had he any intention of doing so. It was a clever ruse to discover the mother of the child . . .”

  “Let’s hear what Miss Ware proposes to do with the eleventh piglet,” Colonel Ferrier suggested.

  “Oh, I couldn’t bear to cut it in half!” cried Elfrida, in horrified tones.

  Mr. Maldon laughed. “That’s extremely interesting. If you follow the matter to a logical conclusion it would seem to prove——”

  “Miss Ware and Chowne will toss for it,” interrupted Mrs. Endicott.

  “Much the best way,” agreed Mrs. Ferrier, nodding.

  “How is dear Mrs. Chowne?” asked Lucius Babbington. “Mary and I loved her when we were children; she made the most delicious cheese-cakes.”

  “She still does; they melt in the mouth,” Elfrida told him. “You must come to tea one day and sample them, Mr. Babbington.”

  “Me, too!” exclaimed Mary.

  Elfrida nodded at her across the table, “Any day you like.”

  “I remember the Chownes,” said Mrs. Ferrier. “They’ve been at Mountain Cross for years and years. Does she still talk all the time without stopping to breathe?”

  “She doesn’t often stop to breathe,” replied Elfrida seriously.

  Again they all laughed.

  By this time Elfrida had lost all her shyness and was feeling happy and comfortable . . . for these were her sort of people, and wonder of wonders, they seemed to like her.

  “Tell us about your garden, Miss Ware,” said Mrs. Ferrier.

  “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Endicott. “The garden at Mountain Cross used to be a dream of loveliness.”

  “The garden has gone wild,” replied its owner sadly. “Chowne does what he can—he’s very hard-working—but it’s much too big for one man.”

  “I remember the lily-pool,” said Mrs. Endicott.

  “Oh, so do I,” declared the elder Miss Maldon. “There were goldfish swimming about in it.”

  “It’s choked with weeds,” Elfrida replied. “But I’m going to clean it out one of these days when I have time.”

  “Not with your own hands, I hope,” objected Colonel Ferrier. “It’s no job for a lady.”

  “I can give you some water-lily roots,” put in Lucius Babbington. “Just let me know when you’re ready for them.”

  “How kind of you!” exclaimed Elfrida.

  They urged her on to tell them more and listened with interest. They all wanted to know what the new owner of Mountain Cross was doing with her property; they all wanted to help.

  “That little copse on the hill is in bad shape,” said Mr. Maldon. “Nothing has been done to it for years.”

  “Charlie Cobley is the man for that,” said Mr. Endicott.

  “If you can get him!” cried several people in chorus.

  “I’ve got him,” Elfrida told them. “He’s working there now.”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Colonel Ferrier, throwing himself back in his chair and raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve been waiting since this time last year for the fellow!”

  “But you aren’t young and pretty, Ned,” said Mr. Endicott.

  Shouts of laughter greeted this statement.

  “How did you get him, Miss Ware?” asked Mr. Maldon.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Elfrida. “He just walked in one evening and said he’d come about the copse. I’d been out all day and was half asleep and I thought for a moment that he had something to do with Scotland Yard.”

  There was more laughter.

  “But why Scotland Yard? I don’t see it,” said Mrs. Endicott. “Am I too stupid?”

  “No, only too highbrow, Netta,” chuckled Lucius Babbington.

  It was not very sparkling conversation but it was great fun. Elfrida was enjoying herself and for the first time in her life she was a social success.

  After lunch they all went into the garden, except Mary Babbington who was still very lame, and Elfrida received quite a number of invitations from her neighbours (the Ferriers asked her to lunch, the Maldons were having a cocktail-party, the Endicotts wanted her to come to dinner); but although she had enjoyed the Babbingtons’ luncheon, she did not want to be swept into a social round. Fortunately it was easy to refuse all these invitations gracefully and without giving offence, for she had no means of transport.

  “Oh, well, you’ll be getting a car soon, of course,” said Mrs. Ferrier. “You must come and see us when you get your car and by that time Richard may be home on leave.”

  “More interesting for Miss Ware when Richard is home,” agreed the colonel. “Not much fun for her to come to lunch with a couple of old fogeys.”

  “Let me know when you want a car,” said Mr. Endicott. “I could give you some useful tips.”

  “Yes, he’s the man to advise you about cars,” declared Lucius Babbington.

  Elfrida had never thought of owning a car; she could not drive and she had no money to spend upon inessentials, but she smiled and thanked Mr. Endicott and promised to remember his offer.

  *

  The Babbingtons were the only neighbours within reasonable distance of Mountain Cross; there was a footpath over the hill which made a pleasant afternoon’s walk. Elfrida was sorry for Mary, who was still unable to get about in her usual energetic fashion, so she went over to see her and take her a book. Her visit was such a success that she was urged to come again—as often as she could—so she soon became friendly with the brother and sister. She could drop in at Winford Hall to tea and be sure of a warm welcome . . . and when Mary’s ankle was better she and Lucius came to lunch at Mountain Cross and renewed their acquaintance with Mrs. Chowne.

  Mrs. Ferrier and Mrs. Endicott both called on their new neighbour. Elfrida was out when Mrs. Endicott called, but Mrs. Ferrier was more fortunate and was entertained to tea.

  “I wanted to have a chat with you because I knew your mother,” explained Mrs. Ferrier, accepting a cheese-cake. “I didn’t mention it the other day at the Babbingtons’ because I thought it might embarrass you to speak of her—and you were terrified enough as it was! Did you think we would bite you or something?”

  “I was terrified at first,” admitted Elfrida. “But you were all so nice to me that I soon began to enjoy myself.”

  “Why shouldn’t we be nice to you?” asked Mrs. Ferrier in surprise.

  This was difficult to answer. Elfrida might have said that when she went to parties in London she was usually ignored by her companions, pushed out into the cold; she might have said that, at the Babbingtons’ party, all the others knew each other—and she was a stranger—but she realised that these people had a different code of manners. It was
just because she was a stranger that they had taken the trouble to make her feel at home. This was impossible to explain so after a short pause she said, “I’m not very good at parties.”

  “Well, you were very good indeed at the Babbingtons’ party,” declared Mrs. Ferrier, laughing. “You were a howling success. As a matter of fact, between you and me and the gatepost, we were all a little bit frightened of you. We knew you were on the stage and we thought you would be frightfully smart and sophisticated—bored stiff with us—so it was a great relief to discover you were one of ourselves. You’re like your mother, of course. I knew her long ago; she was a good deal younger than I was, but we were great friends and saw quite a lot of each other. Marjory often came and played with my little boys, she loved children. I used to think Marjory was the happiest person in the world; she was full of joy—if you know what I mean.”

  Elfrida nodded.

  “Then she met Frederick Thistlewood,” continued Mrs. Ferrier. “He persuaded her to marry him and make a career on the stage. The Wares were against it and to my mind they behaved rather foolishly; the whole thing might have fizzled out if they had let Marjory have him to stay as often as she wanted, but instead of that Mr. Ware put his foot down and wouldn’t listen to anything Marjory said. Marjory was miserable about it and Mr. Thistlewood kept on writing to her . . . She used to come to Heatherdale and tell me her troubles, so I wasn’t really surprised when I heard she had run away. She had promised to write to me, but she never did, and I often thought of her and wondered how she had got on. We never heard any more about her; she simply . . . disappeared.” Mrs. Ferrier sighed and added, “I used to look for her name in the theatrical news but perhaps she changed her name.”

  “She couldn’t act,” said Elfrida in a low voice.

  “Couldn’t act!” exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier in astonishment. “But Mr. Thistlewood was sure she would make her name on the stage! She was so pretty and graceful and so full of personality! Mr. Thistlewood told me himself that all Marjory needed was a little coaching. I must say I believed him. Of course Marjory was thrilled at the idea—what girl of eighteen wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of being a star?”

  “She tried hard—and she had quite a lot of coaching—but it wasn’t any good.”

  “Oh, poor Marjory, she must have been terribly disappointed!” exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier in distress.

  “I suppose she must have been,” said Elfrida in thoughtful tones. “I don’t remember, really— I was just a child. Children take things for granted, don’t they? I just took it for granted that Mother couldn’t act . . . she got odd jobs behind the scenes, helping the wardrobe mistress and mending the costumes.”

  “Oh, poor Marjory!”

  “You said you knew Father, didn’t you, Mrs. Ferrier?”

  “I only saw him once.”

  Elfrida would have liked to hear more about her father, but Mrs. Ferrier changed the subject rather abruptly. She began to talk about her sons. “Edward is in business in London,” she said. “Richard is in the Navy; he has been in the Far East for years but he’s hoping for leave in October. It’s a long time off but it’s something to look forward to. You must come over to Heatherdale while he’s here. If you haven’t got a car by that time Richard can easily come and fetch you; it will be nice for him to see some young people and there aren’t many youngsters in this part of the world. The Maldon girls are young, of course, but they’re terribly dull, poor things.”

  “I thought they were very pretty.”

  “Pretty isn’t enough,” replied Mrs. Ferrier. “At least it won’t be enough for Richard.”

  Elfrida laughed. She liked Mrs. Ferrier.

  It was nearly six o’clock when Mrs. Ferrier rose to go away. She said, “Goodness, look at the time! I meant to stay for twenty minutes. Good-bye, my dear. I’m going to call you Elfrida.”

  “Please do,” said Elfrida, smiling.

  Elfrida went out to the drive to speed her departing guest and, after the car had disappeared she stood for some time lost in thought. Miss Martineau had told her that she was unlike other girls, “made of different stuff,” and Elfrida had felt this to be true, but now she had discovered that she was not a freak. Her new friends were made, of the same stuff as herself (Mrs. Ferrier had said, “it was a great relief to discover that you were one of ourselves. You’re like your mother, of course.” She could have said nothing nicer!). If Dolly Garden were here—or Clarissa or Daphne or any other members of “the gang”—they would have been the freaks.

  Elfrida sighed happily; she had found her place in the world.

  *

  18

  June was the month of roses. There were roses everywhere; climbing over the cottages in the village, blooming in every garden. Mrs. Perrimont, the vicar’s wife, was very proud of her rose-garden; she pruned her roses skilfully and often won prizes for them at the Cherleigh Show. In the garden at Mountain Cross the roses rioted madly, the bushes were huge and straggly, many of them had reverted to briars.

  Having seen the vicarage garden Elfrida decided that she must learn about roses so that she could prune her own roses and try to bring order out of chaos. Meanwhile it was beautiful in its own wild way but definitely not a garden to be proud of.

  Lucius Babbington dropped in one morning to bring Elfrida a book which he had promised to lend her. He had a large bouquet of roses, which he proffered rather diffidently, saying that he expected she had plenty of roses in her own garden but these were “rather special” and Mary thought she would like them.

  “They’re lovely,” declared Elfrida, accepting the offering with delight. She added, “My garden is a jungle.”

  “A jungle?”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised to meet a tiger in it.”

  “I’d like to see your jungle,” said Lucius smiling.

  “You can if you like, but I’m rather ashamed of it, Lucius.” She was all the more reluctant to show Lucius her jungle because at Winford Hall the garden was kept in perfect order.

  “You needn’t be ashamed,” he told her. “Mother Nature enjoys luxuriance; sometimes I think we’re a bit too strict with her—we put her in a strait-jacket—she gets her own way if she’s left alone.”

  However, in spite of the warning, Lucius was rather horrified when his hostess opened the green door and disclosed the work of Mother Nature. He noticed that the fruit-trees and the vegetable-garden had been carefully tended but the remainder of the garden was in a frightful state. Elfrida had not exaggerated when she called it a jungle.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?” said Elfrida with a sigh. “I want to get the place cleared up, but I don’t know where to begin.”

  “My dear girl, you can’t possibly do it yourself! I can give you the names of a couple of chaps in the village who might be able to come and do it, but you’ll have to wait until the autumn.”

  Elfrida was silent. She could not afford to engage men for the work . . . so she might as well put it out of her head.

  “Are you successful with cucumbers?” asked Lucius, after a short silence. “Ours are a complete failure this year.”

  “Oh, I have a few,” replied Elfrida, smiling mischievously. “I’ll show you, Lucius.”

  He followed her along a path, which was so overgrown with nettles and brambles that it had almost disappeared . . . and stopped suddenly in astonishment at the sight that met his eyes: in the farthest corner of the garden there was a tumble-down greenhouse, its woodwork was rotten, its glass panes broken or cracked, but the whole ruin was a mass of green vegetation amongst which there were dozens of cucumbers, some large, some small.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Lucius. “How did you do it?”

  “I didn’t do anything; Mother Nature did it all by herself.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “How many would you like?” asked Elfrida.

  *

  Chowne had found time to mend the path down the cliff, making steps in the worst places and drivi
ng in iron stanchions for a strong hand-rail, so now at last it was possible for Elfrida to go down to the bay and bathe.

  She chose a particularly warm day for her first attempt and went down with her swim-suit and a towel. There was a sheltered corner at the west end of the bay which made a convenient dressing-room. Elfrida undressed, and ran down to the edge of the water.

  The sea was calm, gleaming in the morning sunshine; tiny wavelets were lapping gently on the shore and retreating invitingly . . . but in spite of this she hesitated. Years ago, when she was a child, she had learnt to swim in an indoor swimming-bath but this was different; the sea looked so very large!

  Perhaps I should wait, she thought. It would be rather nice to have someone with me for my first bathe in the sea . . . Mary might like to come.

  But Marjory had bathed in this little bay and enjoyed it; there were several delightful snaps of Marjory splashing about in the water.

  Elfrida plucked up her courage and went in. The sea was a good deal colder than she had expected but she persevered and tried a few swimming strokes; at first tentatively with one foot on the ground, and then with increasing confidence. Swimming is an accomplishment one never forgets, so after a minute or two Elfrida began to feel at ease in the clear cool water . . . it was soft as velvet against her skin. She swam with a long slow breast-stroke, as she had been taught, then she turned on her back and floated, gazing up at the pale blue sky.

  It was blissful—she was enjoying herself immensely—when suddenly she noticed that she was getting farther away from the shore every moment. At first the pull of the current was gentle—so gentle that she could not understand what was happening—then it became stronger and she realised she was being carried out to sea.

  It was alarming! It was terrifying! She was so frightened that she turned over on her face and, forgetting to swim, found herself sinking . . . a mouthful of salt water brought her to her senses! She struggled and splashed and swam desperately and at last managed to seize hold of a bunch of brown seaweed and pull herself on to a flat rock at the west side of the bay.