Glen did not press her. Perhaps he understood, for he smiled and said, “You surprised me. I had no idea you were interested in Jessica.”
“I’m not interested in Jessica!”
“Perhaps you’re interested in Portia?”
“Yes. Silly, isn’t it? I believe I could play Portia; I understand her. She’s a real person—one of the few real flesh and blood women in Shakespeare’s plays.”
“Oh, poor Elfie! You’re interested in Portia and you were given Mrs. Carruthers!”
Elfrida’s eyes flashed. “I hated that woman! I tried to understand her but there was nothing to understand. She was supposed to be a society woman, silly and decadent, but she wasn’t even that. Mrs. Carruthers was a doll, stuffed with sawdust and—and leaking at the seams!”
Glen roared with laughter.
“It’s true,” she declared. “You know it’s true, Glen.”
“She was a mess,” he admitted. “Dolly made an even worse mess of her than you did. Dolly made her coy; it was rather disgusting. You’ve changed,” he added. “It isn’t only that you’re twice as pretty, you’re twice as interesting. Why have you changed? Tell me seriously.”
She thought about it. “I’ve become a whole person,” she said.
“Yes, but why?”
“Because I belong here.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough? Some people love the stage—they’re in their element—but I couldn’t understand the fascination.”
“Your father was an actor.”
“Yes, but I’m like Mother. This was her home; she loved Mountain Cross and longed to come back. Now, at last, I’ve come back—it feels like that.”
“I should have thought that your mother might have been attracted by the glamour——”
“She wasn’t the stuff that actresses are made of,” interrupted Elfrida. “Father couldn’t understand it; he was sure she could learn if she tried; he wanted to make her a star! She was very intelligent, she was beautiful and graceful and had a lovely figure but that isn’t enough, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Glen thoughtfully. “Well, well, Thistlewood failed in his endeavour to make his wife a star, so that was the reason he deserted her and went off to Australia.”
Elfrida was dumb with astonishment. This aspect of her father’s behaviour had never occurred to her before . . . and how did Glen know?
“Elfie!” exclaimed Glen, looking at her in alarm. “Didn’t you know he had deserted her? No, I can see I’ve given you a shock; how stupid of me! I never met your parents—it all happened before my time—but everyone talked of it. Everyone liked her and thought he’d behaved very badly (you know the way gossip goes round in the theatre) so I thought you knew the whole story.”
“No, I just thought . . . I mean Mother told me he had—had died in Australia. She never said . . .”
“She wouldn’t, of course! You were a child at the time and she wanted you to remember your father with pride and affection. I’ve been very silly,” said Glen remorsefully.
“It doesn’t matter, Glen. I’d rather . . . know . . . really. It’s a long time ago and I scarcely remember him.” She hesitated and then added thoughtfully. “Mr. Sandford thought it was madness not to make inquiries about him . . . but of course that was the reason. Poor Mother!”
Glen put his arm round her shoulders. “Forgive me, Elfie. I wouldn’t have distressed you for worlds.”
“There’s nothing—to forgive.”
For a few moments they were silent.
“Was she really beautiful?” asked Glen at last.
“I’ll show you her portrait,” replied Elfrida in a breathless whisper. It had been lovely talking to Glen, he was so kind and understanding, but his arm round her shoulders was more than she could bear—her heart was beating so loudly that she was afraid he would hear it—she was glad of the excuse to move. She disengaged herself gently and rose. “I’ll show it to you,” she repeated.
“Need we go in?” asked Glen. “I can see the portrait to-morrow morning, can’t I? It’s such a lovely evening—and it’s quite early.”
“Early for you, but not for me; I’m usually in bed and asleep by this time.”
He got up with reluctance. He had been enjoying himself; he could have spent hours talking to this new Elfie, who was not only twice as pretty as before but twice as interesting.
It was dark by this time—or nearly dark—so when they came to the side door Elfrida ran up the steps and put on the light for Glen to see his way. She stood in the doorway with the light above her head, looking down and waiting for him.
Three times as pretty, thought Glen, gazing at her in admiration: the sun-tan made her eyes more blue; her light-brown hair was wavy and golden; her lips innocent of rouge, were fresh and pink . . . best of all there was a glow of radiant health in this new Elfie, she was warmly alive. London had been stuffy and airless, everyone was pale and strained and tired, so it was natural that Glen should feel the attraction of health and beauty. All the same he was surprised at himself for, since his youthful marriage, he had been attracted by sophisticated women. Clarissa Downes with her pale face, scarlet lips and languorous drawl had moved him profoundly; his affaire with her had been passionate and completely satisfying. What has happened to me? he wondered.
Elfrida took him upstairs to Mrs. Ware’s bedroom and showed him the portrait. “There, Glen! Isn’t she lovely?”
“Yes,” said Glen. “Yes, you were right; she’s a lovely creature. You know, Elfie, it might almost be a portrait of you.”
“Almost, but not quite,” said Elfrida, smiling. “I’ve got the same colouring but I haven’t her regular features.”
“You’re very like her, Elfie.”
“I know I’m like her . . . but there’s a difference. I expect you kissed the Blarney Stone when you were in Ireland.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I did,” he admitted, turning and smiling at her. “It’s the thing to do, you know; but the Blarney Stone has nothing to do with the case. You’re every bit as lovely as your mother—and you’re alive!”
He had taken her hand as he spoke but Elfrida turned away and released herself. She said, “You’re interested in furniture, aren’t you? Come and look at this chest of drawers, Glen. Tell me what you think of it.”
At the moment he was not particularly interested in the chest of drawers but he agreed that it was a very fine piece of furniture and beautifully polished.
“I polish it myself,” she told him. “I like polishing it. I’ve never had beautiful things before—of my very own. Sometimes I just can’t believe it all belongs to me.”
“This is a beautiful room,” he said, looking round at the rest of the furniture. “Is it your room, Elfie?”
“No, it was Grandmother’s room. I could use it if I liked, of course, but I prefer Mother’s room which is at the end of the passage; it has a lovely view of the sea, and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore sends me to sleep.”
“It would keep me awake,” Glen told her. He added a trifle irritably, “Are there no snags, Elfie? Isn’t there a snake in your Garden of Eden?”
“No snags and no snakes,” she replied, smiling happily.
They were still standing in Mrs. Ware’s bedroom when the door opened very quietly and Mrs. Chowne appeared.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Elfrida. “Why aren’t you in bed, Mrs. Chowne? It’s frightfully late.”
“Yes, it’s late,” agreed Mrs. Chowne, nodding.
“Is something the matter?”
“Well, it is . . . and it isn’t,” replied Mrs. Chowne cryptically. “Could I speak to you a minute, Miss Elfrida?”
Elfrida was alarmed. “All right, I’ll come,” she said. “You can wait for me in my bedroom. I’ll just make sure that Mr. Siddons has everything he wants.”
*
21
It did not take long for Elfrida to escort her guest to his room and make sure he ha
d all the necessary creature-comforts. She said good night and hastened back to her bedroom where Mrs. Chowne was awaiting her.
“Miss Elfrida, could I speak to you for a minute?” repeated Mrs. Chowne.
The request was a curious one considering the fact that Mrs. Chowne spoke all the time—in and out of season—but apparently there was something very important to be said so Elfrida gave the required permission.
“Well, I don’t know what you’ll say, Miss Elfrida,” declared Mrs. Chowne, starting off at a tremendous rate. “It’s a big thing to ask—I know that and Ernie knows it too. If it hadn’t been for the parent getting in a state and sending the message he needn’t have gone. I told you about the parent, didn’t I? Ernie says I ought to know better at my age but you do hear of funny things happening, don’t you? In the papers, I mean. It won’t be much trouble to you, Miss Elfrida—I’ll take your things down myself—and Judy’s room is very comfortable with a good bed and all. I wouldn’t ask it else. Ernie was a bit doubtful about going—but I told you about the parent, didn’t I?” She stopped to breathe.
Elfrida had become fairly skilful at disentangling Mrs. Chowne’s circumlocutions. This was a little more difficult than usual because the speaker was embarrassed.
“You mean,” said Elfrida slowly, “you mean Chowne had to go over to Cherleigh to see his father and you want me to come downstairs and sleep in Judy’s room?”
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“Of course I will,” said Elfrida, smiling at her. “It will be rather fun.”
“Oh, it is kind of you!” exclaimed Mrs. Chowne, heaving a sigh of relief. “I was quite ashamed of asking you to do it. You can undress here and come down in your dressing-gown—it’s a warm night so you won’t get a chill. I’ll take your toothbrush and sponges and your towel and run down to get everything ready. You can wash in our bathroom, can’t you?”
Elfrida agreed.
“Oh, it is a relief to my mind,” declared Mrs. Chowne.
It was not until Mrs. Chowne had gone and Elfrida began to undress that she realised it would have been much easier and more sensible for Mrs. Chowne to have moved upstairs to the small spare room. When Mrs. Chowne was talking she absorbed one’s whole attention and it was only afterwards when one had time to think that one was able to see flaws in her plans. Anyhow it was too late now to alter the arrangement; Mrs. Chowne was enchanted at the idea of having her to sleep in Judy’s room and it would be unkind to disappoint her.
Chowne’s parent had “got in a state” before, on several occasions, and the Chownes had been obliged to drop whatever they happened to be doing and rush over to Cherleigh on their bicycles, but that had been in the daytime. It was to be hoped that he would not make a practice of getting in a state at night.
Elfrida had heard a lot more about the parent and was aware that although he was over ninety he still had eleven teeth and was looked after by a widow-woman who lived next door and came in and did for him. It had just crossed her mind that the widow-woman might be even more dangerous to the Chownes’ expectation than the cats but she had refrained from saying so.
By this time Elfrida had brushed her hair and pinned it into a net. As she put on her blue-silk dressing-gown she glanced at her own bed with the blue Aertex blanket and the smooth white sheet turned back . . . how inviting it looked!
Oh, what a bother! thought Elfrida. Who would have thought that Mrs. Chowne suffered from nervous fears? Sane, sensible, practical Mrs. Chowne! It’s almost incredible! Why did I say I’d do it?
However, she had said she would do it, so she put out her bedroom light and went across the landing to the stairs. Patrick’s room was dark, of course, but there was still a band of light beneath Glen’s door; he was probably reading in bed.
Half-way down the stairs Elfrida paused with her hand on the smooth mahogany banister rail. It belongs to me, she thought. All of this is mine. The panelled hall, the stairs, the banisters, the old mahogany chest, carved and polished, the rug which had faded with the passing years were all her very own. This was not a new thought, of course, she had thought it often and often, but it always took her breath away for a few moments.
When her breath returned she went on down the stairs, across the hall and through the red baize door into the kitchen. The door of the Chownes’ sitting-room was ajar, she pushed it open and here she was!
Mrs. Chowne welcomed her as if they had been parted for weeks—pulling forward the most comfortable chair and arranging a cushion behind her back. “This is nice,” said Mrs. Chowne happily. “The kettle’s boiling so we’ll have a cup of tea.”
Although Elfrida was not in the habit of drinking tea at this hour she did not refuse so they sat down and had it together, hobnobbing in a friendly manner.
“This is nice,” repeated Mrs. Chowne. “Ernie is all very well in his way but it’s lovely to have someone like you to talk to. Miss Marjory used to come in sometimes and have a chat like this. You’re like her, you know, Miss Elfrida . . . but there’s a difference. I’m not clever enough to explain it properly but it’s the difference between a plant that’s been cosseted in a greenhouse and a plant that’s been grown out-of-doors and had to bear all sorts of weather.”
Elfrida nodded.
“When I first came to Mountain Cross I was very small beer,” continued Mrs. Chowne. “I didn’t have much to do with Miss Marjory but she’d give me a smile when we met on the stairs and ask how I was getting on . . . and she’d ask properly and listen to the answer as if she really cared.”
“She did care. She always cared about people.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Chowne thoughtfully. “She cared about people—even a raw under-housemaid like I was in those days. I was as raw as a turnip but Alice was good at teaching and she never grudged the time. She was a good sort,” added Mrs. Chowne, nodding. “Then one day Mrs. Ware sent for me and said, ‘You’ve done well, Emma, and I’d give you Alice’s place when she gets married if you could learn to talk nicely.’ I was Somerset, you see, and very broad. I said I’d learn—and I meant it—but it wasn’t easy. Still I managed it and I got Alice’s job. You see, Miss Elfrida, in those days you were Somebody if you were head-housemaid at a place like Mountain Cross. Soon after that I met Ernie at Cherleigh Flower Show, I was wearing a new hat and it was a fine day and I felt on top of the world . . . anyhow we just—sort of—clicked.”
Elfrida looked at her and tried to imagine the scene . . . but it was impossible to imagine!
“So Ernie and I walked out for a bit,” continued Mrs. Chowne. “Then we got married and Mr. and Mrs. Ware both came to the church—very kind, they were. They gave us a dinner-set which we’re still using to this very day (I’ve been so careful that scarcely any of it has got broken). They gave us our flat and Ernie left Sir Henry Champion and came here to live and to look after the cars and the garden. He had two men under him in those days. We’ve been here ever since except when Ernie went to the war and got blown up in his tank . . . but he came back when he got out of hospital. Mr. Ware liked Ernie and said it didn’t matter about Ernie not being able to talk; he could do the work all the better because he didn’t waste time talking . . . not like me! After the war things were different. All the big families were having to tighten their purse-strings and a lot of gardeners and housemaids got the sack. It couldn’t be helped, of course, it was the war that upset everything. We were lucky to be here in our nice little flat—and we both knew it.
“Well, you see I’ve been here a long time, Miss Elfrida, so that’s why Mrs. Ware talked to me and told me her troubles. She knew I’d understand.”
“What troubles?” asked Elfrida.
“Miss Marjory, of course. She longed for Miss Marjory. Often and often she said it to me: ‘Oh, Emma, if I could just see her! If I just knew where she was and what she was doing! Do you think she’s happy?’ I could have cried sometimes. I used to think, what would I feel if Judy had gone away with some man and I didn’t know where she
was or what had happened to her? I used to say, ‘Why don’t you ask Mr. Ware to find her?’ She did ask him. She asked him again and again, but he put her off. It was difficult for him to forgive Miss Marjory because he’d been so proud of her; he thought the world of her; nothing was too good for her.”
“Did you ever see my father?”
Mrs. Chowne nodded. “Miss Marjory met him when she was in London and asked him to come and stay at Mountain Cross—she could ask anyone she liked, of course—so he came for a week and stayed longer. Well, I won’t say anything; he was your father, wasn’t he?—but he just didn’t fit. He was different from the people here. I don’t say he was better or worse, just different . . . so there was trouble when he said he wanted to marry Miss Marjory.”
“But she ran away and married him.”
“Not just at once. She was miserable when Mr. Ware said she wasn’t to marry Mr. Thistlewood, so Mrs. Ware thought it would be good for her to have a change of air and arranged for her to go and stay with a school friend at Guildford. Miss Marjory seemed pleased at the idea so off she went . . . and the next thing we heard she was married.”
“So that was how it happened,” said Elfrida sadly.
“Yes, that was how it happened. She went away from her home and never came back. She didn’t mean it, you know.”
“Didn’t mean what?”
“Never to come back,” explained Mrs. Chowne. “I’m sure she thought they’d forgive her and be friends. I’m certain sure of it. You see she’d always had her own way; they’d never gone against her in anything so she couldn’t believe they’d go against her marriage. Oh, dear, it was dreadful,” said Mrs. Chowne in distress. “Miss Marjory was so pretty and so sweet that you couldn’t help loving her—nobody could help loving her; she could have married anyone. I always thought Sir Henry Champion of Meston Park was sweet on Miss Marjory—they’d have been pleased if she’d married him—and there were others as well . . .”
Mrs. Chowne paused.
The House on the Cliff Page 14
