And Callie knew that the Ballantynes were going to be nice, and that she was going to like living at Rock Place.
Chapter III
(1)
Next day there was a brief discussion as to where Callie should, as a permanency, be put to sleep.
“I thought the little passage-room would have done for her so well,” said Aunt Fanny. “I had it got ready for her. I thought it would have done so well.”
Callie felt rather guilty.
“I’ll sleep there if you like, Aunt Fanny,” she said timidly. “I’m sorry I was silly.”
She knew that her grandmother would have said she had been very silly indeed.
“Oh no,” said Aunt Fanny placidly. “It’s quite all right. I shouldn’t like to think of your being nervous. I’m sure it’s quite natural you should be. The West Indies and all. I only meant that I’d thought the little passage-room would do so well.”
It was her habit to say the same things, in the same form of words, over and over again.
Uncle Tom, on the other hand, scarcely ever said anything at all.
The girls, as Aunt told them, gabbled.
Callie felt at home with all of them almost at once, because they were so kind.
Aunt, as everyone called her, seemed to be the person who decided everything. She was Aunt Fanny’s half-sister, and had lived at Rock Place ever since Awdry could remember.
Aunt Fanny, who wore shawls and a great deal of jewellery, spent most of her time on the sofa. None of her three daughters resembled her in the least, for she was very dark, with enormous, heavily-ringed black eyes, and they all had red hair and rather small greyish-blue eyes like the Ballantynes, and very pink, freckled faces.
So had Reggie. Only Cecil, the eldest, was said by Aunt to be more like the Lemprières, although not nearly so dark.
“He has the same colouring as this child,” remarked Aunt Fanny, looking at Callie. “But not nearly such a large head,” she added candidly.
Oddly enough, although Callie had felt distressed when Lady Ermington commented on the size of her head, she did not in the least mind Aunt Fanny’s doing so, and even told how Uncle Fred sometimes called her a hobgoblin.
She gathered that Uncle Fred had stayed at Rock Place, and that everyone there found him just as amusing and delightful as she did. No one said anything much to her about Grandmother, and it was quite difficult to remember that she had actually been grandmother to the Ballantynes also, though not one of them could remember her, and indeed the younger ones had never seen her.
“Uncle Fred once said that it was just like her to be so obstinate about living in Barbados and keeping you out there with her,” Juliet told Callie. “I think they were all rather frightened of her, except Uncle Fred, who was her favourite.”
“Of course, she was frightfully old,” said Callie, in extenuation of her grandmother’s alarming ways.
“Still,” she added conscientiously, “she had to be a father and a mother to me. She told me so herself.”
Neither the Ballantyne children, nor Callie herself, said anything more about her father and mother although Callie thought the girls looked as though, in their kind way, they were sorry for her.
People always seemed sorry for one, if one couldn’t remember one’s mother.
As for her father, Callie only knew that Grandmother thought he behaved badly because he lived abroad and never wrote to her nor, so far as was known, to anybody.
She herself never felt as though she had any father, but the thought did not disturb her.
In a very few days she took Rock Place and her relations there for granted. They, the house and garden, the animals, fields and lanes, even the neighbouring houses and their owners, made up the entity that was home.
(2)
The double drawing-room at Rock Place was a long low room with a dividing archway and two bay windows, one in either half of the room.
In the front room stood a number of large armchairs, covered in faded chintz that had a barely distinguishable design of blue roses tied up into bunches with yellow true-lovers’ knots, a high-backed sofa, an ottoman, two or three small walnut-wood chairs upholstered in velvet with pendant fringes, a walnut-wood writing-desk of the date of Queen Anne, a card-table of French marquetry folded up against the wall, and a little table with a velvet embroidered cover on which stood several photographs in silver frames, a clock of Florentine mosaic, two trumpet-shaped silver vases, and an ostrich-egg propped up on a green-plush stand.
The mantelpiece was of mottled yellow marble, the grate an elaborate contrivance of polished steel and the coal-scuttle of black japanned ware still bore a ghostly bunch of painted pink roses and purple violets. Above the mantelshelf was a tall erection of little white-painted brackets and shelves, framing a mirror, and on each bracket or shelf stood ornaments, vases, statuettes or photographs.
From the mantelshelf itself hung a pale chintz petticoat in little flat pleats, and on it stood several pieces of china, most of them Chelsea, a white Dresden shepherd and shepherdess and an enormous clock, in pink marble and ormolu. In front of the fire in winter, and near the window in summer, was a round walnut-wood table on which stood a tall blue china lamp, under a corolla of fluted yellow silk. When lit, the lamp smelt very slightly of oil, but it burnt with a clear, soft light behind its polished chimney-glass.
The curtains were of heavy yellow brocade, much faded and tied with tasselled yellow cords. The wallpaper, also yellow, had, unaccountably, scarcely faded at all although the room faced south, and still, after sixteen years, blazed a valiant buttercup-colour of a design so involved, comprising so many garlands, sprays, petals, birds, leaves, knots and tendrils, that the human eye could never hope to disentangle it.
In the back drawing-room stood the broad sofa and the grand piano, with, draped over one end of it, a tarnished length of silver brocade on which stood more framed photographs, a silver-gilt rose-bowl and a large pile of tattered music. There were also a black-and-gold lacquered cabinet, an American bent-wood rocking-chair, two or three stools, little occasional tables, small armchairs upholstered in old-gold velveteen and two French marquetry bookcases crammed with books.
At the far end of the back drawing-room, let into the wall, was a shallow cupboard with a looking-glass door with a glass handle. On the lower part of the door had been boldly painted groups of bulrushes and water-lilies over which hovered a couple of stout kingfishers, executed mainly in Prussian blue.
The carpet, which ran the length of the whole room, was an indistinguishable blur of browns and yellows. All the walls were adorned with pictures, some large and some small, symmetrically arranged, and framed in gilt. Even the space between the top of the door and the ceiling had its oil-painting of a paddle-steamer entering the port of Dover. Sunshine poured into the room through the bay windows, and a label tied to each blind-cord bore the request, in very faded ink: Please draw this blind half-way down when the sun is coming in. The sun was always coming in, but no one ever drew the blinds halfway down.
From the appearance of the Rock Place drawing-room and its furnishings, most of the rest of the house followed suit. There were blue-and-red tiles in the hall, a long narrow window on the landing with a border of alternate red, blue and green panes of glass, the bedrooms were large, sunny, shabby and filled with extremely solid furniture, every room had its fireplace, every fireplace its mantelpiece, every mantelpiece its frilled petticoat, ornaments and pair of flower-vases. Wash-stands bore double burdens of china jugs and basins, sponge-bowls, soap-dishes and tooth-brush jars.
The bathroom—situated on the back stairs and with no ventilation—was large and cold, with oilcloth on the floor and a cork mat, and a pair of wooden steps into the deep bath from which most of the paint had flaked. Hanging from each brass tap was one of Aunt’s labels. The inscription on them was entirely illegible owing to continuous splashing, but was supposed to relate to the discrepancy between the enormous size of the bath and the amount of h
ot and cold water at the disposal of those using it.
Amongst them, neither the master nor the mistress of the house might be reckoned. Each preferred to use the hip-bath set out morning and evening by Cora on a folded square of blanket in the big front bedroom. The children took it in turns to use the bathroom, and Aunt visited it at unnatural hours in the middle of the night when the water was no longer warm and the cork mat cold and clammy to the touch.
Above the drawing-room, and equally large, was the nursery, and that too had a bay window overlooking the garden. It was still called the nursery, although Miss Tansfield gave the girls their lessons there, and the boys used it all through the holidays. The cottage piano, on which Juliet and Awdry practised scales and Miss Tansfield occasionally gave a phenomenally agile interpretation of Pluie de Perles or Taverne des Trabands, was flanked by the dapple-grey rocking-horse, and whilst the top shelves of the bookcase were packed with volumes of the Bibliothèque Rose, Little Women, stories by Henty and bound numbers of Little Folks, the lower ones were heaped with torn picture-books, limbless dolls, stuffed animals that oozed sawdust, and games in broken cardboard boxes. In the middle of the room stood a large solid round table covered with a blue cloth that had been stained with ink, marked by candle grease and lamp-oil, cut with scissors by naughty little girls and with knives by naughty little boys, darned, patched and re-dipped, and was reputed to have survived from the nursery days of a previous generation of Ballantynes.
The walls of the nursery, like all the other walls of the house, were covered in pictures. The Infant Samuel squatted on his heels in a little white nightgown, with clasped hands; Queen Victoria, in a long habit and a plumed hat, sat gracefully upon a rearing horse with the Prince Consort, also on a rearing horse, following behind; “Cherry Ripe” and “Bubbles” confronted one another; a Madonna in a blue hood hung above the fireplace; and a group of children in long-waisted Empire dresses and curls posed eternally, with fans and extended skirts, in front of a youthful, ringleted mother, a pair of large swans, a statue and a Newfoundland dog, all grouped round a marble bench beneath a cedar-tree, set beside a lake.
Tom Ballantyne, silent, serious, but not uncheerful, farmed Rock Place, losing money steadily in a leisurely, gentleman-like manner, and finding his recreation in cricket. He was entirely the English small squire of his date. His wife, however, had never become an English lady of the manor, and remained just as much of a West Indian as though she had lived a lifetime in Jamaica instead of merely the three first years of her existence.
(3)
It was such fun being shown all over the house and garden by Awdry and Juliet, with Mona trailing behind, and Callie was so much astonished and delighted by the way in which they all petted her and kept on saying how glad they were she’d come, that she could think of nothing else.
She just felt: “This is much nicer than anything I’ve ever done before.” In fact, she never had done anything very nice with Grandmother, who had been very old and very strict. Uncle Fred’s visits to Bridgetown had been the occasion of treats, and he had always brought her presents and played with her—but he had not come often, and just as one got used to having him there, he always went off again, saying that he would come back “when the moon turned blue.” And Grandmother shut herself up in her own rooms after he’d gone, and was usually extra severe for several days afterwards. Before she died she had been ill for several weeks and Callie had scarcely seen her but had been sent every day to the Ermingtons to play with Geoffrey and Diane.
When Lady Ermington had told her that her dear, kind Grandmother was dead, Callie had been horrified, rather than unhappy. There’d been Uncle Fred, and the voyage, and Mrs. Edwards’ dear little boy and her kind amah, and arriving in England, and altogether Callie felt that a new and much nicer life had begun, the Barbados days seemed far away, and she didn’t specially want to think about them at all.
They were recalled to her, a day or two only after her arrival at Rock Place.
Her boxes had been unpacked and Aunt—Callie at once called her so, as everybody else did—was on her knees in front of a large chest of drawers putting away small piles of garments that Callie was handing to her.
“We shall have to get you some warmer things,” said Aunt, smoothing out muslin folds and silk sashes. “And for your dolls, too,” she added, thoughtfully. “What do you call them?”
“Christabel and Fatima.”
“And are you very fond of them?”
“Yes. Christabel is really my favourite, only I try not to show it, but Uncle Fred likes Fatima best.”
Aunt, who had rather a serious face usually, suddenly smiled and looked quite different.
“Tell me about Uncle Fred. Was he with you a lot?”
“No. Not very often. It was always fun when he came. He used to play the piano, and sing, and he was going to teach me to play cricket, but it was too hot.”
“He taught me to play cricket. At least,” said Aunt, “he was one of the people who taught me.”
Callie gazed at her, and slowly something fell into place in her slow-moving mind, and a connection was made.
“Were you the one who was called Kate, who was Uncle Fred’s little sister when he was young?”
Aunt nodded.
“Yes. Didn’t you know? I’m sorry, we ought to have explained, but you see they’ve all called me Aunt here, ever since Awdry was a baby. I suppose Uncle Fred told you about when we all lived at home—in South Wales—before Aunt Fanny was married?”
“He told me about the cricket-matches, and the horses, and how there was a big yellow drawing-room. And I was born in that house, only I can’t remember it.”
“But I can,” said Aunt, sitting back on her heels and letting the last pile of sashes fall, all unfolded, onto the floor. “I remember you when you were a tiny baby, Callie.”
“Was I good or bad?”
“Very good.”
Aunt paused, and Callie felt that she was going to say something more, and waited.
“Did Uncle Fred talk to you about your mother and father?”
Callie shook her head, so that the thick, straight brown hair fell into her eyes.
“Grandmother did, but not Uncle Fred. Grandmother said it was lucky I had her to be a mother to me, because my real mother died when I was a baby. She had a picture of her, but I’m not at all like her.”
“No,” said Aunt. “I don’t think you are.”
“Did you know her too, Aunt?”
“Yes, quite well. I knew her before she married your father.”
“Grandmother said that Father would come and live with us one day, but he never did. Where does he live, really?”
“He’s been in the Klondyke, and in South America, and all sorts of places. I hope he’ll come back and see us all some time, Callie. He writes to me sometimes, but I haven’t seen him for more than ten years.”
“He used to do carpentering, and he was a left-handed bowler,” said Callie, frowning in an effort to recall what Uncle Fred had told her.
Aunt nodded.
“Yes. But you don’t remember him, do you?”
“Oh no. I didn’t know I’d ever seen him. Was he the other person who taught you to play cricket? You said Uncle Fred was ‘one of the people.’ ”
“Yes.”
“Then he was called Lucy. It’s a funny name for a man.”
“Isn’t it? I’m glad Fred told you about him and the cricket.”
“He used to tell me stories, quite often,” Callie said.
In her own mind she was dimly aware of a certain confusion, for she had never felt very clear as to whether Uncle Fred’s stories of Lucy and Fanny and young Kate had been about real people or imaginary ones.
And the cricket matches had been played a long, long while ago, and it was impossible not to think of “young Kate” as a little girl like oneself.
Aunt, who listened so kindly and seemed so interested, was quite a different person.
(4)
At Easter the boys came home from school for their holidays. Reggie said “Hallo, Callie!” with a broad stare, and thereafter—seeming satisfied—looked at her only with the unseeing, unreflective gaze that he turned on Awdry, Juliet and Mona.
Cecil, who was slight and dark and quiet, at first hardly spoke to her—but then, he spoke very little to anybody—until one day he found her trying to learn how to throw a ball over-arm at a single wicket.
Then he offered to help her, and said very diffidently that he was bad at bowling himself, so he knew how difficult it was.
It was true that Cecil was bad at bowling, as he was at all games and most lessons, but after that Callie felt that he was, really, her favourite of them all.
In story-books boys always teased girls and the children in large families quarrelled amongst themselves.
Neither Cecil nor Reggie teased anybody, and the Ballantynes scarcely ever quarrelled, although occasional mysterious feuds flared up, briefly, between Awdry and Reggie. Juliet had a good deal of her mother’s lethargic temperament, and Cecil’s most marked characteristic was his utter inability ever to hurt anybody’s feelings. The youngest of them, Mona, had, as Aunt said, a tendency to whine, but it took no more aggressive form than a frequent high-pitched appeal: “Wait for me!” as she trailed, without attempting to hasten, in the wake of her seniors.
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