Caroline

by Richmal Crompton

  Well, he’d just have to find someone else to look after her. And if he died . . .? He didn’t like to think of Maggie’s being left to strangers. She was so nervous and timid. She needed such perpetual reassurance. Strangers wouldn’t understand. But there would be Caroline to look after her then, of course. Caroline would shoulder Maggie with the rest of her burdens. She had a strong sense of duty and would never let Maggie be looked after by strangers while she was alive. He wished that Maggie weren’t so frightened of Caroline. He couldn’t understand it. No one could be kinder than Caroline was—she went out of her way to be kind to Maggie—but Maggie was always frightened of her. She wouldn’t even go to tea there without him. Something about Caroline’s brisk efficiency seemed to scare her, and she became silly and panic-stricken as she used to be with their father. Her eager gentle voice was going on and on by his side, like the burbling of a stream. “Such a lovely day. . . . The shops look so pretty, don’t they?. . . Such lovely colours. . . . Isn’t that pink pretty? . . . When I was a little girl I used to pray to have a pink dress, but I never did, of course, and it’s too late now. It would be unsuitable. . . .”

  It was a perfect day in late September. The sun shone brightly, but there was a faint tang of autumn in the air that Charles found most exhilarating. It was all he could do to restrain his steps to Maggie’s slow scurrying pace. He glanced at himself covertly in a shop window and felt a thrill of pride in the knowledge that this handsome, upright, military-looking man was himself. He hoped he’d meet someone he knew. He liked to stroll through the quiet, old-fashioned streets of Bartenham like this, greeting his friends and replying to their greetings, feeling part of it all, aware that he contributed in a small degree to the general amenity of the little town. Young Mrs. Ludlow was passing them. He took off his hat with a flourish. She smiled at him, a subtly flattering smile, the sort of smile that a woman gives to a man who admires her, whom she in her turn admires. . . .

  He’d had coffee with her in the town on Monday morning. He was going to tea with her next Tuesday. He enjoyed discreet (very discreet) flirtations with young married women—nice women in love with their husbands, who yet found a certain excitement in his attentions and thought him a “dear.” It was years since he’d been really in love. Once or twice when he was younger he had seriously considered marriage, but on each occasion he had saved himself in time. He hadn’t enough money to keep a wife in comfort, and married life without sufficient means was the devil. It might quite well be the devil even with sufficient means. And, of course, Maggie had always been the deciding factor in the situation. One could hardly expect any woman—even one’s wife—to put up with Maggie, and nothing would ever induce him to send Maggie away from home. After all, he frequently told himself, there wasn’t much in marriage once the glamour wore off, and it wore off pretty soon in most cases. Mentally he compared himself with his married contemporaries. They seemed a shabby careworn lot. They’d all let their figures go and looked years older than they were. No, sometimes he felt vaguely lonely and pathetic, but generally he was convinced that he had chosen the better part. He’d always liked women and been friendly with them, and, now that he was middle-aged (“fiftyish”), a pleasant avuncular quality had crept into the relationship. Avuncular—that brought him back to Caroline. He wondered if she’d ever marry. With her looks she could have married anyone if she hadn’t sacrificed herself so completely to her stepbrother and stepsisters. How old would she be? She’d been eighteen at the time of Gordon’s second wife’s death. (A colourless little creature—what was her name?—Oh yes, he remembered now . . . Nina.) That was eighteen years ago. Nina had died at Fay’s birth, and Fay would be eighteen this year. She must be thirty-six. Getting on. For a woman, he added hastily. Getting on, for a woman, certainly. He’d heard a rumour that Richard Oakley was in love with her, but he didn’t think that there was anything in it. Richard came to the house a good deal, of course, because he’d been Gordon’s solicitor (though he’d known nothing of Gordon’s, foolish speculations, unfortunately, till it was too late), and had always looked after her money affairs. He must be nearly fifty—quite young, for a man—and Caroline had always been old for her age. Still, he didn’t think there was anything in it. . . .

  Maggie had stopped chattering, and a tense anxious look had come over her face. She was clutching at her scarf and coat collar and necklace, making ineffectual attempts to straighten them.

  “Here we are,” she whispered nervously.

  Caroline’s house, The Elms, stood before them—mellow, Georgian, ivy-covered, separated from the road by a small strip of garden. It had been Gordon’s house, and Caroline had refused to sell it even when things had been most difficult.

  Charles walked up to the green six-panelled door, followed by Maggie, and knocked firmly with the shining brass knocker.

  Chapter Two

  CAROLINE, tall, fair, and slender, came into the hall to greet them.

  “How nice to see you!” she said. “Come in and sit down. You must be tired after your walk.”

  Her voice was low-pitched, curiously level and devoid of inflections. As she spoke, her cool blue eyes rested just for a second on the straying ends of Maggie’s hair, and at once Maggie began to tuck them behind her ears with jerky nervous movements. Maggie had an ostrich-like faith in that action, seeming to think that, when she had performed it, the ends automatically vanished from sight, instead of hanging down behind her ears in an erratic sort of fringe.

  As they entered the drawing-room, Richard Oakley rose from an armchair by the fireplace, and Susan uncurled herself languidly from the sofa. Susan had a round, soft, childish face, with velvety eyes and full cupid’s-bow lips. She was generous and impulsive, charming at her best, but disposed to be moody. She didn’t look a particularly happy bride, thought Charles, noticing the pout of her full lips and the smouldering lights in her dark eyes. Kenneth Melsham, her husband, was a nice enough chap, but as young and headstrong as Susan herself, and—well, after all, the Melshams weren’t quite the same class as the Cunliffes. Old Melsham, in fact, who had started and built up the business—a large furnishing store in the middle of the town—had been quite uneducated. Kenneth wasn’t uneducated, but he naturally lacked the background that is given by a cultured home. Charles had heard rumours that the business hadn’t been doing too well lately, had, in fact, been going steadily downhill ever since Kenneth’s father died, but that wouldn’t be altogether Kenneth’s fault even if it were true. Most of the old-established local shops were finding things difficult nowadays, with branches of the big combines opening on every side and cutting down prices till it was almost impossible to compete. Fox & Glazonby, from Tottenham Court Road, had just opened a branch at Ellington, only ten miles away, and Bartenham was beginning to go there to buy its furniture. He looked at Susan’s beautiful moody face. Perhaps that was the trouble. No woman who’d had a taste—however short—of an independent income, as Susan had had when she was teaching, liked to have to stint and cheese-pare and “manage” on an erratic and generally inadequate allowance. She wouldn’t have been an easy wife in any case, of course, and Kenneth hadn’t Caroline’s knack of banishing her demons of ill-temper by a smile or quiet word.

  His glance passed on to Caroline. She was talking to Maggie, or rather listening to Maggie’s nervous rambling monologue, and, as Charles watched, her eyes met Richard’s in a smile of understanding, almost of intimacy. Charles’s interest quickened. Perhaps there was something in the rumour, after all. Pleasant fellow, Richard. Quite handsome, too, in his way, though he looked older than he was. Good figure, but grey on the temples and beginning to go bald. Complacently Charles compared his appearance with his own. No one would ever think that there were about fifteen years between them.

  Well, Caroline would make any man a perfect wife. His gaze travelled round the room, with its restful tints of blue and grey—grey carpet, blue and grey chintz curtains and chair-covers, cream-coloured walls, one or two reall
y good water-colours. The surface of the furniture shone like glass. She was a wonderful housekeeper, doing in a few odd minutes each day what most women made their whole day’s work. She coached pupils every morning and often worked at her French or Italian translations late into the night, but she held the reins of the household in her slender capable hands, ordering the meals, shopping, supervising everything. She was talking to Richard now (Maggie was making nervous overtures to Susan, who was ignoring them completely), and Charles’s eyes dwelt on her admiringly. He admired her air of poised detachment and her good looks, though he could see what people meant when they said that they were “academic.” There was something austere in the regular features, the level brows, the grave blue eyes, the fair hair parted in the centre and taken severely back into a knot at the nape of her neck. It was as if she scorned any attempt at embellishment. Even the slight natural wave of her hair seemed to be apologetic for its presence. There was something Quaker-like, too, in the plain blue dress, with its white collar and cuffs. Not that her appearance was in any way dowdy. That would have grieved Charles indescribably. On the contrary, she dressed well and chose her clothes with care, but there was always that suggestion of austerity about her.

  Susan rose with an abrupt movement, interrupting Maggie in the middle of a somewhat confused account of the Vicar’s last sermon.

  “I’d better go now, Caroline,” she said.

  Caroline looked at her tenderly.

  “Oh darling, must you? It’s been such a short visit.”

  “I know,” said Susan.

  “Can’t you stay to tea?”

  “I’m afraid not. . . . Kenneth’s being in for tea, and I said I’d be there.”

  “Ring him up. Or shall I?”

  “No, Caroline. I wish I could, but——” She shrugged dispiritedly and ended, “Oh, well, it’s no use having rows when one can avoid them. I’d better go.”

  Caroline’s face hardened.

  “Kenneth seems a little unreasonable,” she said in her quiet level voice.

  Susan shrugged again.

  “I’d love to stay. You know I would. It’s gone so hatefully quickly. It always does.”

  “Darling. . . .” Caroline slipped an arm affectionately round her waist. “When can you come again? . . . What about tomorrow? Come and have lunch with me. Fay’s having it at school, so I shall be alone.”

  “I—may I ring you up? I’d love to. I will if I possibly can.”

  They went out together, Caroline’s arm still round Susan, Susan leaning against her like a disconsolate child. When Caroline returned, her brow was drawn into a frown.

  “What’s the matter with Susan?” said Charles. “She’s a bit depressed, isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid that her marriage isn’t turning out very well,” said Caroline, closing the door behind her.

  “Why?” said Richard. “He seems a decent chap.

  “So nice-looking,” put in Maggie. “I like his curly hair.”

  “I suppose he’s been spoilt,” said Caroline. “Only sons so often are, and”—she shrugged—“he’s been brought up in quite a different atmosphere from Susan, of course.”

  “Don’t be a snob, Caroline,” said Richard.

  She laughed.

  “It’s not that. It’s——” She grew serious again. “I was afraid from the beginning that it wouldn’t be a success. I hoped and prayed that it would be. I still hope and pray that it will be. If only Kenneth——” She stopped, and added, “Susan was getting on so nicely at St. Monica’s.”

  “You’re a fussy old mother hen,” said Richard.

  “They say that Melsham’s isn’t doing any too well,” put in Charles.

  Again that slight hardening came into Caroline’s face.

  “If it isn’t, it’s Kenneth’s fault. He had everything in his favour. His father made the business one of the best in Bartenham.”

  “Times are changing, you know, Caroline,” said Richard.

  She smiled at him, her sudden sweet disarming smile.

  “I’m tired of hearing that given as an excuse for everything,” she said. “Anyway, let’s forget Melsham’s and talk about something more cheerful. What do you think of those new houses they’re building out at Merrows, Uncle Charles? Richard says that they’re exactly like the ones he used to build with his bricks when he was a little boy.”

  “Yes,” agreed Richard. “Whenever I go down that road and see them, I expect to hear someone saying, ‘Put those bricks away now, Richard. It’s nearly bedtime.’ ”

  Caroline steered the conversation lightly from that to other local topics and then to politics. It was amazing, thought Charles, how she managed to keep abreast with current events everywhere. However busy she was, she always seemed to find time to read the papers and know what was going on. She had her own ideas about things, too. She didn’t just repeat what she read or heard like a parrot. And she didn’t make you feel stupid, either, as so many clever women did. Charles never felt that he’d talked better or been more interesting than after a visit to Caroline. . . . He was sorry when the telephone bell rang and Caroline had to go to answer it. She came back a few minutes later.

  “It was Evelyn,” she said. “She wanted a recipe I’d told her about. I gave it to poor little Effie, but she lost it, of course.”

  Evelyn Marston was another of Caroline’s strokes of genius. Robert’s wife, Effie, was a pretty empty-headed little piece of goods, who had no more idea of running a house than the man in the moon. She had muddled along anyhow—the house badly run, the children badly brought up—still a year ago, when Caroline had come to the rescue and discovered Evelyn Marston. Evelyn was officially a mother’s help, but in reality she had taken over the management of the entire house, and the improvement she had made there in the short time since her arrival was amazing. The children, from being little savages, had become well-behaved and well-mannered; the house, from being a kind of perpetual chaos, had become almost as well conducted as Caroline’s own. Evelyn was a charming, intelligent woman, a woman after Caroline’s own heart, and the two were firm friends.

  Caroline was still smiling reminiscently.

  “Poor little Effie!” she said again.

  The tenderness in her tone touched Charles deeply. Caroline’s attitude to Effie, ever since Robert’s marriage, was proof—if proof were needed—of her large-heartedness. Most women with as many calls on their time as Caroline would have felt themselves justified in washing their hands of a brother once he’d married. Not so Caroline. She had taken infinite trouble helping Effie with her housekeeping and trying to secure for Robert something of the comfort he had known when he lived at home. Effie was a stupid, rather sulky little person, but Caroline had been as kind and as patient as if she had been one of her own beloved brood. No amount of patience or kindness, however, could put brains and method into Effie’s pretty empty head, and the problem had seemed insolvable till the arrival of Evelyn last year. He hoped that Effie realised what she owed to Caroline. He was afraid that she was one of those selfish modern young people who take everything for granted. Certainly she never seemed particularly grateful, which made Caroline’s unfailing patience all the more wonderful.

  A maid brought in tea, and Caroline sat down at the low tea-table to pour it out.

  “We won’t wait for Fay,” she said. “I don’t expect her back till about five today. She’s working very hard just now. She’s got her Scholarship exam in November.”

  “I suppose she stands quite a good chance?” said Richard

  An almost fanatical light shone in Caroline’s blue eyes. (Fay’s like her own child to her, thought Charles.)

  “I believe so,” she said quietly. “Certainly, unless the standard’s much higher than it was when I got mine, she’ll do it easily.”

  “As much to your credit as Fay’s if she does,” said Richard.

  Caroline smiled.

  “Oh, well. . . . I’ve coached her a good deal, of course, but she�
��s worked like a little brick, and she’s got an excellent brain.”

  “So pretty,” put in Maggie vaguely, “and plays so nicely.”

  Caroline frowned slightly and ignored the remark.

  “It’ll do her good to go to college,” said Richard. “She needs bringing out of herself. She doesn’t make many friends at school, does she?”

  “She makes quite as many as are good for her,” said Caroline lightly. “I hate indiscriminate friendships—gangs of schoolgirls going about arm-in-arm, yelling ‘old thing’ and ‘old bean’ at each other. Fay has too much good sense and good taste for that sort of thing.”

  How indignantly she rose to the defence of her chick, thought Charles amusedly, though she’d hardly been attacked!

  “I didn’t mean that exactly——” Richard was beginning slowly, when Maggie put in:

  “What’s happened to the piano, Caroline? Surely it used to be in that corner by the window.”

  Caroline laughed rather shortly.

  “Auntie darling, you ask that question every time you come. I keep telling you. I simply hate a room cluttered up with furniture, and when I got that tallboy the obvious thing seemed to be to move the piano out.” Her eyes rested with pleasure on the mellow gleaming surface of the old walnut. “It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it? That corner’s been crying out for it for years. Pianos are such ugly articles of furniture. I love this room without it.”

  “Fay played on it so nicely,” said Maggie. “Where is it now?”

  “It’s stored,” said Caroline. “There wasn’t room for it in any other room.”

  She’s irritated with Maggie for harping on the subject of the piano like that, thought Charles, watching her. It’s silly of Maggie, of course. She can’t remember things. She asked just the same questions the last time we were here. . . . Funny how Caroline’s eyes betrayed her exasperation rather than her voice or manner. They were almost grey when she was pleased, but they turned a clear cold blue when she was annoyed or irritated.