As she came nearer The Marsh House she quickened her pace. She was late. Scilla was waiting for her, the Lindsays were all expecting her, and Gillie – Miss Penelope Gill, whom she had never seen – was probably expecting her too. But she could not have hurried before. She came to the corner, drew a deep breath, and ran along the footpath towards the house.
Mrs Lindsay was just coming out to look for her.
“Anna! What is it, dear? Where have you been? We’ve been waiting—”
“Where is Mr Lindsay? Can I see him first? I want to tell him something.”
Mrs Lindsay looked surprised. “But he’s gone. Didn’t you know? He had to go back to town, to work. He won’t be back until tomorrow night. What is it? Can I help?”
“I want to tell him something,” Anna gabbled quickly, “something about the boat – Marnie’s boat. It’s something I took.”
Mrs Lindsay put an arm round her shoulders and drew her into the hall. “Was it the anchor?” she asked casually.
Anna spun round. “How did you know?”
“He told me. Don’t look so angry. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
“You mean he knew it was there?”
Mrs Lindsay nodded. “Yes, of course. And he realised you must have taken it, because it wasn’t there when you all went to look. It didn’t matter a bit. He thought you’d probably tell him, because he knew you weren’t the sort of person who just took things without asking. But when you didn’t, he said you must have wanted it an awful lot, not to risk asking for it. Did you want it all that much?”
Anna nodded silently.
Mrs Lindsay said “O-oh,” very gently, just as if Anna had hurt herself and was trying not to cry. “And you wanted to see him to tell him you’d taken it? You are a sweetie. I call that jolly brave. Don’t worry about it, of course you can have it. Tell me – where is it now?”
“Under my bed,” Anna whispered. “In a suitcase.”
Mrs Lindsay said “O-oh” again. “And what were you going to do with it – or isn’t that a fair question?”
Anna hesitated, then said, “Yes, of course it’s fair. I was going to – I thought perhaps, if I cleaned it up, I might – take it home and Auntie might let me hang it up in my room – for a – a sort of decoration.” She gave a little gasp that was half a sob, half a giggle. “It sounds so feeble now but—”
Mrs Lindsay interrupted. “No, it’s not feeble at all. Guess what my husband said to me before he left! He said, if I knew for sure she wanted it, I could have rubbed it down and given it a coat of silver paint. She could have had it to hang up on her wall.”
Anna was amazed. “Did he truly say that?”
“Yes, truly. So bring it back some time and we’ll hold him to it! Now, come in, darling, and meet Gillie. She’s been longing to see you.”
She bent down and kissed Anna, smoothing the hair away from her eyes, then, with an arm still round her shoulders, she pushed open the drawing-room door and they went in.
Chapter Thirty-Three
MISS PENELOPE GILL
AT FIRST ANNA thought Gillie was not there after all. Then she saw that the others were gathered round a little woman who was sitting in a low easy chair. Could this be Miss Penelope Gill? She had imagined her tall and thin and rather elegant, with straight dark hair cut in a fringe. This woman was small and dumpy, with short, shaggy grey hair.
She turned round as they came in, and Anna had her second surprise.
“So you’re Anna! “said the little woman. “Why, we’ve met before, haven’t we? What a blessing, we can do away with all those tiresome introductions and things! Do you know, I always wished I’d asked you what your name was. And now I know! I’m Gillie, by the way, but I expect you’ve guessed that already.” She was looking at Anna was a long, steady gaze, as if she wanted to know everything about her, but her eyes were kind. “Do you remember me?” she asked.
Anna smiled. “Yes, you were painting on the marsh.” She would have liked to add that she had remembered her ever since as if they had been friends, but felt this would be too extravagant.
The Lindsays were delighted and amazed, wanting to know how and when the two could possibly have met. And why hadn’t they been there, they demanded. Miss Gill told them. It was the last time she had come down to Barnham for a few days’ sketching.
She looked up at Anna. “We talked about this house, didn’t we? And now we meet inside it! How very right and proper that seems. Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing since we last met.”
While everyone talked, Mrs Lindsay fetched a jug of hot cocoa and a pot of coffee from the kitchen. Jane brought in a tray of mugs and cups and saucers, and Matthew went round with the big biscuit tin. “We’re staying up late tonight,” he said with a grin, “so that we can eat biscuits while Gillie tells us one of her stories.”
Miss Gill laughed. “Who said I was going to tell one of my stories, you saucy boy?”
“But you always do,” said Matthew, looking surprised.
“Yes, she does,” said Scilla, sitting down on the floor beside Anna. “And I’ve been longing for you to come! Isn’t it fun – do you feel as if you’re living here already?”
“I had a friend who used to live here once,” said Miss Gill, smiling down at the two of them. “But I certainly never came to stay with her. In fact I doubt if I ever came right inside more than once.”
“Why not?” asked Matthew.
Mrs Lindsay stopped pouring out the cocoa and looked round. “Did you?” she said. “In this house?”
Miss Gill said, answering them both at once. “Yes, dear, I’m sure I told you – or didn’t I? Because they had a fierce dog, Matt. At least I always thought he was fierce. I know I was scared to death of him, so after that one visit I always met her outside if I could. Her mother and my mother were friends.”
“What was her name?” asked Anna and Scilla both together.
“Marian,” said Miss Gill.
Mrs Lindsay said quickly, “Gillie, we must show you our book. The children found it. We’ve been longing to ask you if you know anything about it – that’s why we’re all so interested. Where is it, Scilla?”
Scilla brought it out at once. She had been sitting with it tucked inside her jersey, only waiting for Anna to come before producing it. Now she laid it in Gillie’s lap.
“What’s this?” Gillie put on her spectacles. “Marnie?” she said slowly, reading the name on the cover. “But how did you know? Marian was always called Marnie —”
“We didn’t know,” said Mrs Lindsay, looking as excited as the children. “We found it here.”
“It was stuck behind a shelf,” said Scilla. “In my room.” She glanced at Anna, smiling and hugging her knees.
Gillie opened the book and looked through it. Now and again little sighs and chuckles escaped her. Anna and the Lindsays waited, watching her face. Yes, it was Marian’s book without a doubt. How strange – how extraordinary to come across it after all these years! She turned to the beginning again and read it through more slowly.
“Oh, those lucky children with their licquorice bootlaces!” she exclaimed. “How we used to envy them! At least, I know I did. It was during the Great War, you know, and sugar was in short supply. We were never allowed those rubbishy sweets, as my mother used to call them; only a few of the more wholesome kind, and precious few of those.”
She turned the page. “And Pluto. Yes, that was the name of that dreadful dog! Perhaps he wasn’t so fierce really… But apparently Marnie was afraid of him, too – fancy that, she never told me—! I don’t know why they kept him but I think her father thought he would be good as a house dog, for when he was away… Poor man, he was drowned shortly afterwards.”
“Drowned?” said Matthew, in a shocked voice.
“Yes, in the war. He was in the Navy, you know.”
“We didn’t know—” Mrs Lindsay began, but Gillie was engrossed in the book again.
“And Miss Q! That w
as Miss Quick! What a dance we led the poor lady! She was the governess we shared – not together but on different days. She came to us two or three days a week, and to Marnie on the other days. I remember my brothers used to tease the poor woman dreadfully.” She laid the book down and wiped her eyes. “Dear me, how it does take one back! This really is a most exciting discovery.”
It was growing dark in the room. Mrs Lindsay went to turn on the light, then changed her mind and brought down two branched candlesticks instead. “Do go on, Gillie,” she said. “It’s fascinating to us, too. We don’t know anything about the family except what you’ve just told us.”
Gillie turned in her chair and said with a laugh, “I can see by the way you’re lighting those candles, that you think I’m going to launch out on one of my long yarns. Well, perhaps I am. But you must stop me if you get bored.”
“We shan’t be bored,” said Scilla, drawing closer to her. “We want to hear the story of Marnie.”
“Very well,” said Gillie. “Now, where shall I begin?”
Mrs Lindsay drew up her chair behind Anna, who was still sitting on the floor, and signed to her that she could lean back if she liked.
Anna turned and smiled, hesitated, then leaned back – a little awkwardly at first, then relaxing gradually into comfort. The candlelight made a soft glow in the room. Outside, the darkening sky had turned to a deep blue, and beyond the sound of Gillie’s voice Anna could hear the murmur of the returning tide.
Chapter Thirty-Four
GILLIE TELLS A STORY
“I DIDN’T REALLY know Marnie very well in those days,” Gillie said. “We were a large family, not very well off, and we lived over beyond Barnham. We had no car then, so I didn’t see her often, but we used to play together when my mother brought me to Little Overton. She was always very lively – marvellous company – and she always seemed thrilled at having me to play with. That used to surprise me rather, because I wasn’t a particularly thrilling child, I can assure you! I was rather dull and stodgy. But I don’t think she had many other friends.”
“Why not?” asked Scilla.
“It was different in those days,” Gillie explained. “Children didn’t just make friends with each other casually, the way they do now,” she said. “We always had to ask our mothers first.”
“Goodness!” said Jane.
“Yes.” Gillie smiled. “Marnie’s mother was away a lot. She was young, and merry, and pretty, and she entertained a great deal at their house in London. Marnie always stayed with her nurse at The Marsh House all the summer.”
“Jolly nice for her too,” said Andrew, who was stretched out on the window seat behind them, pretending to be only half interested.
“Yes, indeed,” said Gillie. “She was a lucky child in some ways. And I think she knew it. She thought the world of her parents. She was always boasting about them. It used to make me quite tired sometimes. After all, I much preferred my own, even if they weren’t quite so rich or handsome or wonderful.”
“She wasn’t lucky at all,” said Anna suddenly. “She had a beastly time. Most of the time anyway.”
The others looked up, surprised. “You talk as if you knew her yourself!” said Andrew, laughing.
“Well, it’s in the diary, isn’t it? You said yourself she must have been jolly lonely,” Anna turned to Mrs Lindsay.
“Yes, I did. That’s true,” said Mrs Lindsay.
“And you’re quite right,” Gillie said to Anna. “She did have a beastly time, but I didn’t know it in those days. I suppose in some ways she was a lucky child, living in this lovely house and staying by the sea all the summer, but it was only later I learned how unhappy she was. I was telling you how it seemed to me then.”
Anna nodded and leaned back again.
“I must say her mother never seemed to me quite like a proper mother – not like my own was – but she was very pretty,” Gillie went on. “Marnie herself was a lively little monkey. This in the book, about her going out in the boat at night when they thought she was in bed… I’m sure I remember hearing about that. Miss Quick told my mother she was a naughty little thing – used to run quite wild sometimes. There was a story that she once brought a beggar girl in to one of her parents’ smart parties” – her eyes twinkled – “I wish I could remember what happened exactly. I believe they pretended she was selling something – clothes pegs, perhaps.”
Anna sat up suddenly. “Was it sea lavender?” she asked.
Gillie looked down at her in surprise. “Sea lavender, so it was! What ever made you think of that?”
“Yes, what made you?” said Scilla. “You couldn’t have known. It isn’t in the book.”
Anna shook her head. “I don’t know: It just came into my head all of a sudden that it was sea lavender – in little bunches.”
“Magical Anna!” said Andrew.
“Yes, but it was rather odd,” said Gillie. “Marnie was always so fond of sea lavender – I hadn’t told you that, had I? – but they wouldn’t let her bring it into the house because they said it dropped and collected the dust.”
“Who were ‘they’?” asked Jane.
“The two maids, and her nurse. My mother used to say it was a shame the way she was always left to the maids. I don’t remember ever seeing them myself, but that nurse was a beastly woman from all accounts.”
“Tell us! Tell us!” said the children.
“Goodness me,” said Gillie, “how eager you all look to hear a tale of cruelty in the olden days! I’m afraid it’s not a very dramatic tale either. But I remember my mother telling me, when it all came out afterwards. Apparently the nurse had been treating Marnie very badly while her parents were away, and the maids had been frightening her with silly stories. In fact she was quite neglected, though you’d never have guessed it. Certainly I never did.”
“Why didn’t she tell?” asked Scilla.
“She daren’t. They’d threatened her with all sorts of silly things – one was that they’d shut her up in the windmill if she did. That’s why she was so afraid of it.” She pointed to the book lying open on her lap. “You see here, ‘Edward wants me to go to the windmill but I’m not going.’”
“Oh yes, tell us about Edward!” said Matthew. “Who was he?”
“He was a distant cousin of hers. I don’t think I ever met him in those days. But of course she married him later, so I did meet him then, once.”
Jane was delighted. “There you are!” she said with a triumphant smile at her mother, “I said I bet she married Edward when she grew up. Was he nice?”
“Oh yes, I think so. I’m sure he was very kind to her. Though perhaps he was a little – well, a little severe. You’ve seen here, in the diary, where she says ‘Edward says I ought to face up to things… I wish he’d stop teasing me’ and so on. I think perhaps even then he was a little hard on her, without meaning to be.”
She looked again at the last entry. “The windmill – that was the cause of all the trouble… Still, I suppose it was just as well, as it turned out.”
“What was just as well? What happened?” Scilla demanded eagerly.
Gillie wrinkled her forehead. “That’s the trouble, I don’t really know what happened. I don’t think anybody ever did, and I only heard the tale second-hand from my mother. But apparently Marnie was missing one night – when her parents were away – and the maids got into a panic and got some of the local men to make a search party. But it was Edward himself who found her; so then I think they wished they’d kept it to themselves! He said he’d found her lying on the floor at the top of the ladder in the mill, and he carried her down himself, and met the search party just coming along. My mother heard that bit of the story from her maid, so it may have been just local gossip. But anyway it all came out after that.”
“What came out?” asked Anna.
“About her nurse bullying her, and not looking after her properly. But Marnie had never told a soul – that was the dreadful thing – so it didn’t come out s
traight away even then. They punished her by locking her up in her room. And her parents were told she’d been running away with Edward and staying all night in the mill. I suppose the nurse was frightened by then (since half the village knew the child had been lost), and was trying to save her own skin. But it didn’t work, I’m happy to say. Marnie was sent away to boarding school after that, almost immediately, and the nurse was sent packing. Wretched woman that she was.”
They were all silent for a moment. Then Jane said in a puzzled voice, “But why did she go to the mill if she was so afraid of it?”
“My mother always said it was just naughtiness,” said Gillie.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Jane. “You don’t go somewhere you’re frightened of just for the sake of being naughty.”
Scilla said thoughtfully, “It says in the diary about making sand houses, and making a little house in the dunes with a thatched roof. I wonder if she and Edward were going to make it into a secret house of their own – if she’d stopped being frightened of it, perhaps—?”
Matthew interrupted. “I think she did it to give them all a scare. I hope she did, and serve them right.”
“No,” said Anna. “I think she went there just because she was frightened. To make herself not, I mean.”
Gillie looked at her with interest. “I believe you’re right, Anna. I never thought of it before, but it’s just the sort of thing she might have done – if she’d been driven to it. Marnie always said she couldn’t stand people going on and on at her about what she ought to do – that’s why she couldn’t bear Miss Quick. But with Edward it would have been different, she minded what he thought, and if he’d been teasing her…”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking suddenly tired. “Poor Marnie,” she said, almost under her breath. “It was all so long ago. And it seems so sad – now, looking back.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Marnie Was There Page 16
