The Tender Winds of Spring

by Joyce Dingwell

  ‘It has two meanings. Breath: Vanity. I prefer Breath. I love the outdoors, and I like to think my name captures it. On the other hand that might just be my Vanity. Your name is Josephine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  She shrugged. She knew he was only talking to divert her, or at least to give her time. She cut short the diversion and asked directly: ‘Abel, you just said I also had to do something else.’ She paused. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You have to begin to think of others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘There are others in this, Josephine. You’re not the only one.’

  ‘I’m the only twin. We were twins. Twin twins, not just sister twins. Geraldine was Josephine and Josephine was Geraldine. Can you understand?’

  ‘Yes, and sympathise. But it can’t stop at that.’

  ‘Mr. Passant? I mean man called Abel?’

  ‘Just Abel will do. No, it can’t stop at that. It can’t stop because Mark Grant was in it, too, and because of Grant, his three children.’

  ‘I’d never met Mark,’ she said.

  ‘But your twin had, and presumably loved him.’

  ‘Yes, Gee loved him.’

  ‘And Geraldine is Josephine,’ he reminded her. ‘You’ve just said so.’

  She thought that over. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course—I have only been thinking of myself. But the pain is so big it—it seems to fill eternity. There just isn’t room for anyone else.’

  ‘There has to be room. For a period, that is. There has to be temporary room for three children.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the children. I’d forgotten the children. Where are they?’

  ‘Being watched over in the stationmaster’s office in town.’ Abel paused. ‘Awaiting your instructions.’

  ‘My instructions?’

  ‘There’s no one else to give instructions, Josephine. Not, anyway, at this juncture. Had Mark Grant any relatives, do you know?’

  ‘I know nothing about him, only that Gee ... that she ...’ Jo’s voice broke off.

  ‘Well, that all can be untangled later,’ he came in. ‘The immediate thing is what do we do with the kids? They can’t sit in the stationmaster’s office indefinitely.’

  ‘Perhaps their schools—’ Jo suggested, still in confusion.

  ‘According to some good woman whom the stationmaster called in to talk to them, the children had finished with their schools, and you know how boarding schools are these days, as fast as a vacancy occurs, a child fills it up. Possibly and probably the children will get back in time, but that’s not now.’ He emphasised the now to arouse Jo, and he succeeded.

  ‘But they’ll come here now,’ said Jo in surprise. ‘Of course they will come here.’

  ‘That,’ sighed Abel Passant patiently, ‘is what I’ve been leading up to. Why couldn’t you have said so at once?’

  ‘Why couldn’t you have asked at once? Of course I’ll have them. It’s what Gee would have expected of me. She asked me to help win them for her, do the spadework.’ Jo stopped abruptly at an unmistakable closed-up look in the face opposite to her. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong? What have I said?’

  ‘Just about everything,’ he told her baldly. ‘You’re not looking at the situation for them, are you, only for yourself.’

  ‘No,’ she defended, ‘for Gee.’

  ‘But Geraldine is Josephine and Josephine is Geraldine, remember? Or,’ drily, ‘so you said.’

  ‘I remember, but I don’t know the children, do I?’ Jo answered sullenly, for she felt ashamed of herself. She said: ‘Of course I’ll do my best.’

  His face still had that closed-in look, but this time he made no comment.

  ‘I’ll ring town, then,’ he said instead. ‘Get the hire car to bring them out here. By the way ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They don’t know yet.’

  ‘About—’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh,’ Jo said.

  ‘Will I get the good woman to break it?’ he asked when Jo said no more.

  ‘No—no, don’t do that.’

  ‘It won’t be an easy job telling them.’

  ‘But nothing is easy, is it?’ Jo said hollowly, the pain of amputation encompassing her again.

  He must have seen her wretchedness, for his face lost its closed look.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ he told her, ‘if it will help.’

  ‘Yes, it will help.’

  ‘Gingerbread men might help, too. Perhaps you could put them back in the oven, or won’t that be necessary?’

  ‘I’ll put them in.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He crossed to the phone. ‘I rang before,’ he explained as he dialled, ‘while you were asleep.’

  ‘Not asleep, drifting.’

  He nodded, then spoke into the receiver. When he put the phone down again, he said: ‘They’re leaving now.’

  ‘They still don’t know?’

  ‘No. So’... a pause ... ‘it will be up to us.’

  Jo moved around the kitchen, attending to the range, altering the position of the gingerbread men so that one side would not be burnt, washing the teacups they had used when he had first come in, washing the glass in which the raw spirits had been. She was conscious all the time of his eyes on her.

  At last he broke the silence.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy.’ He repeated that.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like someone with you?’

  She turned from what she was doing in a small panic. ‘But you said you would help.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be here, but I meant someone—well, someone who counts.’

  ‘Abel—?’ she started to ask, but did not reach the second syllable. She saw that he was looking at her ring, looking at it very significantly. Of course it was only natural that he would think she needed someone as near as a fiancé. As Gavin.

  Yet she didn’t, and the realisation shocked her. She loved Gavin, but in this ... well, in this she simply didn’t want him here. Not, anyway, just yet. Later he would help her. Gavin had a very cool head, he would know what was best. But not just now. And yet with love shouldn’t you turn to someone special in sorrow as well as in joy?

  ‘I won’t ring Gavin yet,’ she said.

  ‘Not ring your fiancé?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But isn’t that odd?’

  ‘It’s something I want not to do. It’s also,’ she drew a deep breath, ‘nothing to do with you.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  Jo went to the bathroom, combed her hair, rubbed in some lipstick, pinched her cheeks. She must not let the children think they had come to a ghost, she told herself. What would they be like, those three, those young people who were to have become Gee’s young people? Were. Were. Oh, stop crying, you mustn’t face them with red eyes. Gee had given an impression of possible difficulties ahead. Not all roses. How did you deal with difficulties when death intruded? Could you hope to sort it out with gingerbread?

  She could not have said how long she stood there, but it must have been for some time, for distantly at first, then nearer, she heard a car coming up to Tender Winds, and the plantation was some miles from the railway station. So, she faced up, they’re here. She straightened her shoulders and went out to the verandah. Abel Passant already stood there.

  The hire car gave a grunt and halted. Jo saw that Hector was driving it. Hector was a friendly soul, guaranteed to put anyone at their ease. But today he had obviously met his match. The boy he had placed beside; him simply sat there. The two girls in the back seat simply sat as well.

  ‘Here we are then, ho-ho,’ boomed Hector rather uncomfortably. He got out and came round and opened the two doors.

  Abel stepped forward to descend the few stairs of the verandah. Jo came urgently behind him.

  ‘Don’t ho-ho,’ she begged.

  He gave her a quick reassuring look. ‘I won’t,’ he said.


  The children were out of the hire car by this time. A tall girl, a short boy and a very small girl. Amanda, Dicky, Sukey. There was little difference in the seniors’ ages, Jo recalled, but in the characteristic way of children the girl had leapt ahead, whereas the boy had more or less stopped still. A little later he would begin to grow again and quickly leave the girl behind.

  ‘Hullo,’ Jo called.

  ‘ ’Lo,’ they responded ... at least two of them responded like that. The tall young lady said: ‘Good morning.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ It was the boy Dicky. ‘It’s after lunch. Remember all that food they gave us.’

  That was a disappointment to Jo, she now could not hope for any help from her gingerbread men that had reheated beautifully and were sending forth lovely aromas. But she did not blame the good woman who had been called in by the stationmaster. Apart from crying over them, which she would know she mustn’t do, what else could she have done but ply them with goodies? Jo knew she would have done the same herself.

  ‘Welcome to The Tender Winds of Spring,’ she called. That might help.

  They looked at the house suspiciously, and the eldest, Amanda, said that there was no wind today, even the banana leaves were still.

  ‘Escaped convict bananas,’ Jo tried desperately. ‘They’ve got away from gaol and now can grow as they please, ripen in the sun instead of a bag.’ She looked eagerly for one receptive face.

  None.

  ‘Come in,’ she said.

  They walked in, and as they did Jo was able to observe them. Not particularly outstanding children. Just children. She had expected Mark to be handsome because Gee was ... had been ... so beautiful, and beauty seeks beauty, but if so then they did not resemble him.

  Jo’s eyes were attracted next to Amanda’s skirt. It was very unbecoming for a twelve-year-old girl, halfway to her ankles.

  For the first time a faint spark of interest leapt up in Amanda because of Jo’s attention to the skirt. In Dicky also, but his spark was nor pride, it was scorn.

  ‘She did that on the train. She let the hem down. I told her they’d make her alter it.’ They? Mark and Gee?

  ‘I’ll be unfashionable,’ protested Amanda, ‘everyone knows skirts are down. They must let me wear it like this.’ They?

  ‘Sukey’s aren’t down.’ It was Dicky.

  ‘Sukey’s a child.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘I are—I mean I’m not. I’m a young lady.’

  ‘So you am,’ Dicky pounced triumphantly. He looked a bright button. ‘Well, they won’t let you.’ They?

  Sukey said nothing.

  ‘So you don’t want any gingerbread men?’ Jo came in.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t made any introductions,’ tried Jo next. ‘Neither have you. But I think I can guess. Amanda. Dicky. Sukey. And this is Mr. Passant.’

  ‘Abel,’ said Abel Passant, and he came solemnly forward and shook three unextended hands.

  ‘I’m Jo,’ said Jo, ‘short for Josephine.’ She, too, shook three limp hands.

  A silence descended. For the life of her Jo did not know what to say next, and yet, she knew miserably, things had to be said.

  ‘Would you like to see your rooms?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll wait,’ pronounced Amanda.

  ‘Until they come,’ added Dicky.

  Sukey still said nothing.

  Across the room Jo looked at Abel, and he looked back.

  ‘Will you all find chairs,’ he told them. ‘There are things to be discussed.’

  Now Amanda darted Dicky a triumphant look and he flicked one back. Jo saw the exchange and made her own glance exchange with Abel Passant.

  ‘They know there’s something,’ her glance told him. ‘Yes,’ he telegraphed back.

  When they were all seated, Abel said matter-of-factly: ‘Your father won’t be coming. Nor will Geraldine. Is that what you called her?’

  ‘We called her nothing yet.’ It was Amanda.

  ‘When will they come?’ asked Dicky.

  Nothing from Sukey.

  ‘I can’t tell you just now,’ said Abel, ‘it’s one of those things you only understand little by little.’

  ‘Oh, we understand a lot,’ hinted Amanda.

  ‘People were whispering outside the stationmaster’s office,’ Dicky explained. ‘People always whisper when they know something that you don’t. It’s called lowering your voice,’ he added.

  ‘And they brought in cakes,’ said Amanda.

  ‘And doughnuts,’ said Dicky.

  ‘And they don’t do that unless there’s something,’ said Amanda.

  Sukey spoke for the first time. She said: ‘And they brought in fizz.’

  ‘So we knew there was something,’ Amanda summed up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I just told you,’ reminded Abel, ‘it’s that your father and Geraldine won’t be coming.’

  ‘So we’re left with you?’

  ‘For the time being, yes.’

  ‘How long a time?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘Until they do come?’ asked Dicky.

  ‘Was there an accident?’ asked Amanda with interest.

  Across the table Jo met Abel’s eyes again. This is it, her eyes said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Abel’s eyes. He said ‘Yes’ too, but aloud, to Amanda’s question.

  ‘A bad one?’ Dicky.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A crash?’ Still Dicky.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No survivors?’ It was Dicky a third time and Jo looked at him, deeply shocked. But Abel Passant’s face did not alter.

  ‘You’re right,’ he told the boy calmly, ‘none.’ Then waited.

  Jo waited with him. Waited for something from them. From any of them. Waited for a sigh, a cry, a protest, a whimper, a tear. She watched for it, watched desperately.

  But nothing happened.

  ‘Would you all like a cup of cocoa?’ she asked. Well, you didn’t give raw spirits to children.

  ‘No, thank you,’ they said politely.

  ‘Would you like to go to your rooms?’

  ‘Sukey goes to bed at seven, Dicky at eight and I go at eight-thirty. It isn’t that yet. It’s too early.’

  Dicky asked: ‘Is it daylight saving up here?’ and Abel answered him.

  They sat on ... and they sat on. Sometimes they spoke but more often they didn’t, they just sat. They sat for over an hour.

  Then at last Abel got up and went and drew the blind. He drew it so closely no light showed through. He went into the bedrooms, and Jo knew he was drawing the blinds there as well.

  When he came out again he stood looking at them, then he said firmly: ‘It’s dark now.’

  They knew he was cheating them, but they never protested. They followed Jo down the passage and she showed Dicky his bed in the room she had allotted to him, then the girls their beds.

  Jo helped unbutton Sukey but received no thanks, then she turned down the bedcovers in readiness.

  ‘Usually,’ Amanda repeated, ‘I don’t go till eight-thirty.’ Her face was very composed, no telltale crumple. Eyes quite dry.

  ‘Goodnight, my dears.’ Dare she, dare she kiss them? No, she daren’t.

  Jo came out and shut the door behind her.

  Like a robot she went into the ‘in case’ room. She would sleep there tonight. She knew she would never sleep in the double room. Not with one empty bed. She sat on the spare bed now and stared. Just stared.

  An hour later Abel found her there and brought her out again.

  ‘It’s barely night,’ he objected. ‘You can’t retire yet. Come and make me a meal.’

  ‘A meal?’

  ‘A meal. I still have to eat. So do you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I have to, Josephine.’

  ‘Won’t they expect you at the camp?’

  ‘I’ve been up and back, so now they don’t expect me. While I was there I put through some more calls.’
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br />   ‘Yes?’

  ‘As I thought, the boarding schools have filled the vacancies at once, but they’re not unsympathetic, and will keep the kids in mind.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you, I wonder? No, cancel that. I also quizzed the schools about the children’s father.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Payment came regularly, but apart from that they could tell me very little.’

  ‘What did you particularly want to know?’ Jo asked coldly. Really, he was taking too much on his shoulders!

  ‘I wanted to find out the money position for you. These children are very young and very dependent. They will have years of dependency, and that must be considered even this early in the piece.’

  ‘Then don’t worry. Gee indicated that Mark was well off.’

  He shrugged non-committally at that. ‘But we still have to know precisely, haven’t we?’

  ‘Have we? Have you? Have I? I mean, have we to know yet? I really mean can’t all that come later when they’re more—approachable?’ Jo tried to steady herself, then broke down. ‘Oh, it was awful, awful!’ She started to cry.

  ‘It wasn’t fun,’ Abel Passant agreed.

  ‘Are they—are they—’ Jo gulped.

  ‘Callous?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say that word.’

  ‘I know, but it has to be considered. The modern nipper is quite marked in his lack of emotion compared to his fund of common sense. Also you have to allow for deep shock. Or’ ... a deliberate pause ... ‘even a possible uninvolvement.’

  ‘Uninvolvement?’she queried.

  ‘Look, the children were in boarding school, weren’t they? How long, for example, since they saw their father?’

  ‘Not long, because he introduced Gee to them. She found them—well—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She didn’t expect roses was what she wrote to me,’ Jo blurted out.

  ‘No, I can well imagine that. But how long? How long, Josephine, before their last meeting with their father? Their last before your sister came on the scene. Then how long since their mother died? Oh, lor’, it would all be hard enough under favourable circumstances, but now it’s the very end.’

  He was right, of course, and gratefully Jo said:

  ‘Thank you, anyway, for helping me. Especially since there is no obligation on you.’

  ‘Nor on you,’ he said carefully.

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘But of course there is now.’