by Sara Seale
Well,” Julian grinned, “after all, she is my orphan.”
Emily smiled.
“Exactly. Your orphan, your bone—nobody else shall have it.”
There were times when Jennet felt not unlike a bone herself. Julian worried at her, like one of Aunt Emily’s griffons, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he would have liked to bury her until he came again. He came most weekends now, but he never brought Luke again. Sometimes Jennet wished he would come; it would be a relief to talk freely to someone who was uncritical and attentive for a change. She forgot that her first instinct on meeting him had been one of distrust and remembered only that he had been gay and charming and had treated her as an adult person.
Jennet went twice a week to Plymouth for lessons in singing and elocution, but she was never allowed to go alone by bus. The village taxi was hired to take her there and bring her back.
Jennet herself would have preferred to travel by bus; it was her only opportunity for rubbing shoulders with a crowd. She liked to watch the people thronging the pavements, women with shopping baskets jostling each other in the queues, young girls linking arms and laughing, out for an afternoon’s pleasure. She wished she could join them.
There was a small dancing academy next door to her singing teacher’s house. Through the uncurtained window Jennet could see the pupils in their neatly spaced lines performing pirouettes and fouettes to a well-thumped piano.
Sometimes there was a class for ballroom dancing and she would watch them revolving in the waltz, children of all ages with intent faces and happy restless feet. She would like to learn dancing, she thought, and to friends with the children.
She decided she would ask Julian when he came that week end. He had told her that she had, only to ask for anything she wanted. She put the suggestion to Emily.
“Dancing lessons?” Emily said, considering. “No, I don’t see why not. We’ll ask Julian.”
But Julian’s reaction was unexpected.
“What do you want to learn dancing for?” he asked with a frown.
The flush of anticipation started to fade from her thin cheeks.
She said: “It would be fun—and it’s quite a useful accomplishment, isn’t it?
“I don’t think so,” he said shortly, “and certainly not for you. Once you start that there’ll be no end to it. You’ll get dance-crazy like all the others and never happy unless you’re going to parties.”
“Oh, no,” said Jennet, quite shocked by such a picture of frivolity as applied to herself.
He tapped his stick irritably against the fender.
“No, Jennet. I won’t have you take up dancing, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
He saw the still, closed look shut down over her face and she said quietly:
“Very well, Cousin Julian.”
“Why won’t you let the girl have her dancing?” Emily asked him later.
He made a small impatient gesture with his pipe.
“Good lord, Aunt Emily, use your common sense! Why give the poor little wretch a taste for the thing if she’s going to spend the rest of her days with me? I shall never dance again.”
Emily knitted hurriedly.
“And mustn’t your wife?” she asked mildly.
He was silent for a moment.
“With other men?” he said them “That’s not very wise.” The bitter lines deepened about his mouth. “No, Aunt Emily, I’ve had one prospective bride so crazy about dancing that she threw me over for a man with two whole legs, and I’m not going to risk it again.”
“I see,” said Emily, and went on knitting.
Julian missed two weekends, and when he next came he noticed a difference in Jennet. She was filling out a little and she had certainly grown. That vulnerable, rather touching look of adolescence was still there, but sometimes there was a glimpse of maturity in the grave regard of her eyes, the sudden tilt of her chin which Julian found disturbing. She must not grow up too fast, his little orphan.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I was last here?” he enquired idly. “You look much better.”
“Do I? It must be the fine weather—and the moor,” she said.
“The moor?” He raised amused eyebrows. “But I thought you always stuck to the roads.”
“No, I go as far as Pennytor now,” she told him. “Soon I’m going to Tor Raven and Ramstor. Cousin Julian, have you heard about the old man who bribed the devil to run off with his wife, and the devil took the form of a raven, and the wife blew his tail off with a blunderbuss and that’s how Tor Raven got its name?—isn’t it, Uncle Homer?”
“Where do you get all these yarns from—Mrs. Dingle?” Julian asked lazily.
“Yes, but they’re legends that have been handed down for generations. You ought to read them, Cousin Julian. They’d be much better for dictation than The Times leading article,” she said.
“I daresay,” Julian replied dryly. “But for the purposes of general improvement, I think we’ll stick to The Times.”
“Oh!” The animation went out of her face and her voice was flat and toneless. “Please excuse me, I have something to do for Aunt Emily.”
She left the room quietly, shutting the door gently behind her, and Julian frowned.
Homer looked up from the paper he had been reading and remarked mildly:
“It’s your own fault, Julian, you shouldn’t snub.”
Julian did not mean to snub. He simply lacked the knack of getting the best out of people. He felt, however, that he had somehow missed an opportunity, and when it came to dictation-time, instead of producing the current copy of The Times, he searched through his edition of Pater and read her the story of Cupid and Psyche. “Charming, isn’t it?” he said as he shut the book.
“I think,” she said softly, “it’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard.”
He could not know that for her it held all the elusive delicacy of that quality of affection which she prized so much, and when she said with genuine pain: “But why did she have to see his face? Why couldn’t she have been content?” he replied curiously:
“Would you have been content? Yes, perhaps you would. You odd little creature! You’ve chewed that pen to ribbons! I think we’ll give up dictation in future and read instead.”
Those proved to be hours of much pleasure to Jennet, and she felt at ease with him for the first time since she had known him.
“You have a curiously receptive mind,” he told her on one occasion.
“For a child who’s been brought up in an orphanage you have such an appreciation for things that must seem quite foreign to you.”
“Perhaps that’s why,” she said simply. “They didn’t trouble very much about our minds—why should they? Most of us finish by working with our hands.”
“Yes, I suppose so. You’re a strange child.”
“I’m not a child,” she said gravely. “I’m almost seventeen.”
“Are you?” He looked surprised, then he laughed. “Well, you’re a child to me.”
“At Blacker’s,” she told him with dignity, “we were considered adult at fifteen. Most of us went out to work at that age.”
The amusement left his faces.
“And that, I think, is sad,” he said with unfamiliar gentleness. “One misses having had no childhood in later life, Jennet.”
Jennet watched his dark face and experienced an unwonted flood of affection for him. In these rare moods his influence over her assumed stronger, more binding proportions, and she wanted to please him, because some hidden impulse in her wished to give him comfort.
“I’ll do anything you want,” she said suddenly, as if he had already asked her a favor.
His black eyebrows shot up.
“Will you, Jennet?” he said with amusement. “That’s very kind of you. We’ll make a start, shall we, with those hands. The chilblains have gone, but unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been biting your nails and that, my child, is a revolting habit. Re
member, won’t you?”
The warmth flowed away from her.
“Yes, Cousin Julian,” she said, hiding her hands.
She walked again to the tors, but she did not get farther than Penny tor. She sometimes thought that no one could possibly live a more sheltered life than she did. Although she was left so much to herself, everything was decided for her. Julian chose her occupations, and often her clothes, and he would choose her friends if she had any, only Pennycross was too much cut off for frequent visiting. The weekly visits to Plymouth were a break in the monotony, but even they had lost their charm, for she made no friends among the students since Cornish was always waiting to take her home.
But she enjoyed her singing lessons. It was a release to be able to open one’s mouth and listen to the clear notes soaring away in freedom.
She had walked one soft February day as far as Pennytor to see if there were any early foals on the moor. The mares moved heavily away from her with their burdens, but their time was not yet come, and Jennet, made lonelier by their shyness, leant against a boulder and began to sing. When she stopped a small voice almost at her feet remarked:
“Sing it again.”
She jumped, looked hastily down and saw sitting in the heather two children who gazed at her with solemn eyes. She sang the song again and they edged nearer. “Nice,” said the older girl. “Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t go to school.” Jennet laughed. “I’m grownup—nearly.”
“No, you’re not,” said the child. “A grown-up would not have sung again without asking a lot of questions.”
“Well, I will then. Where do you go to school?”
“The village. What’s your name?”
“Jennet Brown. What’s yours?”
“I’m Betty and she’s Anne. She’s four.”
Jennet squatted down in the heather beside them. “Have you any other sisters?” she asked.
“I’m the eldest,” Betty said obliquely. “I was born in a different place, away from here, but Anne was born here, so was Dave. He’s two. And now we’ve got little June. She’s four months. And there’s Frankie.”
“Who’s Frankie? Another brother?”
“He’s our half-brother, but he’s quite old. He’s nineteen.”
Anne gave a sudden lunge at Jennet’s ankles and ordered her to sing again.
She sang them all she could remember. They liked the unfamiliar songs best, “The Keys of Heaven” and “My Boy Billy” and the lesser-known “Searching for Lambs with its plaintive air which lent such nostalgia to the happy words.
“I wish you lived with us,” said Betty with a sigh, when at last Jennet’s repertoire was exhausted.
Jennet felt a surge of pure affection for them both. With children you need never pretend, she thought. She put an arm round each of them and gave them a hug. “So do I,” she said gratefully. “But now it’s long past lunch time and your mother will be wondering, what’s happened to you.”
“We don’t get any lunch,” Betty said cheerfully. “Mum sends us out on the moor to keep us quiet. She sick.”
Jennet felt indignant.
“But isn’t there anyone else to look after you?” she exclaimed.
“We’re too far from the village. They won’t come,” replied the child.
“But someone must clean the house and cook and—”
She broke off helplessly.
“Oh, Frankie does that when he comes in from work.”
“But what about your father? Doesn’t he—?”
“He’s dead,” said Anne with gruff suddenness.
Betty looked at her with resignation.
“Don’t be silly,” she said without heat. “Dad’s on a job in Exeter. He and Mum don’t hit at off very well.”
“I see,” said Jennet, unembarrassed, used to the prosaic acceptance of the orphans. “Do you think your mother would mind if I offered to help? I could tidy up and mend your things and perhaps prepare a meal.”
Betty gave a shriek of joy and sprang to her feet. “Come on” she shouted. “You can sing us more songs while you cook.”
The children’s home was not far from Pennytor. The house had once been an old farmstead, but it had long ago fallen into disrepair.
Inside was a scene of desolation. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, the fire was unlighted and the hearth unswept.
The fretful wail of a baby sounded from an upstairs room as they entered and a woman’s voice called weakly: “Betty! I thought I told you to stay out till Doctor’s been.”
The child dragged Jennet up the stairs and thrust her into an untidy room which smelt of dust and sickness.
“She’s Jennet Brown and she’s come to help,” she cried, and dashed off down the stairs to await results.
Jennet looked at the woman in the bed, compassion swamping her first indignation. She was quite young, although her dark hair already showed streaks of grey and her face, despite the marks of illness and neglect, had a patient dignity.
“Who are you?” she asked, soothing the whimpering baby beside her.
“I’m Jennet Brown,” said Jennet simply. “I live at Pennycross with Miss Emily Dane and I met your children on the moor. I thought perhaps I could help.”
The woman moved restlessly. “They shouldn’t have brought you in today,” she murmured. “The house doesn't always look like this, but I’ve had the ’flu bad and so has little June and I don’t seem to pick up. We are too far from village help, even if we could afford it. Frankie—that’s my stepson—does his best, but he doesn’t get in till past six and leaves at seven in the morning. Poor boy, he’s only a lad.”
“Let me clean up and get things straight, and perhaps leave you a meal for to-night. I could come every day until you’re better,” said Jennet shyly.
The woman regarded her with a puzzled frown, as if trying to place her.
“I didn’t know there was any young folks at Pennycross,” she said slowly. “But your people, this Miss Emily Dane—wouldn’t like you to be doing rough work for strangers.”
“I’m quite used to it,” Jennet said, evading the question of Emily’s wishes in the matter. “They adopted me, you see. They took me out of an orphanage, so you see I’m really a very suitable person to help you.”
“An institution?” For a moment interest and a dark compassion flickered in the woman’s tired eyes. “You poor little soul—no one of your own. Still, I don’t know—you’re only a child by the look of you.”
“Oh, please, Mrs.—”
“Thompson.”
“Mrs. Thompson. I loved your children and it would be something to do—someone to talk to. No one will miss me. I’m alone all day.”
Mrs. Thompson smiled and closed her eyes. “Very well,” she said, and gave a deep sigh of thankfulness. “We’ll be grateful and no two ways about it.”
It was the first of many happy days. As long as the weather was fine Emily approved the long walks on the moor.
“I’m glad you’ve got over your fear of the moor," she said. “You look much better for all this fresh air. Julian will be pleased when he comes down.”
If Jennet felt guilty at deceiving Emily she did not weaken in her resolve to say nothing of her new activities. Emily, she felt, could not but approve of helping a sick neighbor, but Julian would be sure to raise some objection. There was the matter of her hands. She inspected them anxiously from time to time. They were getting rough again with work. He’s bound to notice, she told herself helplessly, then was thankful that he had decided not to come down this weekend.
Jennet did not meet Frankie until the week end, for she had to be home each day before it was dark. He was a shy still coltish youth, with a great gentleness for the children and his stepmother, and he listened as eagerly as any of them to the little songs she sang. They none of them ever tired of hearing about the orphanage, and sitting in the freshly scrubbed kitchen with the firelight warm on all their young faces while she mended socks and pina
fores, Jennet knew a well-being she had never before experienced.
“You miss it, don’t you?” Frankie said once.
“The orphanage? Yes, I think I do.”
“But you wouldn’t really like to go back—not after living soft with comfortable folk?”
She considered. “No, I suppose not, Frankie. No, of course not. I’ve been very lucky. It’s just that—well, we were all young at Blacker’s and there was noise and quite often fun.”
He propped his elbows on the table and looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“The people who’ve adopted you—are they very old, then?” he asked sympathetically.
“Well, Uncle Homer and Aunt Emily are elderly,” she replied, “but Cousin Julian isn’t. He’s only about thirty, I think, but he was badly injured in a crash and he can’t do very much.”
“Cousin Julian sounds a bit of a menace,” he said.
“Oh, no, he isn’t really,” she protested quickly. “He thinks of everything for me—and pays for everything, too.”
“Is he your guardian then?” he asked, frowning.
“No, he’s not my guardian. Aunt Emily is, I suppose. But Cousin Julian came to the orphanage and chose me.”
For two weekends Julian stayed away, and Jennet was able to spend her time with the Thompsons. They accepted her as one of their own, and Frankie’s shy eyes followed her, whatever she did, with unspoken affection. With him she explored Tor Raven and Ramstor and found the Druid hut circles on Lovacombe Down. He seemed to know almost as much as Mrs. Dingle about the legends of Dartmoor and told her many stories as they walked.
With Frankie beside her and spring hotfoot behind, she was no longer afraid of the moor. For that brief spell her happiness was unblemished. The affection which embraced the Thompson home, poor though it was, reached out to her, too, and lifted her to a plane she had always dreamed of in the orphanage. She went home each day wrapped in her new-found security and the first sense of independence she had known in all her sixteen years. She had made friends of her own, she had made a decision for herself, and her refusal to speak of these things at Pennycross was born only of a desire to keep her shining hour to herself.
