She screwed up her mouth, already very small, into a pink ball about the size of a florin.
“Ai ken see it’s marked, boy! Ai’ve got eyes in mai head! Is there no adult on the premises?”
I quavered that I was in charge during the temporary absence of Mr. Leigh, but that I had his authority to sell anything that was priced.
She thought about this for a moment and then Diana suddenly spoke up. She did not look at me, and gave no sign at all of recognizing me as the boy to whom she had once extended the freedom of Heronslea and entertained in the kitchen less than three months ago.
“You’d better tell him we’re buying a lot of things for the cottages,” she said, quietly. “Then he’ll probably let you have everything a lot cheaper.”
I welcomed the compromise. Up to that moment I had been wondering what on earth a person like Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton could want with our stock. I had seen some of the furniture inside her home, and the very least of it would have been unlikely to find its way on to Uncle Luke’s handbarrow. I realized now that she was furnishing some of the Heronslea estate cottages and that made her presence clear. I managed to master my awe and embarrassment in the prospects of doing a profitable piece of business in Uncle Luke’s absence and enjoying the handing over of money when he came in, cold and tired after six hours at the auction.
“We could certainly come to some arrangement like that,” I said briskly.
She laughed at that and her laughter was like a gleam of sunshine, but sunshine on a February afternoon, without a particle of warmth in it. It was a laugh that made you wince and stammer, and what made it so much worse for me was Diana’s silent presence.
I was rescued by Uncle Luke’s entry. He came in trundling his handbarrow and even the presence of three chamber pots, roped to the barrow rails by loops of cord, did nothing to reduce the relief his entry afforded me.
“This is Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, from Heronslea,” I muttered. “She wants some pieces for her cottages, Uncle Luke!”
She whipped around on me like a striking cobra.
“How do you know who I am?” she snapped, and it seemed to me that Diana disembodied herself into the windowless part of the store. I had realized my mistake as soon as it was uttered, however, and this time I was ready for her.
“Everybody knows you in Whinmouth, ma’am!” I said, and it was almost pathetic to see her bridle at such a hoary way of complimenting a customer.
“We hev been renovating on a considerable skeale,” she told Uncle Luke, who was not particularly impressed by her. “Mai husband and I hev rebuilt all the cottages on the spinney side of the avenue and we shall be buying somewhat extensively, providing, of course, that we don’t quarrel over praices!”
Uncle Luke, who treated every customer alike, assured her that this was unlikely and switched on a naked electric light in the angle of the store made by the office partition. As she followed him across the Mart I saw Diana jerk her head toward the main door and I gladly took the hint, slipping outside and across the road to the edge of the quay, where she joined me.
“Didn’t she know about me?” I asked, breathlessly, for the encounter had shaken me badly.
“Good Lord, of course not,” said Diana. “I don’t tell her anything important.”
The words warmed me through, thawing me out and uncoiling the knots in my inside.
“I’ve been up to Sennacharib several times since,” I said, “but I’ve never even seen Croker. You’ve had a lot of damage up there, haven’t you?”
“Don’t let’s waste precious time on small talk,” said Diana, shortly. “She’ll be out in a minute and she wouldn’t even trade here if she saw me talking to you! Have you seen our buzzards again?”
I told her no and she smiled a secret kind of smile.
“I have,” she said. “I saw them yesterday. I’ve got a thing about those buzzards, Jan. They only show up when we meet, so I knew I’d see you today. I saw them from my bedroom window but you won’t ever see them unless I’m there.”
It made all buzzards lovelier than birds of paradise and I accepted her prophecy on the spot.
“Will you be at Boxing Day meet?” she wanted to know. “We’re having it at Heronslea … it was always at Teasel Wood, but Mummy’s decided to give a lawn meet and the Master has fallen in with it because there’ll be plenty of everything—you know, stirrup cup and all that!”
“Muffins?” I said. My knowledge of hunting ritual was lamentable but this query made her laugh so much that I had time to feast my eyes on her and notice that she wore a rakishly tilted Cossack cap and that her soft brown curls cascaded from beneath it and lay thickly upon her shoulders. She looked more grown up than when I had last seen her, but perhaps this was because of her London clothes and elegant Russian boots, which were tight-fitting and as high-heeled as her mother’s.
“You don’t eat muffins on horseback, Jan,” she said, but the touch of mockery was compensated by her easy use of the name she had given me. “You’ve grown even taller and broader, yet you aren’t sixteen. When are you sixteen?”
“Next October,” I said, trembling a little, “October the 6th.”
“I’ll remember,” she said and then, looking across at the ramshackle shed: “What exactly do you do in a dump like this?”
“I help my uncle, we buy furniture at sales and sell it again at a small profit.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. We deal in secondhand books, of course, and sometimes sell bits of china and other antiques.”
“It’s not much of a job, is it? Why don’t you get a real job?”
Up to that moment I had been rather proud of the position of right-hand man to the proprietor of the Quay Furniture Mart. It had seemed to me a much more important job than those occupied by most of the Whinmouth Bay boys who had passed school-leaving age. Most of them were grocer’s errand boys, or newspaper and milk deliverers. Her obvious contempt, however, wrought an instant change in my heart Suddenly the job of wheeling used-up furniture about on a barrow seemed mean and degrading and I knew that I would have to seek an occupation that found more favor in her sight. The prospect elated rather than depressed me. I said, rather recklessly:
“Oh, this is only temporary. I’ve got my eye on something much more exciting!”
“What?” she demanded.
“You’ll find out when the time comes,” I promised, and my stomach contracted as I reflected that the prospect of finding an exciting job in Whinmouth Bay was remote indeed.
She didn’t press the point but simply looked me up and down, a half-smile playing hide-and-seek around the corners of her wide mouth. Finally she nodded, as though she had made up her mind about something.
“You’re sweet, Jan. I like you because you’re different!”
I could have fallen at her feet on the quayside. I could have told her that I was worth ten of Jan Ridd when it came to adoring and protecting the girl I loved, but I had no words at my command, and even if I acquired them I was aware that I had nothing to buttress a declaration, not even a job that she considered superior to that of a glorified errand boy in the seedy old store of an unfashionable seaside town. I realized that my declaration must wait and all I said, in a desperate endeavor to prolong this delicious conversation, was “How do you mean, different?”
“Oh, just different,” she said, and then: “Most boys of your age are show-offs!”
She turned and walked back into the store and I followed her at a safe distance. Uncle Luke called to me from the shadows and asked me to help him move a wash-stand into the center floor space and after that I was fully occupied, dragging furniture to one side and calling out the prices to Uncle Luke, while Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton probed and peered and squeaked among the dusty stock. She finally settled for a small vanload and Uncle Luke reduced the total price by more than 20 per cent. I decided that for one so fabulously rich she was careful with halfpennies.
She bought one thing f
or herself, a pretty porcelain vase that she singled out in order to demonstrate her knowledge of china. From time to time Uncle Luke bought pictures and ornaments at the sales, but he could never afford to compete with the dealers for articles of any value, and this vase was Victorian and of little account.
“I’ll take the little Rockingham vawse,” she said, when they had agreed on a figure for the furniture, and when Uncle Luke, who was a lamentably honest dealer, explained that the vase was not Rockingham but of a much later date, her mouth again contracted into a pink ball and she called upon Diana for corroboration.
“Aim’rald,” she said, pronouncing the name with a sigh-like emphasis on the first syllable and then almost ignoring the “rald,” “wouldn’t you say that this was Rockingham? Laike the figures in the small kebinet in the morning room?”
Diana drifted over but nothing could induce Uncle Luke to sell an article under false pretenses. He said, very firmly, “It’s not Rockingham, ma’am. If it was it certainly wouldn’t be priced at fifteen shillings!”
“It’s slightly chipped,” said Diana, woodenly, “and inside it’s full of hair cracks.”
“I’ll hev it anyway,” said Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, and put fifteen shillings on the table. “Rep it carefully and put it in the car, boy.”
Diana shrugged and moved away again, while I wrapped the vase in tissue paper, placed it in a cardboard box and carried it out to the Rolls which was parked some distance down the quay.
I hoped that Diana would follow me out but she didn’t. When I opened the door I found the rear compartment was full of dogs. They were handsome, amiable dogs, not disposed to resent a stranger. One was the huge beast that I had seen Diana fondle when I was driving away from Heronslea, and I saw now that it was a Great Dane. Half obscured by its vast bulk was a sleepy, golden Labrador, with a spiked red collar, and behind the Labrador a silky cocker spaniel who sat up and whimpered. I put the box in the glove compartment and petted the dogs, noticing that they all had their names and addresses engraved on then-collars. The Great Dane was Beau, the Labrador was Sheila, and the spaniel was Flop. I wondered which of them was Diana’s and whether it was she who had named them. Then Diana and her mother came out and I heard Uncle Luke promise to deliver the furniture by carrier’s van and Diana and her mother got into the car, both without another glance in my direction.
As they drove off I hoped that Uncle Luke would close the store and go in to tea, because I yearned to slip away to my bedroom, light the gas fire and savor everything Diana had said during our brief conversation. I had plenty to think about—the fact that she considered me important enough to keep my visit a secret and not attempt to pass it off as a chance encounter with a village boy bribed by muffins and plum cake to keep his mouth shut about a bullying keeper. There was also her frank use of the name Jan and the admission that she considered me sweet, though I was not sure that I liked the adjective. Then there was the more flattering statement that she found me different. In fact the whole atmosphere of our second meeting had been distinctly encouraging, so much so that I made up my mind to go to any lengths in order to deliver the goods to Heronslea. I also decided to attend the Boxing Day meet despite Uncle Luke’s strong disapproval of fox hunting. I went to bed happier than I had been since the evening of the second October miracle.
2.
As it happened, the furniture was not delivered until after Christmas.
Ned Gilchrist, the carrier who undertook our deliveries, was booked all that week and although I begged him to accommodate us, and told him that the good will of people like the Gayelorde-Suttons was important to us, he was unable to fix a delivery date earlier than Old Year’s Eve, so I had to wait until Boxing morning before I could hope to see Diana again, and then I knew that I would have no chance of talking to her alone, for a local meet, especially a lawn meet on a bank holiday, was certain to attract half the population of Whinmouth Bay.
It was just as I thought. The exodus from the town after breakfast on Boxing morning required the attention of the entire local police force, a sergeant and two constables, and apart from the buses and a few private cars conveying people to the Shepherdshey crossroads, the road was thronged with cyclists, pony carts and groups of pedestrians in their Sunday best.
I resented this invasion into Sennacharib and set off rather sullenly on Uncle Luke’s ancient cycle. On the way I passed half a dozen horsemen and three or four pigtailed girls riding plump ponies. I reflected bitterly that these people would have the privilege of spending an entire day in Diana’s company, whereas my own contact with her would be limited to a respectful gaze from the edge of the lawn and perhaps a wave of recognition if I was lucky enough to be noticed in such a crowd.
I was unduly pessimistic. In the first place, I soon forgot the stir and chatter around me in the glory of Sennacharib, now looking its winter best in strong December sunshine. The beeches that lined the approach to the house were splashed to their summits in red gold and every rusty leaf glittered with tiny beads of moisture, so that the trees looked like a long row of golden candlesticks sprinkled with silver dust. The sky between them was a cloudless blue and the air was so clear and frosty that it made your eyes and nostrils smart. The turf of the outer paddock was rimed and springy underfoot, and behind the house, which stood against the long slope of rhododendrons and Scotch firs like a squat wedding cake, was the high, feathery crest of the larch wood, the dearest spot in Sennacharib, for it was here I had met Diana.
The graveled forecourt, immediately in front of the portico, presented an animated scene by eleven o’clock. About a hundred people were sitting their horses there and sipping stirrup cup from glasses carried round on silver trays by members of the staff wearing spotless aprons and long Edwardian streamers. I recognized the fat cook dispensing pastries from the terrace, and at the first stroke of eleven the huntsman released the pack from a station wagon and they poured onto the gravel, trotting with nose down and tails up around and about the horses until they were chivied into a dejected group by the cries of the hunt servants and the pistol cracks of their long whips.
The Master himself, bull-necked Doctor Kingslake, stood on the terrace chatting to a tall, squarish man with a head that looked far too big for his thin neck. Somebody close by said that this man was Mr. Gayelorde-Sutton, so I paid the group on the terrace special attention. Presently a groom led two horses around from the stable yard and I watched him hand the reins of the smaller horse to a younger man and then move over to assist Diana’s father to mount.
Gayelorde-Sutton climbed up very awkwardly and when he was there he sat slightly forward, with his legs stuck out at wide, ungainly angles. When the groom moved away he wobbled slightly, then steadied himself by gathering reins and crop into a tangled ball. Then I forgot him, for Diana came out through the tall French window and it seemed to me that the chatter all around us subsided as she drifted across the terrace, took the reins of the smaller horse and floated up into the saddle, settling herself like a bird on a nest and making some last-minute adjustments to the girths.
She looked as enchanting as ever in a dark blue habit, fawn jodhpurs and a blue hunting hat crammed down over her curls. I was still gazing at her when somebody nudged me and I turned to find that it was Nat, sexton of Shepherdshey, whom I had last seen sitting on the counter of the Shepherdshey shop.
Nat was commenting on the uncertainty of Mr. Gayelorde-Sutton’s seat and doing so in the tone of tolerant contempt that all the Shepherdshey folk reserved for foggy-do-men and foreigners.
“Look at ’un,” he muttered, “zittin’ there like he was hatching out a pan o’ live coals. Gordamme, the bliddy vool’ll break ’is bliddy neck if they ’as any kind of a run! They won’t though, never do Boxing Day, not with ’alf the bliddy county standing around and sp’iling the scent wi’ they ol’ charrybangs and whatnots! Be a laugh though, wouldn’t ’er? Praper job if the pervider of all this ’ere toddy valled flat on ’is face afore they so much as got go
in’!”
I deduced from Nat’s speculation that Mr. Gayelorde-Sutton was a beginner, and now that he was mounted I edged closer to get a better look at him.
He was far less impressive than Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton and on horseback he looked almost pitiful, for you felt that you wanted to stand around and catch him when, as must soon happen, he fell down on one side or the other.
His head was so round, and his body so square that the contrast was almost grotesque, and while I could see some slight physical resemblance between Diana and her mother I could see nothing at all to connect this nervous, awkward man with the girl who sat beside him, looking as if she had grown out of the glossy creature she was riding.
Then the Master mounted and called gruffly to the hounds, who shook off their dejected look and trotted up to him adoringly as he addressed them by a string of John Peelish names. When they had gathered, and he had tossed back his final flagon of stirrup cup, the crowd surged in and the huntsman blew a long, tuneless blast on his horn.
The thought of not being seen by Diana made me bold enough to push through the ranks of followers and cross the drive to where she was sitting her horse. The riders were beginning to close up behind the Master and she touched her mount with her heels and passed within a few feet of me, frowning slightly, as though irritated by the impeding presence of so many pedestrians.
“Hullo!” I faltered, touching her foot rather desperately, and she turned in the saddle and glanced down at me. Her frown disappeared and she smiled rather absently.
“Hullo, Jan! Glad you could get here. Are you going to follow on foot?”
“Are we allowed?”
“Of course. We’ll be drawing Big Cover behind the house to begin with, and after that we’ll probably move over to Teasel Wood. I should go there first and get away from this awful mob.”
The horn sounded again and the followers fell back, forming up behind the last of the horsemen and moving around the western clump of rhododendrons toward the paddock over which I had galloped on Nellie. I grabbed my bicycle and pedaled madly down the drive and along to the village, where I left my bike in the yard of The Rifleman and continued on foot along the path beside the brook as far as the long sloping hill that crowned Teasel Wood.
Diana Page 5
