The Matchmaker

by Stella Gibbons

  Louise gave him the polite smile with which properly-mannered children acknowledge whimsiness in grown-ups, and answered: “No. I’m going to the farm to ask Mr. Hoadley for Mr. Waite’s address.”

  “Well, now, that’s very interesting,” said Mr. Waite, pausing and looking suspicious. “And what do you want with ‘Mr. Waite’s address,’ if I may ask?”

  “It’s to send him something for Christmas.” Her large eyes, neither green nor blue and pale as those of the Ice Maiden, stared seriously up at him; pale curls of hair were sprayed against the dark fur that bordered her hood.

  “Oh-ho, I see! I suppose I mustn’t ask questions, then?”

  Louise nodded. She was always so interested in looking at a new person that she never heard what they said, and this inattention, combined with her unwavering stare, frequently caused brisk young aunts and sharp elderly acquaintances to pronounce her half-witted.

  “I may ask questions? What! so near Christmas?”

  This time she shook her head, and, bored, produced a grubby handkerchief and thoughtfully made use of it. Mr. Waite was repelled. He liked children to be neat, silent, polite, clean and admiring of grown-ups: in other words, he did not like children. Louise then went off into a trance, in which she waggled one foot as though she had lost her senses.

  “Who do you think I am?” he demanded, as conversation seemed at a standstill and his corn was excruciating.

  “Mr. Waite,” she answered at once.

  “Oh, you know who I am, then?”

  She nodded. “We can see you out of mother’s bedroom window.”

  Spying on me. Out of her bedroom window, too. Rather peculiar, thought Mr. Waite; and inquisitive.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me for my address?”

  She nodded again.

  “It’s Mr. Phillip Waite, Meadow Cottage, Sillingham, Sussex,” he said impressively. “Now can you remember that?” Here he observed that she was carrying a pencil: he made her produce the piece of paper from her pocket and write down the address, using his notebook as a rest, in her straggling baby hand. This took about ten minutes.

  “What dreadful writing; I can hardly read it,” commented Mr. Waite helpfully, when the task was accomplished. “Why, do you know that when I was your age I won a prize for writing; a beautiful book about the St. Bernard dogs——”

  “They go and find people in the snow,” interrupted Louise, “and they have lovely hot soup and brandy in a dear little bottle round their necks; a very good man called Saint Bernard invented it, he’s in Heaven now, of course, but the monks still live in the place he invented, and they’ve built another place, in Tibet, up in the mountains and they have the dogs and the soup and brandy there too, in case anyone gets lost far away in Tibet. Isn’t it a good idea? Saint Bernard was very clever and kind to think of it.”

  Mr. Waite had looked forward to imparting this information himself and furthermore had never heard about the hospice in Tibet. He said sarcastically:

  “What a well-informed young lady! And where is Tibet?”

  The Ice Maiden opened her lips, which were shaped like a small, full, pale rose, and replied without hesitation:

  “In the north-east of India, between India and China; the highest mountains in the world are there. Father showed me on the map. And he cut out the bit about Tibet from the Daily Telegraph and I pasted it in the Commonplace Book.”

  “You’ve forgotten my address!” cried Mr. Waite triumphantly, finding the conversation unbearable.

  “No, I haven’t. Mr. Phillip Waite, Meadow Cottage, Sillingham, Sussex. I must go now, good-bye,” and she slid away and did not turn round to wave.

  Mr. Waite walked on, convinced that her family must be an unpleasant one; ungrateful, inquisitive, tending towards indelicacy (or why peer at people from bedroom windows?) and priggish. I do like a child to be a child, thought Mr. Waite, who did not like anything of the sort, and then his reflections took a darker turn as he thought of the Christmas posts, with letters and parcels from his family in Daleham, being delayed. Considering how he cursed the place when he was there, blaming it for lack of scope, dullness and narrow-mindedness, it might surprise those who do not know human nature to hear how deeply and persistently he longed for news of his mother and sisters at home in Daleham; small, prosperous, smug Daleham, untouched by six years of war, with its minster and its waters that relieved rheumatism, set in a valley amidst the Derbyshire hills.

  “Well, lovey, did you get it?” asked Alda, on Louise’s return.

  “I saw Mr. Waite. Here it is,” and Louise brought out the address from her pocket.

  “Oh, did you? What’s he like?” asked Alda, interested.

  “He’s got a miserable face.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “And he said my writing was awful.”

  “So it is,” put in Jenny.

  “And so is yours. Father says you ‘write a vile fist.’”

  “Yes, well, never mind that. Go on, Weez. Is he ugly?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, beastly.”

  “About how old?”

  “Oh, very old. About fifty-one, I should think.”

  “You are hopeless,” said Alda, laughing. “What did he say to you?”

  “He called me a young lady and I told him all about Saint Bernard and the dogs. Is lunch ready?”

  7

  SAINT WILFRED’S, REPRESENTING the Established Church in a village where the chapels of Free Christians, Brotherhoods of Holy Love and other small Dissenting bodies were to be found at the end of every back lane and bowery little close, had been the Parish Church since its first stone was laid in 1356. It had been twice badly damaged by fire, for its position on a hill exposed it to winds that fanned the flames, and only the shell of the building remained, while the interior had been mercilessly restored in the ’80’s. Innocuous stone faces, sexless rather than spiritual and crowned by the conventional stone diadem, stared out vacantly from every corbel, and all that was left of the ancient stained glass were some dim azure fragments in a small, ancient window in the chancel, which made the modern glass look insipid and suggested the life of that old, simpler world in which it had first been dyed to the blue of Mary’s cloak. Within, the church was solemn and peaceful, inducing a devotional attitude of mind by its alternations of pale nave arch and soft dark shadow, but the outside—where yellow wallflowers grew in crevices of the stones fifty feet above the churchyard in summer and the buttresses set their shoulders and feet firm and deep against the weathered stone in their task—was beautiful.

  “Hark, the herald angels sing—” sang Alda, standing with Meg beside her and Jenny and Louise on either hand. The church was fairly full and the service nearly over; the lancet windows showed the darkening sky and candles were beginning to gleam out in the dimness with a halo; laurel and fir and some great sprayed cedar branches, massy and close in their black green, were spread upon the altar steps and scented the warm air. Somebody from one of the big houses in the neighbourhood had sent from their conservatories two pots of red lilies, and all the light in the dim building seemed to pour upon them; they glowed, their curved petals seemed so alive as to be listening to the singing, and Alda found her eyes wandering again and again towards them.

  But she also glanced anxiously at the fading daylight visible through the windows, trying to see through clear spaces in the stained glass into the evening, for she feared that it had started to snow again. She had only the small pram for Meg, who did not seem so placid as usual and had shown some disinclination to come. A walk home through a snowstorm with Meg perhaps sickening for something would be very unpleasant, even dangerous, and Alda heartily called herself a fool for having brought her.

  As the service proceeded, Meg showed increasing signs of distress; yawning; putting her head down on the front of the pew and even whimpering once or twice. Immediately after the Blessing was spoken and the congregation dismissed, Jenny said in a businesslike tone as they rose from their knees:
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  “Meg isn’t well, Mother. Her hands are simply burning—you feel,” and she pushed Meg’s ungloved hand into her mother’s. “I believe she’s got a temperature.”

  “Me face is burning, too,” said Meg, with some return of the grown-up manner which always deserted her when she was ill. “Feel, Mudder,” and she lifted up a face unnaturally rosy, with heavy yellowish eyes.

  “Never mind, love, we’ll soon have you home,” said Alda with sinking heart, as they slowly made their way with the rest of the congregation towards the door. “Mother will carry you,” and she lifted her up. Meg settled herself comfortably, sighed, and in a few moments was asleep. “If only it isn’t snowing!” murmured Alda.

  But as they stepped out into the porch a shower of flakes blew in to meet them, and then they paused to look down on the lights and roofs immediately below the hill upon which the church stood, all veiled in silent, steadily falling snow. Already the roads and distant fields were white, and the footsteps of those leaving the church were muffled as they set off down the paved pathway leading to the village, while their voices as they exchanged “good nights” and wishes for a Merry Christmas were muted in that familiar and unmistakable hush.

  Alda opened her thick coat and settled Meg more comfortably inside it. She was wondering what to do. The pram, which fortunately had not been stolen from the porch, was a light, completely open conveyance in which it would be the height of imprudence to wheel Meg home, for the heat from the little slumbering body already came up disturbingly against her own as she rearranged her scarf. Then she looked down, and met the solemn eyes of Jenny and Louise, waiting for comments and orders.

  “We must try to get a car,” she said decidedly. “Jenny, you know where Mr. Bolliver’s garage is; run down as quickly as you can and tell him what’s happened and ask him to rescue us. We’ll wait in the porch. Fly, now!”

  Off ran Jenny into the snowy twilight, excited by its soft icy touch upon her face and lips and by the transformed world all about her. The rest of the congregation had hurried back to their homes to resume the business of Christmas Eve; through the half-open door of the church Louise peeped in and saw the verger extinguishing the altar candles one by one, and the pale arches, the green Christmas leaves, becoming dim in the dusk. Save for the old man, they were now alone.

  Alda seated herself upon the wall-bench and stared unseeingly with troubled eyes at the list of vicars who had held office at St. Wilfred’s since 1356 which glimmered upon the opposite wall. Within the porch it was almost night, but outside it was still possible to discern the outlines of roofs and nearby houses. It grew rapidly darker. Meg was now breathing fast, and Alda began to feel a little frightened.

  “Jenny is being ages, isn’t she, Mother,” said Louise, shivering as she sat closely against her.

  “I expect Mr. Bolliver is out on a job He’s sure to be busy on Christmas Eve.”

  “Mother! I’ve got an idea. If he can’t come we can telephone Pagets and perhaps the Friends will come and fetch us.”

  “Oh Weez, what a good idea! I wish I’d thought of that at first. We’ll telephone them at once. Look, here’s my bag—you take fourpence in coppers—I hope I’ve got it—and——”

  But here their exclamations and gropings in the gloom were interrupted by the sound of footsteps running up the paved path and Jenny’s joyous voice calling:

  “Mother! Good news! Good news! I’ve got somebody!”

  In another moment she appeared at the entrance of the porch, her shoulders white with snow, breathing fast from her run up the hill. She was followed, at a slower pace, by someone else.

  At first Alda could not make out whether it was a man or a woman, but then the figure made a gesture with its hat which indicated that it was a man.

  “It’s Mr. Waite, Mother,” explained Jenny. “You know—he lives near us. He was in the garage and kindly heard what I said. Mother, he says he’ll drive us home in his car!”

  “Oh, how kind.” Alda stood up, with Meg clasped closely in her arms, and smiled at the figure she could barely see. “How do you do, Mr. Waite.”

  “How do you do,” he answered awkwardly, in a naturally unpleasing voice which he tried to make friendly. “My little friend here says her little sister isn’t feeling too good?”

  “She has a temperature, I’m afraid, and I should be so grateful if you could take us home.”

  “Oh dear. Nothing infectious, I hope?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Alda controlled her impatience. “She was perfectly well this morning.”

  “Ah, you can’t be too careful with kiddies—or so I’m told,” on a wryly humorous note. “Well, I think I can fit you all in, though it’ll be a bit of a squeeze. Let’s have some light on the subject, shall we?” and the ray from a torch suddenly shone upon Alda’s shabby suède boots, and threw a reflected glow upon the children’s excited faces. “Can you manage, kiddies? Come along, then—follow Santa Claus,” and he set off down the path towards the village, shining the torch carefully behind him so that Alda could see the way.

  The verger, hearing voices in the porch, slowly opened the church door and peered out into the snow and the night, then locked it behind him and, turning up his collar and lowering his head into the wind, set off for home.

  It was not more than a couple of hundred yards down into the village street, and there was Mr. Waite’s car, an unexpectedly large 1937 Lagonda that had once been handsome, standing outside the shop that sold sweets and tobacco. What nonsense to talk about a tight squeeze, Alda thought with some indignation, there’s room for an army in that thing, but she soon discovered that there was not, for the interior was full of sacks and boxes smelling of bran. Without waiting for an invitation she climbed over them and settled herself, tenderly clasping Meg, in the only unoccupied place, while the children fitted themselves between tins and sacks and Mr. Waite took a rug off the engine. By the glare of the headlights Alda could see that he was dark and well above medium height; he was perhaps forty-three years old, his figure was good, and a woman who did not object to signs of discontent and obstinacy in a male countenance would have considered him handsome.

  After one or two false starts by the cold engine and fussy apologies from Mr. Waite, they got away, and soon left the village behind: spectral white fields glided by, the snow rushed steadily past the windows. Alda would have preferred to remain silent, but she guessed that Mr. Waite was one of the touchy sort (from whom Heaven defend me, thought she) and would take it amiss if she did not prattle.

  “You’ll think us very rude, Mr. Waite; we’ve never thanked you for the books you kindly left for us,” she began.

  Mr. Waite replied oh, that was all right, in a tone implying that ingratitude was all he ever expected or received in this world.

  “I’ve been so busy getting ready for Christmas that I haven’t had much time for reading. It’s been———”

  “I don’t expect you’ve even opened one of them,” he interrupted, with what Jenny thought of as a cross laugh. “It doesn’t matter in the least, I only thought you might not find much to read at Pine Cottage.”

  “It was most kind of you,” Alda repeated, thinking what a boor the man was. The children were next to him as he sat in the driver’s seat and she herself had a large can, which smelt very vile, on the seat beside her, whilst her feet were confined by a stockade of meal sacks that made movement impossible. But home was drawing nearer every minute, and when once Mr. Waite had conveyed them there, he could go and bury himself in his own sacks for all she cared.

  Mr. Waite, who seemed to have no small-talk, went on:

  “Did you look at the one called In Touch with the Transcendent at all?”

  “Er—yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” His tone of awe finished Alda, and left her struggling with a laugh. She had no use for any theories of The Transcendental beyond those of the simple theology she had been taught in her childhood.

  “Well —”
she was beginning, when he interrupted her gloomily:

  “I tried Yoga at one time, but I had to give it up. It requires enormous concentration and perseverance and I simply haven’t the time; these damned battery birds—I beg your pardon—the chickens take up nineteen hours out of the twenty-four.”

  Alda made a sympathetic murmur. It struck her pleasantly that a man should apologise for saying “damned” in her presence; it was the first sign of sensitiveness that she had observed in Mr. Waite, whose social status was not easy to place. The apology might be old-fashioned, but it did imply that he came from a home where there were gentle women. What an extraordinary creature he is, she thought; he hasn’t asked me a single question about ourselves or mentioned the weather or Christmas or shown any interest in anything except that dotty book…. That’s what comes of living alone with chickens.

  “And yet, you know, if I really cared enough about it I should make the time,” he said suddenly. “After all, what is reality?”

  Alda controlled an impulse to ask him what on earth he meant, and occupied herself with rocking Meg, who was whimpering. Jenny and Louise were dividing their attention between the windscreen wiper and the conversation, with a distinct bias towards the latter.

  “If I believe that other worlds are more real than this one, I ought to give up everything—the chickens—my work—everything, and concentrate on my spiritual development.”

  “Do you believe that?” inquired Alda, trying not to sound incredulous.

  “Of course,” he answered, glancing up for an instant at the little mirror above his head. In it he met her bright, amused eyes. He frowned, and pressed the car forward through the deepening dusk.

  Bother, now I’ve offended him, she thought, but she was too concerned about Meg (who was now stirring restlessly and making little sounds of distress) to give the matter a second thought, and devoted herself to rocking and soothing her. She was bending over her, trying to see in the dim light how to loosen the strings of her hood, when Mr. Waite exclaimed, “Hullo, now what’s the matter?” and put the brakes on hard. When she had recovered her balance from the jerk, she looked out of the window into the darkness and saw a figure standing in the glare of the headlights; a soldier in a greatcoat, laden with bundles. At the same instant the children began to dance up and down with delight and she saw that it was Ronald.