by Carola Dunn
“As much as anyone, I expect. She can’t be described as a poor relation, but she’s rather the odd man out.”
“Yes. Poor girl! I must make a point of being kinder to her. Though, I must say, she seems to have talked to you a lot more than she’s ever talked to me.”
“People do. Don’t ask me why.”
They walked on for a while in silence, then Sybil said, “You know, the family may be useful to Myra, but the reverse is true, too. Her visits liven the place up no end, and Monica adores her.”
They started talking about their children.
By the time they returned towards Eyrie Farm, by a different path, Daisy was warm with exertion. The sun still shone, though a knee-high mist was rising from the grass. From this direction, the home farm buildings behind the house were visible—an empty sheep-pen, stables, sheds, a low barn, and a walled kitchen-garden. A couple of Clydesdales grazed in a paddock. They paused at the top of the hill to watch a small, new-looking lorry with wood-slat sides buzz over the bridge towards the house.
“Norman’s home,” said Sybil.
“Nice new lorry.”
“Second hand, but his pride and joy.”
“Bought with money from your books?”
“Partly. Luckily there’s not much in the way of field crops so he doesn’t need a tractor. But it’s not really fair to look at it that way. The household expenses would shoot up without his contributions in kind, and he runs the estate.”
“I’d hate to be in charge of the household accounts,” said Daisy, who hated being in charge of her own household accounts.
“He does the farm accounts and Ruby does the rest. I used to keep the books straight on royalties and so on, but Ruby’s taken them over since … my duties expanded. I’ve no idea how she and Norman work things out together—”
“With difficulty, I’m sure.”
“Let alone how Lorna’s share in the farm comes into it all. Not my business, thank heaven.”
“As long as you’re being paid your proper share of the royalties.”
Sybil shrugged. “Who’s to say what’s proper? I’m satisfied. Lorna’s the one who’s never satisfied. How can she still—after thirty years—resent Humphrey coming home to claim his share!”
“Norman doesn’t?”
“Who knows? I’d guess he’d be silent and morose under any circumstances. That’s just the way he is. He and Lorna are really the flies in the ointment, as far as the dismal atmosphere in the house is concerned. Simon can be tiresome but at least he’s rarely sulky.”
At that moment came a loud hail from behind. They both swung round to see Simon and Carey panting up the hill towards them.
“Bejabers, you ladies are fast walkers!”
“We thought we’d join you and we’ve been trying to catch up. Didn’t you see us waving?”
“We were talking,” said Sybil.
“About our children,” Daisy added hurriedly, to forestall enquiries. “Oh dear, I’ve even forgotten to admire the scenery!”
“Sure and you fulfilled that obligation this morning at the Hydro, Mrs. Fletcher,” Carey consoled her.
“Was Myra too worn out from the motor-bike ride to come with you?” Sybil asked.
“We didn’t invite her.” Simon grinned. “I persuaded Carey it was Ilkton’s turn to enjoy her undivided attention for a while. Neil has the unfair advantage of the motor-bike.”
“Unfair! Wasn’t I after choosing the bike to give the colleens a thrill.”
“No. You bought it because it’s cheaper than a car.”
“Alack, I am unmasked!” Carey said mock-mournfully. “’Tis true. ’Tis also true that after one ride most young ladies walk bow-legged for three days and choose the Packard next time!”
They all laughed as they walked down the hill.
Norman was in the yard behind the house, sweeping out the back of the lorry. Though he must have heard them, he didn’t look round.
“Need any help, Uncle Norman?”
“That’ll be the day! You might dirty your hands.”
Simon pulled a rueful face. They went on towards the house, Carey and Sybil ahead.
Simon said to Daisy, “You must think we’re a strange family, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“All families are strange in their own ways, though different would be a better word.”
“You disagree with Tolstoy, then?”
Daisy racked her brains, without result. “Is that War and Peace? I’m afraid I’ve always been daunted by the sheer size of it.”
“Anna Karenina. ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’”
“I’d have to think about it. Do you consider your own family happy or unhappy?”
“Well, we can’t be called happy, with my father ill and my uncle and aunt always grumpy. But we rub on together all right, on the whole.”
“Not unhappy enough to provide material for a novel?”
“Insufficient angst.” He gave her an expectant look.
“If you’re trying to depress my intellectual pretensions,” Daisy said tartly, “you might as well give up. I haven’t any. But I do happen to know what angst means, only because a friend of mine is an eternal student. She goes to lectures constantly. Psychology is one of her favourite subjects, and she passes on vast quantities of what she learns. Not all of it sails unheeded by my ears.”
He grinned. “Sorry. You must admit, it’s a very frustrating situation. You don’t happen to know any angst-ridden families you could introduce me to, do you?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t. The last thing an unhappy family needs is a stranger dropping in to take notes.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
Daisy sternly quelled a blush. “Certainly not. As you’ve pointed out, yours is not an unhappy family.”
“Touché! You don’t mind coming in through the kitchen, do you?”
“Perfect. I’m dying of thirst and that sounds like the place to get a glass of water!”
“I’ll make tea. I could do with a cup. Can’t wait till tea-time.”
“Lovely,” said Daisy. Simon had his points. He wasn’t such a complete pill after all. “Sybil and Mr. Carey would probably like some, too.”
Bearing tea, they went through to the hall, chilly after the warm kitchen with its huge coal-fired range.
Myra greeted them with a cry of, “Angels! I can’t possibly sew and drink tea at the same time. Aunt Lorna gave me this positive mound of mending to do.” She gestured with needle and thread at the clothes hamper beside her chair. “Walter has been reading the social news to me, but it just makes me wish I were there.”
Ilkton, standing up, waved the copy of the Morning Post he’d acquired at the Hydro. “My throat’s dry from reading,” he said. “We started out with the Hydro’s handbook. You simply would not believe how many different water and electrical treatments they offer, not to mention the various types of massage.”
“I’d love a quick cup before I go back to work,” said Sybil.
“I’ll go and get more cups,” Carey offered. “And hot water.”
When Sybil left, Daisy slipped out with her, feeling she’d like a little peace and quiet. “I’m going to go and read Halfbreed Hero in my room.”
“Why don’t you use my sitting room? You’ll be more comfortable. There’s a patchwork quilt you can wrap up in if you feel chilly.”
“All right, thanks. Sybil, I’m thinking of going home the day after tomorrow. Humphrey’s doing well, you’re busy, and I really don’t think I’m doing anything to help you.”
Sybil’s face fell. “I’m sorry. You’re having a very dull time.”
“It’s not that. I’ve enjoyed myself—the card game last night, the outing this morning, our walk, and getting to know you better. But I hate being away from the twins for long, and, as I said, I don’t feel I’ll be helping you by staying longer.”
“You have helped me. It’s obvious I was imaginin
g things. As Roger says, Humphrey’s just never quite recovered from his debility after the pneumonia. We can only hope the improvement will continue this time, and if it does, face the consequences.”
“I’m sure you’ll go on being a good partnership. He’s getting older, after all. He’ll be glad to leave most of the work to you.”
“And I’d better be getting on with it. Deadlines wait for no man—nor woman, either. I’ll see you later.”
Daisy collected the book from her room and retired to a comfortable chaise longue in Sybil’s sitting room. Within a few pages, she understood what Sybil had tried to explain. The descriptions of scenery were just as vivid as those in Lonesome Creek, but much less wordy. More important as far as Daisy was concerned—because one could always skim wordy passages—was that the characters were not stick figures, going through the motions for the sake of the plot. They came to life on the page and engaged her interest. She cared what happened to them. She could see why it would appeal to a wider audience than Humphrey Birtwhistle’s straightforward adventure yarns.
She tried to work out what Sybil had done to make the difference, then gave up and lost herself in the story.
When Sybil came to ask if she was coming down to tea, she said, “I’m very much enjoying your book, but I’m ready for another cup of tea. Did Humphrey reappear?”
“Oh yes. He’s in fine fettle and full of ideas. He’ll be joining everyone for tea.”
Daisy was torn between saying, “Marvellous!” and “I’m so sorry.” It must be very wearing for those in the know about the situation always to have mixed emotions about Humphrey’s health.
Myra appeared to be unfeignedly pleased. She was stiff from riding the motor-bike, and her uncle teased her about cowgirls in the Wild West who spent all day in the saddle. She played up to him charmingly.
Daisy watched Ilkton becoming ever more besotted. Carey, sitting on the hearth rug playing with the dog’s ears and slipping him the odd tidbit, seemed thoroughly amused.
The evening passed much the same as the previous day, except that Roger Knox didn’t arrive until after dinner.
While Ruby was greeting him, Daisy whispered to Sybil, “Does he call on all his patients daily?”
Sybil blushed. “He doesn’t usually come so often, but when there’s any change, for better or worse, he likes to keep a close eye on things.”
Humphrey was still up, sipping a second or third pink gin. “Later,” he said to the doctor.
He and Ruby stayed by the fire, talking quietly, Ruby knitting as usual. Myra inveigled the others—Lorna and Norman having retired already—into playing Happy Families. Daisy didn’t notice that Humphrey had retired until Ruby came over and quietly told Roger Knox his patient was ready to see him.
The doctor randomly distributed his hand among the other players. As he and Ruby left, Daisy heard Ruby say, “He suddenly got very sleepy, and a bit dizzy.”
Knox said something reassuring that Daisy couldn’t hear, and they went out.
They weren’t gone long. When they returned, a hand had just finished, and by mutual consent, they stopped playing. Simon gathered up the pack of cards and shuffled them.
“Cocoa anyone?” asked Simon. “It’s a chilly night.”
Several people accepted, including Daisy.
“Not for me, thanks,” said Knox. “I’d better be on my way. It was beginning to get foggy when I came up.”
“You always burn the milk, Si,” Myra grumbled. “I’d better come and keep an eye on things.”
Ilkton and Carey went off to the kitchen with them. The doctor donned coat and hat and said good-night. Sybil accompanied him to the front door, where they stood talking in low voices for a few minutes.
Ruby picked up her knitting and counted stitches. Daisy waited till she launched the next row, then asked, “What was it like being a schoolmistress in the Wild West? Was it a one-room school?”
“Oh yes,” Ruby answered absently, her mind elsewhere. Not on her knitting, Daisy guessed, as the needles clicked on automatically and what appeared to be a navy blue sleeve grew before her eyes. “I had children of all ages crammed onto benches,” Ruby went on, speaking as if she had been asked the question so often she knew the answer by heart, “some of them bored to tears and others who had ridden miles for the chance to learn.”
Daisy was about to ask what subjects Ruby had taught when an influx of cold, damp air drew her attention towards the front door. A main sitting room that was also the entrance hall had major disadvantages.
“You can’t drive in that fog!” Sybil exclaimed, closing the door with a determined thud.
“I’m on call tonight,” said Roger Knox. “I expect it’s clear lower down.”
“There are plenty of other doctors in Matlock. Ring up and get someone to cover for you.”
“Plenty of doctors, but most are busy enough with patients at the hydros and won’t answer calls beyond the town. My usual stand-by man is away for a couple of days. In fact, I’m supposed to take his emergencies tonight.”
“I’m sure you can find someone.”
“Make as many telephone calls as you need to, Roger,” said Ruby, putting down the knitting. “Of course you must stay. I’ll go and make up a bed.”
“Can I help?” Daisy offered.
“Thank you, but I’ll get Myra from the kitchen. Simon’s perfectly capable of making cocoa without assistance.”
Roger went to the telephone. Sybil came over to the fire and held out her hands to it.
“It’s like a wall of cotton-wool out there. You could barely see the porch posts, all of four feet away. I couldn’t let him drive in it! Did I sound like a nagging wife?”
“Hardly at all,” Daisy said with a smile.
“Oh dear!”
The doctor was still on the phone when Simon bore in a large jug of cocoa. Ilkton followed with a tray of mugs, and Carey with a plate of homemade shortbread. They looked like a parade of servants in a mediaeval tapestry of a banquet. Ilkton’s usual smooth façade seemed a bit ruffled. Perhaps he saw himself part of some similar faintly ridiculous image. Or perhaps he had quarrelled with Carey, or Myra had said something that shook his certainty that she’d marry him in the end. Possibly he was just annoyed because she wasn’t there to see him being helpful.
Carey was his usual blithe, unconcerned self. “I rooted about in the biscuit tins and came up with these,” he said. “Isn’t it after reminding me of midnight feasts in the dorm.”
“Oh? Which school were you at?” Ilkton asked, his tone unpleasant. The way he phrased the question suggested only a very few schools were worth mentioning.
“None you’d ever have heard of,” Carey told him with an easy laugh.
“I thought not.”
Warming her hands on her mug of cocoa, Daisy hoped she wasn’t going to have to listen to their sniping at each other for the rest of the evening. With luck, Ilkton would stop provoking trouble when Myra returned. Not that Carey’s good temper showed any sign of crumbling, thank goodness.
Sybil took a mug over to Roger Knox. As she reached him, he hung up the receiver and stood up. They came back together to the fireside, both smiling.
“You found someone,” said Daisy.
“Dr. Harris. He took some persuading. He’s on the elderly side so I can’t blame him for not liking to turn out at night, even though he says it’s clear down below. Then I had to ring my housekeeper. Thanks for the cocoa, Simon.”
A few minutes later, Myra returned. “You’re all fixed up, Dr. Knox. The room next to Mrs. Fletcher’s. Any cocoa left, Simon?”
“Nothing but the dregs.”
“Bother. I’ll go and make some more for Aunt Ruby and me. She popped in to see if Uncle Humphrey needs anything.”
“I’ll come and help,” said Neil Carey. Ilkton glared at him but didn’t offer to go with them.
They were heading towards the back of the hall when Ruby came in from the east wing. She looked ghastly.
TWELVE
Everyone stared blankly at Ruby Birtwhistle, except the doctor. He sprang to his feet, saying, “I’m sure he’s just very deeply asleep, but of course I’ll check at once.” He strode out, Ruby trotting to keep up.
Just before she turned the corner, she looked back. “Simon?”
“Coming, Mother.”
A tense silence enveloped those left behind. Daisy met Sybil’s eyes and saw there a reflection of her own horror. Could it be that Sybil’s suspicions were justified?
Myra broke the silence. “Poor Uncle Humphrey,” she wailed. “To think that he was feeling so full of beans just today!” She burst into tears and sobbed noisily, with abandon, like a small child.
Carey, on one side of her on the sofa, felt in his pockets, shrugged. On the other side, Ilkton whipped out a large, spotless linen handkerchief and pressed it into her hand.
Daisy had an almost irresistible urge to suggest a soothing cup of tea, but on top of the cocoa they had just drunk, it probably wasn’t such a good notion.
Sybil got up and crossed to the sofa, saying, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” When they rose and moved away, she sat down beside Myra and took her hands. “Darling, it’s not certain he’s … gone. It’s possible Ruby made a mistake, or Roger will find a way to revive your uncle. He’s a very good doctor.”
“I know he is, but…” Myra buried her face in Sybil’s shoulder.
While Sybil murmured soothingly in Myra’s ear, Ilkton and Carey came over to Daisy. Carey took a seat. Ilkton stood on the hearth rug, vacated by Scurry, who had doubtless gone with Norman.
“We ought to leave,” said Ilkton, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Mrs. Birtwhistle won’t want guests underfoot at a time like this.”
“Fog,” Carey reminded him.
“Damn the fog! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s an awkward situation.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Birtwhistle wouldn’t expect you to leave tonight, even without the fog, and no matter what’s happened.”
