Linda nodded, her lips set tightly. She often brought flowers to Mrs. Collins. They were always short and usually white. White ones probably faded more quickly than any others. That old man with the barrow must have taken the same liking to the child as she had herself, thought the old woman; he was always making her presents of these bunches of tired flowers.
‘Shall I get a vase?’ Linda jumped off the bed and took from the chimney-piece a pink and gold china swan. ‘I’ll get some water for them. . . . Did you have visitors?’ she called, with the tap running wildly. ‘I couldn’t make you hear today, I had to ask you twice. Through the curtain it looked as if there was someone else with you. It looked like Nonie. Why do you have a curtain today? Don’t you like to see out any more? Was it Nonie?’
‘Yes, but today I had a headache—the light was too strong. Miss Rhodes was here this afternoon. Nonie’s at work.’
‘She didn’t come out,’ said the child, astonished.
‘Yes, she did,’ smiled Mrs. Collins.
‘But she’d have gone past us playing over there.’
‘She probably went up to see Mrs. Danvers.’
How inquisitive children were. The old woman was nervous of those bright curious eyes. What terrible and ruthless spies they would make—and did, it was said, in the Iron Curtain countries. Inexorable . . . that’s what they were.
Linda put the white carnations in the pink and gold swan. Hideous thing it was, thought the old woman, but Neil had won it at a shooting gallery in the Festival Gardens when they had first opened. Strange that he could win anything shooting in such places and become a fumbling terrified clot when he had to fire blank cartridges in the exercises up there at the camp.
Linda placed the swan on the table by the bedside delightedly, ‘Sick people should always have flowers. . . .’
‘Why?’ asked the old woman smiling at her.
‘To help them get used to having to go to heaven. Heaven’s full of flowers—so’s the cemetery!’ The last words were shot out almost defiantly and, startled, Mrs. Collins looked at the small face bent down to the carnations.
‘Where have you been playing? I didn’t see you over there,’ pointing to the waste ground, ‘this afternoon.’
‘We were playing hide-and-seek only there was a man there. I didn’t like him. I was scared. He was a soldier and he told me if I didn’t forget I’d seen him I might get hurt. He said he wouldn’t like anything to happen to me so I’d better forget. So I have forgot—almost. But I was frightened, so was Cissie—he had such funny eyes.’
‘Where was this?’ Mrs. Collins was alert now.
‘Over there. . . .’ She pointed to where the old woman had pointed just before. ‘He was lying in that deep bit of the ruins. He was quite still—as if he were hiding.’
‘And he was a soldier?’
‘Yes, He wore clothes like Cissie’s brother and Neil.’
The old woman drew in her breath sharply. What now? What? For some reason she felt a stab of fear. A feeling of acute danger warned her to go carefully.
‘Linda,’ she said calmly, ‘that man was quite right. Forget you’ve seen him. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?’
‘Do you know what that man was doing?’ asked the child slyly. ‘He was watching this house.’
From behind the door there was a faint sound—a sigh or a gulp. Linda swung round. ‘I heard a noise . . . from there, behind there. . . .’
‘Mice,’ said the old woman soothingly, ‘and the wind comes through the skylight.’
‘Mice! I love mice! Oh, look! The Queen’s crooked. She couldn’t sit crooked on her horse . . . there now . . . that’s better. . . . Lovely picture, isn’t it? Why doesn’t she wear her crown?’
‘Because she only wears it on very special occasions.’
‘In the history books at school all the kings and queens wear crowns.’
‘They used to but now it’s changed.’
She drew her breath while the child stood on tiptoe to straighten the picture which Neil’s fall had knocked down. Would the boy have the sense to hold his breath? Would Linda take it into her head to open that door behind which he cowered? She often did. Not by a sign did she betray her anxiety. That was fatal with children. They were clever and knew intuitively when you didn’t want them to do something. The knowledge was sufficient to make them want to do it. She must head her off—away from the door.
‘What’s the time?’ she asked quickly. ‘What does the clock say, Linda?’
Linda went and stood on tiptoe to look at the cheap alarm clock on the chimney-piece. ‘Ten to five. . . .’ she said swiftly. ‘If I turn the clock up the other way it’ll be five to ten. Which will you have, madam?’
‘I think ten to five will suit me all right,’ said the old woman, entering into the game they played together. ‘That silly clock loses . . . it must be five by now. Listen and see if you can hear the church clock strike the hour. . . .’
What a fool I am to suggest her listening with Neil next door like that. Why can’t he learn to hold his breath and not to cough . . . ? From across the street came the first chime of the clock.
‘One!’ said Linda, ‘Two . . . Three!’ She opened her mouth to say ‘Four’, but a loud ring at the front door startled them both. The child looked at Mrs. Collins. . . . ‘Shall I open the front door?’
‘No. It won’t be for us. It’ll be for Mrs. Danvers. . . .’
They heard the shuffling steps of the heavy old Mrs. Danvers. . . . ‘She’ll open it. Well, my darling, did it strike five?’
‘Mrs. Collins . . . Mrs. Collins . . . Someone for you. . . .’ croaked Mrs. Danvers.
‘Who is it? . . .’ apprehension sounded in her voice in spite of her care. ‘Who is it?’
The answer, when it came, brought with it a stab as sharp as any the Monster himself could give. But her own apprehension was as nothing to the reaction of the child beside her. There was gloating, almost love, in Mrs. Danvers’ answer. Not love for her neighbour, but delight that it might mean trouble for her. Linda, trembling and white-faced, clutched at the old woman frantically. . . . ‘Don’t let them in. Please, Gran Collins, don’t let them get me. I’ll never do it again, never. Only don’t let them take me away. Please, please.’
What had Linda done to turn into a bundle of shaking terror at the sound of the word ‘Police.’
She caught the child to her. ‘Don’t be afraid, I won’t let them take you away. Open the door, there’s a good girl. Open it quickly.’
‘No . . . No,’ cried Linda desperately.
Well, here it is, thought the old woman grimly, no use postponing it. ‘Wait just a minute while I put something on!’ she called. . . .
‘All right, take your time. . . .’ came the deep answer.
Gathering all her strength, all her powers of resistance, she got out of bed, slipped on her coat, and opened the door.
CHAPTER X
WHEN the embarrassed young policeman, after apologising awkwardly to Mrs. Collins, looked round for Linda, she had disappeared. He accepted the chair offered him and his eyes went to the door behind the bed.
‘So it’s you’, said the old woman, sitting herself on the edge of the bed with her coat drawn tightly round her. Good afternoon, officer.’ This young Wilson was already known to her through Neil’s former escapes. As she spoke to him she suddenly felt a warm little hand grasp her ankle—Linda had dived under the bed.
‘Mrs. Collins,’ began the young policeman, ‘excuse me intruding on you like this, but I saw the little girl climb in through your window. I waited for her to come out, but time’s getting on. She hasn’t come out, has she?’
‘The little girl!’ exclaimed Mrs. Collins, as if puzzled. And so she was. Why was he using this preliminary to his real business? Why start his questioning and search by talking about the child? Or was it that, decent fellow as he had always been to them, he was trying to make sure that the child actually had gone before he asked permission to
search the place for Neil? But then there were usually two or more of them. Had he left more men outside? She must get the child out. Her heart had begun thumping in a strange frightening way. Funny how the sight of a policeman had that effect on her now. Before Neil had been conscripted and all the trouble had started, she had looked upon the police as friends. Now, like Nonie, she mistrusted and feared them.
She called softly, trying to steady her voice so that she did not reveal her fear, ‘Come out, Linda. No one’s going to hurt you. Mr. Wilson here is an old friend.’ But Linda did not come out, instead a mournful wail began under the bed.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I followed her here. There’s been so many complaints, you see. We must do something to stop it. Of course children will do these things—in a way it’s only natural—but what can we do when the Authorities insist that something is done about it?’
The old woman was terribly agitated. What was all this? Hadn’t he come about Neil after all? She must guard herself against any betrayal. Calm . . . keep absolutely calm, that was always safest.
‘She’s only a mite—only nine,’ she said entreatingly, and all the time she was wondering frantically, What is it? What? Why was Linda grey-faced and shaking at the word ‘Police’? Why had she dived under the bed just as Neil had done? Had he involved the child in some way?
‘She was warned,’ said the policeman. ‘Are those the flowers she brought you today, Mrs. Collins?’ He was looking at the wilted carnations in the pink swan. ‘Do you know where she gets them?’
‘From her friend with the barrow,’ said Mrs. Collins, more and more puzzled now.
‘Hasn’t it ever struck you that they are all very short flowers and that they are usually white ones?’ asked the policeman, watching her very closely.
‘Yes, it has struck me. But they are not always short or white. Children like short flowers. Haven’t you seen them breaking them all off to make into a short posy?’
‘She didn’t break those off short,’ said the policeman meaningly. ‘They were short when she took them. I saw her take them.’
‘Took them? Took them?’ Light began to dawn on Mrs. Collins. The child had stolen the flowers—that was the trouble.
‘Linda,’ she coaxed gently. ‘Come out, my darling. Come along, there’s no need to be frightened—is there, officer?’
‘None whatsoever. Come out, Linda, there’s a good girl.’
Very slowly a foot appeared from under the bed; then the inadequate knickers and long legs of a little girl pushed themselves out from under the bed. She rolled over, dusting herself down, and stood up sheepishly. Then, at the sight of the policeman, she stared wildly and gripped the old woman tightly round the neck.
‘Did you steal the flowers for me?’ asked Mrs. Collins gently. Linda nodded and hid her face in the old woman’s neck. ‘Where from? From your old friend with the barrow?’ The curly head was shaken violently but she did not speak. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to get a shock,’ said the policeman in his slow deliberate way. ‘Think. What place has plenty of short white flowers which wilt easily from lack of water?’
Then, as comprehension dawned in the old woman’s face, he said with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Yes. Off the graves, weren’t they, Linda?’
‘I’m so sorry for the poor flowers all stuck through with wire and nothing to drink,’ said the child, looking at him with her great eyes, tragic now and swimming with tears. ‘It’s wicked. They’re much happier in that pink swan here with Gran Collins.’
‘Well, that may be so,’ said the policeman smiling. ‘But you see, people paid money for those flowers to be put on the graves of their dead.’
‘The dead can’t see them,’ said the child passionately. ‘And Gran Collins can. There’s heaps of flowers in heaven . . . why do they want them on their graves when they’ve gone away from them?’
Why indeed, thought young Wilson. She’s got something there, as children always have. ‘It’s stealing to take them off the graves,’ he said sternly. ‘You know that quite well, don’t you, Linda?’
She was mute now, her great eyes regarding him obliquely.
‘What time does your mother get home?’ he asked her, taking out his notebook. ‘She’s not your grandchild, is she, Mrs. Collins?’
‘No,’ said the old woman reluctantly.
‘I know your granddaughter, young Nona. I thought you hadn’t one as young as this.’
He carefully avoided mentioning Neil, although he knew him best in the family. This avoidance of Neil’s name alarmed the old woman. Was all this really leading up to Neil? If so, why didn’t the man get on with it? Was he playing cat and mouse with her? Neil must have heard his voice. It was absolutely still in there now. Supposing he sneezed or coughed? He must have recognised Wilson’s voice. Wouldn’t anyone recognise the voice of the man who had twice arrested you? He must be terrified—just as this child had been—and still was. The lovely pink bloom of her cheeks was gone and she was white and there was a curious ashen look about her—just like Neil. She held the child close to her. She could feel the beating of the frightened little heart—like a small bird in one’s hand.
‘Her mother gets in about half-past six,’ she said bluntly. ‘But I hope you won’t go worrying her. Linda’ll give me her word not to take any more flowers. She took them for me. I guarantee that she won’t do it again.’
‘Will you promise, Linda?’ asked Wilson sternly, but his eyes were warm and kind.
‘You’re not going to take me away to one of those Homes where you took Anita?’
‘No. Not if you promise never to take flowers again. You must keep away from the cemetery, Linda. What makes you go there?’
‘I like to play there,’ said the child simply. ‘And if they can’t see they can’t mind, can they?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said the policeman carefully. ‘It’s the people who’ve bought the flowers who mind. It’s stealing. And if you do it again you’ll get into trouble.’
The sternness of his voice unnerved Linda, already upset by the man hiding in the ruins. She burst into loud sobs again, and clung to the old woman.
‘Now . . . now,’ soothed Mrs. Collins. ‘It’s all right. The officer isn’t going to hurt you. You promise to leave the flowers alone and we won’t mention it again. Promise me you’ll keep away from the cemetery, Linda. Will you?’ The little girl nodded violently, sobbing in great gulps. Then, stopping as suddenly as she had begun, she said shakily. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t think it was stealing. Shall I take the flowers back?’
The man looked from the miserable carnations in the dingy room to the tear-stained child clinging to the old woman. ‘No. We won’t take these back,’ he said, getting up. Will you let me out, Linda. Goodbye, Mrs. Collins. I’m very sorry indeed to have had to upset you like this—but something had to be done.’
‘Better me than her mother. She has worry enough and to spare,’ said the old woman acidly. ‘Thank you, officer. I promise you it won’t happen again.’
‘It’s because I know you have such a strong sense of duty that I feel it won’t,’ said the policeman quietly.
She watched the child show him out and saw him shake the small hand ceremoniously and pat Linda’s shoulder. Then she leaned back against the bedrail. Her heart was thumping as wildly as the child’s had. A strong sense of duty . . . a strong sense of duty. . . . Had she? Had she? With Neil in there behind the bed, hiding in his sister’s clothes?
He had said nothing about Neil. Nothing. He had only come about Linda. She thought of all the flowers the child had brought her. They had all come from the cemetery. She’d stolen them all from the graves. Something died in her.
‘Come here, Linda,’ she said gently when the little girl returned to the room. Linda approached the bed. She was still sniffling and wiping her eyes on the corner of her cotton frock. ‘Do you mind very much that they came off the graves?’ she wailed. ‘It’s so dingy down here—you can’t see the sky or the trees—only
little bits of them. But the dead ones under the grass can’t see the flowers either.’ She watched the old woman’s face anxiously.
‘No. It’s not that they came off the graves that I mind. I shall be there soon enough myself and I’d be glad for anyone to have flowers off my grave. But it’s stealing, Linda. Like the policeman said. Did all the flowers you brought me come from the cemetery?’
‘Yes. I had no money to buy any.’
‘You made that all up about the old barrow man who gave you flowers?’
‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘There is an old barrow man with lovely flowers. Only he doesn’t give me any. He’s mean and grumpy. Once when I asked him for some for you he told me to beat it or he’d make me. I pretended he gave them to me. It’s what I’d like him to do. If he were nice he would. . . .’
‘You’d better be getting along home now, Linda,’ said Mrs. Collins rather sadly. ‘Your mother will soon be home.’
For the first time in their friendship she wanted the child gone. She knew that Neil was listening behind the door and the strain of wondering whether he would make a noise which this inquisitive little girl would hear was becoming unbearable. ‘Run along now, darling,’ she said. ‘And mind,’ she ended sharply. ‘Keep away from the cemetery. You’ve promised. And don’t you go over on that bombed-site where you saw that soldier.’
‘I ought to have told the policeman about him,’ said Linda, thoughtfully. ‘He frightened me.’ Then she said, dismayed. ‘But if I can’t play in the cemetery or over there—where am I to play?’
‘You run along home and help your mother to make the meal. Girls should help in the kitchen. You’re getting a big girl now.’ Then seeing the child’s surprised and disconcerted face she patted her dirty hand, and kissed her affectionately.
‘Don’t mind me, darling. I’m a tired old woman . . . perhaps I worry too much. . . . Your mother’s away so long.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ called the child. The door slammed, she was gone, turning as always to blow a kiss as she ran up the steps.
The Fledgeling Page 11
