Somehow I have a feeling that there is some mystery about the lilac gingham (Miss Phipps has been so informative upon other matters that one would have expected her to reveal the whole story of how the roll of lilac gingham happened to be available) but that is none of my business, of course.
“Do have it, Mrs. Christie,” she says. “I could make it in three days—and I’m sure you’ll be pleased with it.”
“I’m sure I shall,” I reply, and the matter is settled forthwith.
Sunday, 8th July
Mrs. Daulkes does not come on Sundays so I am entirely on my own, but The Small House is so “labour-saving” that this is no hardship. It is cloudy today and just as I am starting off to church the rain comes down in torrents. This is a little annoying in a way but in another way it is not, for the garden needs rain badly.
The church is at the other end of the High Street and as I hurry along beneath an umbrella I see other people doing the same. There is a Sunday-feeling in the air and it is pleasant to know that Tim will be enjoying a holiday; Tim will be at church, partaking in the same service, hearing the same words. Unfortunately the time is different (it would be even more comfortable if I could think of him partaking in the same service at the same moment) but one can’t have everything.
The church is old and beautiful, as so many little English parish churches are, but sad to say there are many empty pews. I slip into a seat at the back but am moved by the verger who explains in undertones that the vicar likes the front pews filled. Somewhat reluctantly, I allow myself to be conducted up the aisle and placed in a more conspicuous position. Just behind me is a fat woman in a very tight-fitting brown coat-and-skirt and a red hat and I take her to be Mrs. Meller the vicar’s wife (perhaps because at a casual glance she seems to be putting on weight).
The service is a little dreary, or so I find; the hymns are long and dirge-like and quite unknown to me. Apparently they are unknown to most of the congregation for nobody, except Mrs. Meller, makes any attempt to sing them. Mr. Meller’s sermon is entirely taken up with scolding his hearers for not coming to church; he thumps the pulpit and gets rather cross about it, but as all his hearers have come to church it seems rather pointless. I cannot help thinking some of his hearers will be bored at having to suffer for the sins of their weaker brethren; some will feel smug (as did the Pharisee) and it is just possible that some will be feeling in their secret hearts that next Sunday morning might be spent more profitably at home.
When we come out of church we discover the clouds have disappeared and the sun is shining brightly. People linger in the churchyard and chat to one another cheerfully amongst the tombstones. Perhaps tombstones are a curious environment for cheerful chat, but these are so old and mossy that they cannot arouse any sad memories. It is good that these people are cheerful and happy amongst the graves of their ancestors and perhaps it is nice for the ancestors as well.
I know nobody of course, but that is not to say that nobody knows me, and I feel that all these people are looking at me and saying, “That’s Mrs. Christie. She’s taken The Small House for the summer. Her husband is in Africa, you know . . .” (but perhaps I am wrong about this and they are merely commenting upon my clothes and criticising the shape of my hat). The ancestors are a different case; they have not the slightest idea who I am. “Who is she?” they are saying. “She isn’t one of mine.” “What is she doing here at Old Quinings?”
This feeling of being a stranger in the land—not only amongst the living but also amongst the dead—is very disturbing. I am hurrying away, skirting a plot which is surrounded by high iron railings, when I find myself pursued by the stout lady in the brown coat-and-skirt and the red hat. Her face is red too and she is slightly breathless owing to the swiftness of her pursuit.
“Mrs. Christie?” she asks. “I was sure it must be. I’m Mrs. Meller, the vicar’s wife.”
We shake hands solemnly.
“I meant to call,” continues Mrs. Meller. “But there’s such a lot to do. The fact is I wondered if you would do the flowers one Sunday. There are such lovely flowers in the garden of The Small House. Mrs. Stroude used to do the flowers sometimes and we miss her so much . . . just one Sunday in the month,” says Mrs. Meller. “It would be such a help.”
“Yes, of course. I should like to.”
“Oh good! Now let me see. Shall we say the twelfth of August?”
We say the twelfth of August and the matter is arranged.
One of the chief joys of being alone is that there is no need to be punctual for meals; and as it is now so fine and sunny I decide to go for a walk before lunch. Already I have discovered a “favourite” walk; it is a footpath through the fields and along the river. The day is bright and sweetly scented, there is clover in the grass and the golden buttercups glow in the light of the golden sun. The sunshine is a soft warm effulgence, benign and health-giving, quite different from the baking heat of the sunshine in Africa.
The river flows slowly through the meadows and the blue sky is reflected in its pools. There are brown-spiked reeds growing in the water and, on the farther bank, a mass of willow herb. There are irises, a whole regiment of them, straight and strong, gay in their uniform of green and yellow. The green of the meadows is almost startling to one whose eye is used to another, less fortunate, land. They are greener than ever today after the refreshing showers; the tiny raindrops hang upon the sedges and “a livelier emerald twinkles in the grass.”
While I am watching, a cow blunders into the stream, breaking the reflections into shards; the ripples spread and lap against the banks and a kingfisher flies from the willow with a flash of blue. I find a fallen tree which makes a comfortable seat, and here I sit and admire the brilliant picture.
The afternoon is the right sort of Sunday afternoon for sitting in the garden and reading, but unfortunately I have nothing to read. I finished The Body in the Cupboard last night. It was a “good murder” (as Mrs. Daulkes would say), horrible enough to satisfy my taste for horrors but not realistic enough to give me shivers up my spine. I have read it and forgotten it which is just as it should be with this kind of tale. Now that I have nothing to read I regret that I did not borrow Landscape Gardening which would have lasted a good deal longer besides improving my mind. There is, however, a cupboard in the dining room which looks as if it ought to contain books and, although it is locked, the key is in a small brass bowl on the mantelpiece. For a moment I hesitate, but only for a moment. I am so comfortably at home in Mrs. Stroude’s house that I know she would like me to read her books.
The cupboard is a treasure-trove; here is a splendid assortment of books—mostly books which I know already but which I am delighted to meet again: here are Kidnapped and The Master of Ballantrae, The Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland and Persuasion, Little Women and Vanity Fair. Redgauntlet rubs shoulders with The Mayor of Casterbridge and the Adventures of an Irish R.M. Here are Sanders of the River, The Free Fishers, John Splendid and Gaudy Night (a catholic selection indeed and incidentally a selection which tells me a good deal about the lady to whom they belonged); and joy upon joys here is a collection of Trollope, not only the beloved Barchester novels but others such as Miss Mackenzie and The Belton Estate, with which I am unacquainted. Naturally it takes me a long time to make up my mind, but after due deliberation I decide upon Doctor Thorne and take him with me into the garden.
The bed of violas is looking lovelier than ever after the rain and their scent is fresher. I carry out the long wicker chair and arrange the cushions and settle down happily. Could anything be more delightful than a Sunday afternoon in the garden with Doctor Thorne? The fact that it is an old edition with thick paper and large print and a number of fascinating pictures heightens my pleasure in the perusal of the tale.
I am getting on famously, and already have reached that part of the story where the dear, good man is redecorating his house for the benefit of his little niece, Mary. (I might have voyaged further if I had not spent some time
looking at the picture of the doctor showing Mary the glory of the new drawing room.) Unfortunately at this very moment I hear the buzz of an electric bell, and the peace of the afternoon is shattered.
But need the peace be shattered? After all it may not have been the front-door bell. How foolish it would be to disturb myself and then to find I had been mistaken! The bell rings again in a demanding fashion and I am obliged to face the fact that it is the bell of my front-door . . . but why should I answer it? Nothing urgent can have happened on a quiet Sunday afternoon and any visitor will be unwelcome. By this time the bell has ceased to ring; the matter has settled itself and whoever it was has gone away in disgust.
This deduction, though reasonable, proves to be false and before I have time to pick up my book Susan Morven appears round the corner of the house and comes across the lawn.
“Don’t move!” she cries. “Please don’t move, Mrs. Christie. You look so comfortable; it’s awful of me to disturb you like this.”
I tell her I am very pleased to see her and this is true, for Susan is a very pleasant sight. Only a bear could fail to be pleased to see such a delightful creature.
“I’ll sit on the grass,” she continues, suiting the action to the word. “And I promise faithfully I shan’t stay more than a few minutes. I expect you’re wondering why on earth I’ve come, aren’t you?”
“I thought perhaps you had come to see me.”
Susan smiles. “You’re making it more difficult, and it’s difficult enough already.”
“Difficult?”
“What I’ve come to say is very difficult,” explains Susan. “So difficult that I don’t know how to say it.”
“Am I very alarming?”
“No!” she cries, shaking her golden curls. “It’s only because you aren’t alarming that I’ve come. You see, Mrs. Christie, when I thought about it—about what we said on Wednesday—I realised that it was rather a mistake. You haven’t written to Betty, have you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Don’t write. I mean don’t write about me and about the plans we made. It sounds awfully queer I know,” says Susan hastening over what she feels to be delicate ground, “but when I thought about it I realised that if somebody made plans like that for me I should hate it and probably be prejudiced against the other person—I mean me, of course. It’s all very muddly but the point is I don’t want Betty to be prejudiced against me from the very beginning by hearing a lot about me.” She pauses and looks at me to see how I am taking it.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I tell her.
“The same?”
“Exactly the same. I remember once hearing a great deal about a woman from some friends of hers. They told me how wonderful she was, how clever and amusing; they told me she was always perfectly dressed, that she had a gorgeous voice and played the piano divinely; they said she had naturally curly hair and was always the life and soul of the party . . .”
Susan is giggling. “Goodness, how you must have hated her!”
“M’m,” I reply nodding.
“Did you ever meet the paragon?”
“Yes, and it was all true and she was a darling. Of course it took me some time to get over the bad start but eventually we became great friends. One day when we knew one another well she asked me to tell her—in confidence—what I had heard about her that made me so stand-offish.”
“She thought it was something dreadful, I suppose!”
“Quite dreadful. She wouldn’t believe me when I told her what I had heard.”
“Oh well,” says Susan. “That just shows, doesn’t it? Of course I’m not a bit clever or amusing and I can’t sing a note and nobody notices whether I’m at a party or not—”
“But you’ve got curly hair.”
She looks up at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Is Betty like you?” she asks.
“Absolutely different.”
“Tell me about her,” says Susan.
It is a great temptation of course but I resist it manfully and remain dumb.
“Oh!” exclaims Susan after a short pause. “Yes, I see!” and she begins to chuckle delightedly.
By this time I am more than ever enchanted with my guest and am hoping with all my heart that she and Betty will become friends, but I feel a little doubtful whether they will have much in common. Betty is a school girl, and young for her age, whereas Susan is a finished person. There can be no harm in telling Susan this, so I tell her.
Susan smiles at my warning. “I’m old because I’m only,” Susan explains, “and because I’ve been about such a lot, and because—well, because I’ve had some unhappy things to bear. Unhappiness is ageing isn’t it? But I’m quite young inside, and very adaptable. It will be fun to have a friend younger than myself.”
We are silent for a little after that; the sun is warm, the birds are singing and the garden is a peaceful spot.
Monday, 9th July
Today is the one appointed for Mrs. Alston and her son to arrive at the Bull and Bush. They are expected at lunch-time so I give them the afternoon to settle down, and visit them after tea. Mrs. Alston is in the parlour, writing letters; she greets me happily and overwhelms me with gratitude for finding her the rooms.
“My room isn’t very large, of course,” says Mrs. Alston, “but that doesn’t matter as long as Edmond is comfortable. His room is just overhead,” she adds, raising her eyes to the ceiling and lowering her voice.
“The walls are very thick—” I begin.
“Oh yes! And he says this old house is conducive to study. He’s working now. Isn’t it splendid?”
I agree that it is. My slight prejudice against the studious Edmond is considerably—though somewhat unreasonably—strengthened.
“Mrs. Bollings is very kind,” she continues. “We had to move the furniture in Edmond’s room (he’s fussy about things like that) but Mrs. Bollings didn’t mind at all, and Mr. Bollings came up and helped. They are nice, aren’t they? You don’t know how grateful I am to you, Mrs. Christie. It’s all your doing of course.”
She has thanked me adequately already and her gratitude is beginning to bore me a little so I change the subject and apologise for my behaviour in Rome. There is nothing else for it but to tell Mrs. Alston the truth; that I quite forgot our arrangement to go out together and am very sorry about it.
“It doesn’t matter at all; don’t think of it,” she says. “Signora Scarlatti explained.”
These words, though casual and reassuring upon the surface, cause me some slight discomfort. It would be nice to know what the Signora explained and how she explained it, but it is all too difficult and the moment passes.
“Don’t think of it,” repeats Mrs. Alston. “I quite understand. I just thought you might like to see the catacombs and it’s so difficult getting about in Rome if you can’t speak Italian.”
“You speak it?” I enquire.
“Oh yes, I’ve knocked about in Italy a lot.”
This information adds to my disquietude.
Once more the subject is changed and I enquire with solicitude whether Mrs. Alston and her son had a good journey and hear a somewhat dreary recital of rude porters and slow trains. Mrs. Alston and I found plenty to talk about in the plane but today we seem to have less in common. I feel a trifle distrait and her mind is wandering; I can see her eyes turn to the ceiling every now and then. Perhaps she is listening to that Great Brain which is working so industriously in the room above.
Mrs. Alston asks if I know an old lady called Miss Crease and adds that her aunt used to know Miss Crease so she supposes she had better go and see her. I reply that Miss Crease lives next door to me and that we came down in the train together. But neither of us has much to say about my neighbour and presently the conversation becomes so barren that I decide not to prolong my visit.
“Must you go?” says Mrs. Alston. “I thought perhaps you would stay to tea . . . and you haven’t met Edmond! Shall I go and tell him you’r
e here?”
“Oh no!” I exclaim. “We mustn’t disturb him.”
“Perhaps not,” she agrees with a sigh of relief.
We say good-bye and she sees me off at the door.
It is unthinkable to leave the Bull and Bush without a glimpse of Annie so I make my way round to the back and through the cobbled yard. The back-door is open invitingly; it leads into the scullery and from thence to the huge raftered kitchen where I discover my old friend busy preparing dinner for her guests.
“There you are!” exclaims Annie. “You’ve been talking to Her, of course. I hoped you wouldn’t go away without coming in to see me. I’m making puddings so I can’t sit down, but you can sit down and talk to me. That old chair’s more comfortable than it looks.”
The chair is a period piece with a high back and carved wooden arms and is very comfortable indeed. Its owner is surprised when I tell her it is valuable and would fetch a good price in an auction room.
“I must tell Fred,” says Annie, looking at it more respectfully. “Fred likes that chair to sit in, so I don’t suppose he’d want to sell it, but it’s nice to know we could if we wanted. There are all sorts of old things in this house; we took over most of the stuff when we bought the place, it was the easiest way.”
We chat about this and that. Annie wants to know whether I like Mrs. Daulkes and how I am managing about food; she is much relieved when I assure her that everything is working out splendidly and I am enjoying myself no end. She shows surprise when I mention the Alstons and apologise for the trouble they have caused.
“Trouble!” says Annie. “There wasn’t any trouble that I know of.”
“Moving all the furniture,” I explain.
“Oh that! That wasn’t any trouble. The young gentleman wanted his table in the window to get a better light, so he and Fred moved it. I’d given him a big, heavy table for all his books. He’s a very nice young gentleman. I’m not so stuck on Her,” declares Annie as she seizes a large bowl and proceeds to beat her pudding with furious energy.
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