“I understand, and I do appreciate your kindness,” said Miss Balfour.
“Then do me a much greater kindness in return,” he said eagerly. “And let me come and live here. I’ve knocked about long enough, I’d like to settle down. We could do very comfortably in this house, on what we’ve got. And I’m no use with money, it just runs through my fingers. If you turn me out, I’ll be broke in a year or two—”
Miss Balfour met the look of his pleading eyes, hungry for understanding, yes, and for affection. She had a shrewd suspicion, backed by his own words, that he was not altogether a desirable character: he was weak and full of failings, but there was something very likeable, even lovable, about him. She knew that she would enjoy having him to share the big empty house with her, so she said:
“Very well. Let us try it, at any rate.”
“Six months’ notice on either side?” he asked, trying to conceal his immense relief behind a jocular tone.
“It might be a good thing. A sort of safeguard,” Miss Balfour agreed, thoughtfully.
“Of course,” he exclaimed, in a great hurry. “I was only joking, my dear Dorothea.”
So she had to assure him that she was joking, too. “But all the same, it was quite a sensible suggestion,” she added.
Finally it was arranged that they should review the situation at the end of six months, in Mr. Milner’s pompous words, and that Dorothea was to continue to manage the household finances as before.
“For I’m better with just enough for pocket money, you see,” Montagu ended with sudden disarming simplicity. “So you must look after the rest.”
Then they turned on the wireless and listened to the news, after which Miss Balfour said good night to her brother-in-law and went to bed.
In spite of her extreme tiredness, Miss Balfour was glad of the day that had passed. Because of it she had discovered her brother-in-law’s good qualities and found in him a companion. And Willow, though she appeared so selfish and irresponsible on the surface, was really sound when her better feelings were appealed to.
Even Mr. Ferrier had lost his temper on her behalf, and she ought to feel more grateful to him. She would, if he on his side could stop treating Montagu as if he were a blackguard, which, of course, he wasn’t. He needed home life, and she would make him so comfortable in the morning-room, which he had asked to have as a bed-sitting-room instead of being away up on the top floor.
That left the rooms up there empty: three of them and a bathroom, besides the little one with the skylight window, hardly more than a big cupboard. Montagu had said the top floor would make a good flat, with the little room converted into a tiny kitchen . . . but it would not be very pleasant to have strangers living in the house, meeting them on the stairs or in the hall.
A sudden thought that seemed inspired came to Miss Balfour then, so striking that she sat up in bed the better to consider it. What if she asked Willow and her husband to rent the top flat?
Willow would be independent, which was what her mother wanted, and what Willow needed; and yet her old home was so near that she need never be lonely when her husband was at sea.
“I’ll consult Montagu,” said Miss Balfour aloud. “And I am sure he’ll agree. Then we can ask Willow.”
She lay down again, this time thinking that it was pleasant to have someone to consult.
Her very last waking thought was how astonishingly nice and good people were when you knew them; and then she was fast asleep.
What she did not know and would not have believed was that the people who knew her could not help living up to her belief in their good qualities, or that their virtues were sometimes no more than the reflection of her own shining honesty and kindliness.
CHAPTER 9
Rowan and Angus Todd had passed under the grey bulk of St. Mary’s Cathedral and were heading towards Queensferry Road on their slow homeward way, when he said suddenly: “It’s a lovely evening. Let’s take the bus up Ravelston Dykes and walk over Corstorphine Hill. We could catch another bus home on the far side. Come on, Rowan!”
“Too late. I’m tired and I want to get to bed,” said Rowan. “And anyhow, it will be pitch dark long before we are over Corstorphine Hill. Banging into trees, and falling over rocks isn’t my idea of fun—and suppose we broke our legs, or even sprained our ankles? It would be the end, with the dancing display so near.”
“Oh, all right,” he agreed grudgingly. “But I can’t see why you’re always so tired. You’re on holiday now, aren’t you?”
“In theory I am. In practice it works out that Willow needs so much help that I am doing more than usual.”
She fell silent as they walked up Melville Street, its noble breadth free of the day-time ranks of parked cars, the handsome houses looking gravely across at their opposite numbers above the heads of passers-by.
It was quite true that Willow did remarkably little apart from cooking breakfast and supper, and Rowan sometimes felt rebellious. She really was tired, too, it was no idle excuse. She was worried as well. What had happened to Mrs. Baird? She came every Monday, Wednesday and Friday without fail, and yesterday she had never appeared at all, and that was the second day she had missed. Willow had flown into one of her hysterical rages when asked about it. But Rowan vowed that if Mrs. Baird didn’t come to-morrow, hysterics or not, she would pin Willow down to telling her what was the matter.
“You’re very quiet. What’s wrong?” asked Angus, and she came to with a start to find they had reached Queensferry Street, with traffic pouring endlessly along it.
“Nothing. I was only thinking,” she said. “Why are we standing here? We don’t have to cross.”
“Aren’t you sick of the Dean Bridge?” he said. “I am. It’s no longer by Moray Place.”
“No, of course, it isn’t, and I love Moray Place,” agreed Rowan. “Let’s go that way. The last bit’s rather horrid and slummy, that’s the only drawback.”
“I like the contrast between the stately classical calm of Moray Place and the draggle-tailed uproar of Havana Lane,” said Angus. “It makes me think of myself—my environment, pure Moray Place, and for all I know my heredity Havana Lane, or something very like it.”
“You’d be much happier if you didn’t think so much about yourself,” Rowan told him.
“It’s all very well for you to talk. You don’t have to think about yourself because you know who you are.”
“Well, you may be someone far grander than the Todds, for all you know,” said Rowan, rather impatiently.
“That’s so likely, isn’t it?” he said bitterly.
Rowan’s honesty forced her to admit that it wasn’t very likely.
“But can’t you see it’s you yourself who matters?” she argued. “Nobody bothers about the rest!”
“You’re talking like a child,” he said, angrily. “Of course it matters! Do you imagine anyone would like me to marry their daughter, in the circumstances?”
“Oh. Well—you’re too young to think about that yet,” Rowan said, a little troubled. Then she put her hand through his arm and gave it a little friendly shake.
“Stop moaning and enjoy Moray Place,” she coaxed.
The street lamps were beginning to flower delicately through the gathering dusk, and from the tall dark trees of the shadowy garden in the centre owls were hooting, but still above the roofs of the high houses the sky shimmered with the afterglow of sunset in the west, paling overhead to a chill clear green.
The two, still linked together, stood for a moment on the empty pavement, looking at the sweep of the grey stone houses rising like cliffs on either side, listening to the owls calling boldly to one another against a distant hum of traffic.
The change from the dim quiet to the roar of Havana Lane was almost shocking. Half-way down the steep hill the Three Feathers was disgorging its last reluctant patrons into the street.
Unwilling to leave the stuffy, tawdry brightness of the bar, they hung about, talking loudly, adding their share to
the noise of crying children, barking dogs and scolding women, and the banging and clanging of the trams shuttling past along the main street below. The air was thick with the smell of chips and vinegar, the ground littered with the newspaper in which it had been wrapped.
“It’s a contrast, all right,” said Rowan, as they picked their way among the noisy throng.
“I like it,” he answered defiantly. “There’s life down here—”
“There’s life in Moray Place, too, only a quieter kind. Be fair.”
He laughed, unwillingly, but Rowan was glad to hear him, for he laughed too seldom, she thought.
“All right. You have your kind, and I’ll have mine,” he said.
“If you mean Havana Lane by ‘your kind’ of life, it seems to me you don’t know any more about it than I do,” retorted Rowan. “What about some chips and vinegar? The place is still open—”
“God, no! I hate the filthy stuff!”
“There you are. I bet I’d fit into the life here better than you!” said Rowan.
Her shining hair and brilliant eyes, her springing walk, had attracted the attention of some men, and as they passed, one shouted after her:
“Hey, hen! Whit aboot a date wi’ me?”
“You’ll have to ask my boy-friend!” Rowan shouted back, and was hurried on by Angus, who was horrified.
“Good Lord, Rowan! What a thing to do!” he expostulated.
“It was just to show you how Vere de Vere you are,” Rowan said blandly. “And how terre à terre I am!”
“Little wretch!” said Angus with feeling. “I suppose you’d have loved it if I’d had to fight that chap?”
“It would have been very exciting.”
“I can’t help thinking,” said Angus, “that the hazards of Corstorphine Hill would have been nothing compared with those of Havana Lane!”
Rowan chuckled. She was pleased with herself, because she had jolted Angus out of brooding over his woes. He was at his best now, and when he snatched her into his arms on her doorstep as she hunted for her latch-key and kissed her violently, she did not resist.
Only when he released her she said: “That was a—a savage sort of kiss, Angus.”
“It’s the way I feel about you,” he said. “When do I see you next?”
“Well, there’s dancing on Friday, of course—”
“Friday seems a devil of a long way off.”
Rowan came to a quick decision, and said what she had been meaning to say for several weeks.
“Why not come in one evening and see us all?” she suggested. “Thursday would be nice. Come to supper. Half-past seven.”
“All right,” he said, ungraciously. Then, over his shoulder as he moved away, he added: “Thanks. Good night.”
“Good night, Angus,” said Rowan, and turned the key and slipped into the house.
Hazel was coming out of the pantry at the back of the hall, a slice of bread and butter in her hand.
“Hullo, Rowan,” she said. “Want anything to eat?”
“Yes, I do. What is there?”
“Precious little,” said Hazel, with her mouth full. “The cake-tins are both empty and I can’t find any biscuits, but there’s a new loaf, and butter and honey.”
“Perhaps Willow knows where the biscuits are—”
“I daresay—if there are any—but Willow’s out,” replied Hazel. “Micky Grant rang her up and asked her to make a fourth to go dancing somewhere—North Berwick, I think.”
“Micky Grant! That’s an old story,” said Rowan, in surprise. “I didn’t know he was in Edinburgh, even!”
Hazel shrugged. “Well, he is, and Willow went off in a state of dreamy excitement,” she said drily. “We might have known he’d turn up again. Lord knows when she’ll be home.”
“I hope Archie wouldn’t mind,” said Rowan, rather uneasily. “I mean, it’s not as if it had been one of Willow’s others. I mean, Micky Grant—”
They looked at one another. There was no need to say any more.
“Well, it’s pretty dull for Willow,” Hazel said at last. “And she does love a bit of fun. She was always the one who went to parties and things, and had all the boy-friends, and now she has to see us doing it.”
“It’s our turn, and we aren’t married,” Rowan pointed out. “Willow chose Archie, and she ought to make do with him.”
“Archie’s away so much, and now that he’s on the longer run there are weeks at a time when he can’t get home—”
“Do you know what Willow needs?” said Rowan, pausing as she spread honey on a lavishly buttered slice of bread. “She ought to have a baby, and a home of her own. That would keep her out of mischief!”
“Perhaps!”
“You wait and see. I’m sure I am right. Were you out this evening?” said Rowan, with a sudden change from the oracular to the frankly curious.
“Yes.” Hazel turned faintly pink.
“When are we going to see this doctor of yours?” Rowan demanded.
“When we see your dancing partner!”
“Well, that will be on Thursday, if you’re in. I’ve asked him to supper.”
“Oh, Rowan! And I’ve asked Adam Ferrier that night, too!”
“Great minds think alike, or there’s a singular lack of ideas between two intelligent young women,” said Rowan. “I think it’s quite a good thing. Look here, why not make a party of it? Fork supper, and ask a few more when we’re about it?”
“If Willow’ll play.” Hazel sounded doubtful.
“Of course she will. She can ask someone too.”
“That’s almost certain to mean Micky Grant, Rowan.”
“Oh!” For a moment Rowan wondered if her plan was a good one. Then she said: “If she’s going to see Micky Grant, it’s better that she should see him here, where we can keep an eye on her.”
“Very well. Will you ask Willow about it in the morning? And I’ll put it to Murray when we are walking up the road,” said Hazel. She yawned. “Heavens, how sleepy I am! I’m off to bed. Good night, Red Rowan.”
“Good night, Witch Hazel,” retorted Rowan. “I’m just coming up myself.”
* * *
The idea of a party did not seem such a good one in the cold light of the following morning, with breakfast rather late and a heavy-eyed yawning Willow letting the bacon burn.
“For goodness sake, keep Murray from making one of his acid comments about Willow’s housekeeping!” muttered Rowan to Hazel as they met at the dining-room door, Rowan with the marmalade jar in her hand. “I want her in a decent temper!”
Hazel nodded, and they went in, to find Murray scowling at the blackened fragments of bacon on his plate.
“Have some marmalade,” said Rowan, setting the jar in front of him and whisking the bacon away.
Murray took a large spoonful in silence, but it was obvious that he was thinking up some really stinging complaint about his uneatable breakfast, so Hazel decided to employ shock tactics.
She glanced at her watch, gave a realistic start of dismay, and announced: “The clock’s ten minutes slow, Murray!”
After that there was no more danger. Murray bolted his toast and marmalade, swallowed his coffee, and in a very short time was out of the house, Hazel at his heels, and Rowan and Willow were left with the untidy remains of breakfast to clear away.
“Did you have a good time?” Rowan asked, as Willow continued to sit staring dreamily into her empty cup.
“Gorgeous!” answered Willow. She looked up, her eyes starry. “I’d forgotten what fun a party could be!” she said. “I had a perfectly marvellous time.”
It seemed to Rowan that she would never have a more favourable opportunity, so she quickly told Willow of her idea and Hazel’s, to have a few people in the next evening.
“Just one of our usual do’s,” she ended. “Supper and dancing, or singing, or anything we like.”
“It would be fun,” Willow said, slowly, picturing herself as hostess to Micky Grant. “But—
well, I’ve been rather extravagant over the housekeeping, Rowan, and I was thinking I’d have to cut down from now on. I don’t see how we could rise to a party.”
“Oh, but we’d all pay for the party. It wouldn’t come out of the housekeeping money,” Rowan assured her. “If that’s all—and we could get Mrs. Baird to come and wash up afterwards,” she added, knowing that this would weigh a lot with Willow, who hated the aftermath of entertaining at home.
“All right, let’s do it!” cried Willow, jumping up with sudden energy. “Mrs. Baird’s here this morning—I went round and saw her yesterday—so we can leave everything to her and have a nice long time to make our arrangements.”
August is a dull month in Edinburgh, when so many people are away, and the Lenoxes’ invitation appeared like a green oasis in the middle of the desert, and was joyfully accepted by all those who were asked.
“Hazel’s lot, that’s Christine Rennie and Adam Ferrier and his cousin, four counting Hazel,” said Willow, calculating on her fingers. “Murray, and John and Pam Drummond and that girl who’s staying with them—Susan Somebody, isn’t it? That makes eight. Your young man and you, Rowan, ten. And Micky and me, twelve.”
“We’ve got enough of everything except coffee cups,” said Rowan. “I don’t quite know what we’re going to do about them. It’s a pity that Holly broke four that time she let the tray fall downstairs. Will you ever forget the yell she gave, and the awful crash?”
The two were standing in the dining-room looking at the table, on which were laid out the dishes for the party supper.
“Well, even if we’re short of cups, there’s lots to eat,” said Willow. “I just hope it will taste as good as it looks. Hazel’s done the decorating beautifully.”
“Stuffed eggs, chicken patties, sausage rolls, cold ham, salad, peach cream, meringues, fruit salad—I could start in on them now,” Rowan said, eyeing the feast hungrily, for the two had only snatched a sandwich and a cup of coffee at lunch, and it was now tea-time.
“Don’t you dare to touch anything!” cried Willow, alarmed. “Or I’ll lock the dining-room door! Rowan, I hope nothing will happen to the good cut-glass bowl. Perhaps we shouldn’t have used it for the trifle? Suppose Mrs. Baird breaks it? I’d never be able to face Mummy!”
Near Neighbours Page 9
