Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Daddy was away all day and it was nicer than having dinner by myself,” explained Freddie. “I had tea with her too. I like Mrs White—and she likes me. She had a little girl called Edna who was just like me—but she died. Wasn’t it dreadfully sad?”

  “Yes. Poor Mrs White!” Somehow I had never thought of Mrs White having a child but it accounted for a good deal that had puzzled me.

  Freddie was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “I think Mummie might have sent Daddy a postcard, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps she forgot,” I suggested.

  “Aunt Sarah!”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Ought I to have told Daddy?”

  “You mean, told him about Mrs White having had a postcard from Vera?”

  “Yes. I wondered about it, but—but I didn’t like to.” The face looking up at me was anxious, the hazel eyes were brimming with tears. I didn’t know what to reply; in fact I was so furious with the whole lot of them that I was speechless.

  “Aunt Sarah, was it horrid of me not to tell Daddy?”

  “No, darling, of course not. I expect by this time Mummie has written to him herself and told him all about it.”

  “I just wondered,” explained Freddie. “I nearly told him—but sometimes when you tell people things it makes a row. I told Mummie about Mrs White’s niece coming to stay the night at Brailsford and it made an awful row—so you see?”

  “Don’t worry about it any more,” I said firmly. “Just forget about it. Would you like to see an owl’s nest?”

  “Oh yes! Are there baby owls in it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was rather hazy about the manners and customs of owls. All I knew was that long ago, when I wasn’t much older than Freddie, grandpapa had taken me to see an owl’s nest in an old ruin on the hill above Craignethan. The nest had been high up in the wall half hidden by ivy.

  “Oh, what fun!” cried Freddie. “I’ll climb up the wall and——”

  “No, we mustn’t go near. It would frighten them.”

  “But I want to see a baby owl!”

  “You wouldn’t like to frighten the owls, would you?”

  “I want to see it! I shall climb up and take it out of the nest and—and stroke it! So there!”

  “Freddie, listen——”

  “I shall take it home and keep it in a cage!”

  “No, Freddie, we mustn’t do that. You see——”

  “I don’t care what you say! I want a baby owl for my very own. Where’s the nest?”

  “I can’t show you the nest unless you promise——”

  “You’ve got to show me!”

  “No.”

  We had stopped on the path and were standing there, looking at each other. Freddie’s face was flushed with rage, her eyes sparkled. “You said you would—you said you’d show me—so you’ve got to!”

  “No, Freddie. It would be miserable if you took it out of its nest.”

  “It wouldn’t! I would be kind to it!”

  “Freddie, listen——”

  “I won’t listen—you’re horrid!” she cried, stamping her foot on the ground.

  I sat down on a boulder and tried to take her hand but she put it behind her back. “You’re horrid!” she repeated furiously. “I want a baby owl and I’m going to get it!”

  By this time I was frightened; she looked so strange. Her face had swollen and her eyes were staring; she was gasping for breath.

  “You said . . . you would show me . . . so you’ve . . . got to!”

  “Freddie, listen!” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder and holding it firmly. “Please listen! I want to tell you something. If you took the little owl away from its nest, you wouldn’t be able to feed it properly.”

  “I would feed it!” she cried, trying to wriggle out of my grasp.

  I held her firmly. “You couldn’t, Freddie.”

  “I would give it bread and milk and—and cabbage leaves and—and——”

  “Then it would get very ill.”

  “It wouldn’t!”

  “Yes, it would, Freddie. Owls don’t eat bread and milk; they eat——”

  “I would buy fish for it!”

  “They eat insects and frogs,” I said firmly. She was listening now. I had managed to hold her attention. “They eat insects and frogs and mice. Owls know the right kind of food to give their babies.”

  “Mice!” exclaimed Freddie in horrified tones.

  “Yes, the owls go hunting and catch mice for their babies.”

  “I couldn’t give it mice!”

  “No, you couldn’t. So it would get very weak and ill. You would see it getting weaker and weaker . . . and one morning when you came downstairs you would find the poor little owl lying dead in the bottom of its cage.”

  She had become quite pale; I was afraid I had overdone it!

  “Dead?” said Freddie in a whisper.

  I nodded gravely. “You understand now, don’t you?”

  For a moment she hesitated; then she burst into tears and threw herself into my arms.

  The onslaught was so unexpected that I went over backwards with my legs in the air and found myself lying in a patch of damp moss with Freddie on the top of me . . . it must have been a funny sight but I didn’t feel like laughing.

  We scrambled to our feet.

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Freddie. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to! Have I hurt you, Aunt Sarah? I was just so sorry——”

  “No, you haven’t hurt me at all,” I assured her.

  “I was just so sorry that I was naughty. I said you were horrid, but I didn’t mean it. At least I did mean it—but you aren’t.”

  “You were angry with me because you didn’t understand.”

  “Yes, I was angry,” said Freddie, mournfully. “Oh dear, your skirt is all muddy.”

  “It will brush off when it’s dry. Don’t worry, darling, it’s over now, isn’t it? Look, here’s my hankie to mop up your tears!”

  She dried her tears and blew her nose and we kissed each other.

  “May I see the owls, please? I’m good now,” said Freddie meekly.

  “We can see the owls’ nest but I can’t promise that we’ll see the owls. They may be out.”

  “Hunting for mice for their babies, of course.”

  “Yes. A baby owl needs a lot of food to make it grow big and strong.”

  We turned and walked across the hill to the old ruin where the owls nested . . . and meantime I was thinking anxiously about Freddie. I couldn’t understand her sudden fit of temper; it had blown up in a moment without any warning—without any reason! There had been a sort of madness in the child.

  Unfortunately the owls were out so we didn’t see them but I showed her the nest high up in the ruined wall, and I showed her the little heap of bones on the ground beneath the nest.

  “Mouses’ bones,” said Freddie, nodding.

  Then we went home to lunch.

  *

  “It was so unexpected,” I said. “She was so good and sensible . . . and then, suddenly, she was like a mad thing. She didn’t look like herself at all!”

  We had had supper and Freddie had gone to bed. Charles and I were talking quietly beside the fire.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Charles thoughtfully. “It’s a wonder she’s so sane. I’ll speak to Mark about it; he knows a great deal about deprived children.”

  “Deprived children?”

  “Freddie doesn’t lack food and clothing, but she’s deprived of a home with love in it to keep her safe and warm. I’ll go over to Timperton now and have a chat with Mark,” added Charles, rising.

  I should have liked to go with him but I couldn’t leave Freddie alone in the house so I settled down to read.

  It was a little after nine when I heard two cars drive up to the door and, a few minutes later, Charles and Mark came in together.

  “Mark has come to talk to you himself,” explained Charles. “He wants to know all about Freddie. He
has some sound ideas. I’ll get the drinks and we can have a comfortable chat.”

  “No drinks for me, thank you,” said Mark. “I’ve got to call at the hospital on my way home.”

  “How good of you to come!” I exclaimed.

  “I’m interested,” he replied. “I’d like to help the child. I expect you know that I’m consultant in a Children’s Home in Edinburgh.”

  “Yes, Debbie told me.”

  “I can’t stay long,” said Mark, sitting down. “It would save time if you were to tell me the whole story—everything you can. Charles said something of the same nature happened when you were staying with your sister.”

  It was obvious that unless I told him “the whole story” his advice would be useless, so I told him everything: some of it wasn’t easy to tell. When I had finished I said, “That’s all, Mark. We can’t do anything, can we?”

  “I think we can do a good deal,” he replied. “The child said she wished she had a home like other girls. That’s the key to the trouble. The feeling of insecurity is one of the chief causes of stress in a child. If you want a child to grow up into a whole person you must give it a safe place to stand. You and Charles must do this for Freddie.”

  “But, Mark, how can we? My sister distrusts me! Freddie wouldn’t be here now if her mother hadn’t gone abroad.”

  “You told me that. All the same you must make Freddie understand that she has a safe place with you and Charles: in your hearts and in your home.”

  “Lottie wouldn’t like it!” I exclaimed.

  “It doesn’t matter about ‘Lottie’,” Mark declared. “It’s the child that matters. The child is suffering from stress and frustration. I’ve seen many cases of the same kind and I know what I’m talking about.”

  “What can we do?”

  “You’ve got her here for a month, haven’t you? A lot can be done in a month. You can lay the foundation; make her understand that she’s important to you. Then when she goes back to school you can keep in touch with her by writing to her regularly and sending her little presents . . . just to show her that you haven’t forgotten her. Charles says Miss Gates is a sensible woman so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go and see Freddie now and then. I gather that her mother doesn’t go and see her very often?”

  “Freddie told me that her mother never comes to see her,” said Charles.

  “That’s very bad,” declared Mark. “Freddie sees the other children go out to lunch with their parents . . . but nobody comes for her! Naturally she feels miserable and neglected. You could go, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course we must go,” said Charles.

  “You mean we should go without telling Lottie?” I asked doubtfully. “That seems wrong, Mark. If we do as you suggest we shall be stealing Freddie’s affections. I really don’t think——”

  “Stealing!” exclaimed Mark. “Giving love to a lonely child isn’t stealing!”

  “Giving love to a lonely child,” I repeated thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” said Mark. “That’s what you must do.”

  Mark rose to go and we went to the door to see him off.

  “Oh, by the way!” he exclaimed. “Here’s another suggestion: if you want a child to play with Freddie you can have Beric. He has had every childish complaint there is, so we needn’t worry about whooping cough.”

  “Oh, good!” I exclaimed. “Yes, it will be lovely for Freddie. Can he come to lunch tomorrow?”

  “Yes, thank you,” replied Mark, smiling. “I’m sure Beric would love to come. He can ride over on his bike—it’s downhill most of the way—and Debbie can fetch him home. Beric is pretty tough for his age but it would be too far for him to ride both ways. They can bring his bike home with them in the car.”

  “What would he like to do in the afternoon?” I asked a little anxiously. I had no experience of boys.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah! Just let them loose together. Beric is ten—and quite sensible—so they won’t come to any harm.”

  Mark got into his car and drove off.

  “Well, you’ve let yourself in for it!” exclaimed Charles. “I hope it won’t be too much for you, Sarah. I’ve promised Bob Loudon to go fishing with him tomorrow so you’ll have to cope with them yourself. He hesitated and then added, “Perhaps we should ring up and put off Beric’s visit. It would be better if I were here to help you.”

  “Oh, I shall manage,” I replied. “It will be nice for Freddie to have a little boy to play with.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Freddie was pleased when she heard we were going to have a visitor.

  “What is he like?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” I replied. It was rather strange that I had never seen Beric. I had been to tea with Debbie quite often but Beric had always been out, either at school or playing with other boys; I had heard a good deal about him, of course.

  “When will he come?” asked Freddie.

  “He’s coming to lunch.”

  “Yes, I know—but when? Will he be here, soon?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. She had been asking questions about Beric all morning and I was tired of answering them.

  “Oh, there’s a boy on a bike!” cried Freddie. “Perhaps that’s him.”

  It was “him.” He came in at the gate, leant his bike against the fence and walked very slowly up the path to the door.

  Debbie had said that Beric was “like Mark.” It was true, in a way. He had dark brown hair, grey eyes, well defined eyebrows and a firm chin, but there the resemblance ended. Mark was a friendly person; Beric was not . . . in fact Beric’s face wore such a dour expression that I felt certain he would rather have had his meal at home. He had come as a companion for Freddie but he never spoke to her once; I tried to break the ice and draw them into conversation but they were both completely dumb so at last I gave it up in despair.

  “How old is she?” asked Beric, after a protracted silence.

  “Freddie is eight and a half,” I replied.

  “Oh, two years younger than me!” he commented, looking at her in distaste. He added, “I’ve got two cousins: Celia is nine and Mary is eight.”

  “It’s nice for you to have cousins,” I suggested.

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t like them. Why has she got a boy’s name?”

  “Her grandfather’s name was Frederick.”

  “Oh, well, if I’d been a girl I’d have been called Henrietta,” admitted Beric grudgingly. “She was Mummie’s grandmother and Daddy’s great-aunt—or something.” He glanced at Freddie again and added, “I’ll call her Froggie.”

  Freddie didn’t speak. She was smiling in a far-away manner as if she were enjoying a secret joke. Usually Freddie had plenty to say but during lunch she never opened her mouth except to put food into it.

  “She’s going to have whooping cough, isn’t she?” said Beric as he accepted a second meringue.

  “I hope not,” I replied. “She hasn’t shown any signs of getting it so far.”

  “Oh, she’s got the germs inside her, I expect. She won’t like having whooping cough; it hurts your chest—and you’re sick.”

  Freddie continued to smile.

  “I like playing with boys,” said Beric. “Harry Loudon has an air-gun. I was there when he broke the windows of a house in the Timperton Road. My daddy said if I did a thing like that he would spank me . . . and he would,” added Beric with feeling.

  After lunch I suggested that they should go out into the garden.

  “Have you got a swing?” asked Beric.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “A garden isn’t much good without a swing. I’ve got a super swing in my garden. You haven’t got any trees for climbing either, have you?”

  “No, we haven’t any trees.”

  “Have we got to stay in the garden all the time?” asked Beric wearily.

  “No, you can go into the Craignethan Woods—or anywhere you like,” I told him. I was so annoyed with them both t
hat I could have shaken them; I didn’t care where they went . . . and Mark had said, “let them loose” so I had no qualms about it.

  They strayed out into the garden and stood on the path, not speaking to each other, not even looking at each other. Beric was staring into the distance; Freddie was scraping a hole in the gravel with the toe of her shoe . . . but I could do no more about it; I was “through with them” (as Minnie would have said).

  I cleared the table and washed up the dishes; then I went to the door and looked out, quite expecting to see them still in the same positions . . . but they had vanished. They weren’t in the garden; they weren’t in the road. I went down to the Craignethan Woods but I couldn’t see them there either.

  I kept on reminding myself that Mark had said “let them loose” but all the same I spent a miserable afternoon, unable to settle down to anything. Where were they? What were they doing? Why had I been such a fool as to let Freddie go off alone with the disagreeable little boy?

  Debbie arrived at four o’clock and said she had come to tea. I was delighted to see her, of course. It was the first time she had been able to come. She was so busy at home that she didn’t get out very often.

  “Mark said he could manage without me,” she explained. “He was afraid the children might be bothering you. I hope Beric behaved nicely at lunch?”

  “Oh yes,” I replied without enthusiasm.

  She gave a sigh of relief. “He wasn’t really very keen to come but I knew it would be all right when he got here. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. They disappeared while I was busy. I couldn’t help it, Debbie.”

  Debbie was unperturbed. “They’ll be back for tea,” she said. “Beric has a clock in his tummy; he’s never late for meals. I do like your sitting-room, Sarah. It’s such a good shape and the piano fits into it so well.”

  “This room was designed to fit Charles’s piano.”

  “Clever,” said Debbie, nodding. “And of course the kitchen was designed to fit you. There’s a lot to be said for building a house to fit your requirements.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right, Sarah? You seem rather tired. I hope the children weren’t too noisy for you.”

  “They weren’t noisy,” I said.

  “Well, what’s the matter?”