“I wish they would come back.”
“You needn’t worry; Beric is used to straying about all over the place. Mark likes him to be independent. Sometimes I think he’s a bit too independent; I should like him to be chivalrous.”
“Chivalrous?”
“Oh, Mark laughs at me about it,” admitted Debbie. “Mark says chivalry is out of date. He says boys must learn to be tough. Beric goes about a good deal with the Loudon boys; they’re older, of course, but they don’t seem to mind Beric tagging after them. Have you seen Harry and Bill? They’re terribly wild and rough.”
If Debbie were trying to relieve my anxiety she was failing lamentably.
“You needn’t worry,” repeated Debbie, “Beric is never late for meals; they’ll be back quite soon now.”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the door burst open and they rushed into the room.
“We saw the train!” cried Freddie excitedly.
“It was the express!” cried Beric. “It was going to London.”
“We stood on the bridge!”
“It was going at a terrific speed!”
“It was going so fast that the bridge shook! I held on with both hands.”
“Froggie liked it. She wanted to wait for another, but I knew we’d be late for tea.”
“I said it didn’t matter, but Beric was hungry so——”
“There were fifteen coaches!”
“No, there weren’t!”
“Yes, there were. I counted them!”
“Can we go again tomorrow?”
“Where did you go?” asked Debbie in placid tones. Obviously she was used to this sort of thing.
“Ryddelton Station, of course,” replied her son. He added grandly, “I thought it would amuse Froggie—and it did.”
“Of course it did! I loved it,” said Freddie. “I want to go again tomorrow.”
“Do you mean you’ve been all the way to Ryddelton Station?” I asked incredulously.
“It was quite easy,” said Freddie, in soothing tones. “I stood on the little step on the back of his bike. We rushed down the hill like an aeroplane.”
“You stood on the little step!”
“It wasn’t a bit dangerous, Mrs Reede,” said Beric earnestly. “She held on round my neck. She’s quite sporting, you know. I wouldn’t have taken Celia or Mary, of course.”
“We had to walk back up the hill,” said Freddie.
“Yes, it was a bit of a grind,” agreed Beric. “I’m hot,” he added, taking a filthy handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow.
“Oh, Beric! Your handkerchief!” cried Debbie in distress. “I told you to take a clean one out of the drawer before you came out to lunch.”
“I did, Mummie. It was clean—really it was—but you see Froggie got her hands a bit dirty on the bridge so I wiped them for her. That’s why——”
“Let me see your hands.”
Two small hands, as black as coal, were displayed for inspection. “It’s the soot,” explained their owner. “I mean the smoke from all the engines makes the bridge dirty.”
“Go and wash,” said Debbie. “Wash them thoroughly with soap; don’t just hold them under the tap and clean them on the towel. Both of you,” she added, with her sweet smile.
They ran off together.
I was giggling feebly and quite unable to speak.
“It’s nice that they’ve made friends,” said Debbie complacently. “Beric usually plays with boys—he has no use for Celia’s girls—and he’s apt to be a bit rough. It’s good for him to have a girl friend. He wiped her hands for her. Why are you laughing, Sarah?”
“Partly from relief . . . at seeing them return alive,” I gasped.
“He wiped her hands for her,” repeated Debbie with immense satisfaction.
*
After that somewhat surprising afternoon it was impossible to keep Beric and Freddie apart. Beric came over on his bike in the morning and was returned to his parents by Charles . . . or else, if Mark happened to be coming to Ryddelton to see a patient, he took Freddie home with him to spend the day and Charles and I went over to Timperton and had tea with Debbie and brought Freddie back. These elaborate arrangements were made by telephone and necessitated frequent conversations.
For instance: one morning the telephone bell rang. Freddie rushed to the instrument, lifted the receiver and said, “Ryddelton double six one.” (Charles had instructed her in the correct manner of answering a call.)
Then she said, “Yes, it’s me . . . Oh, Beric, what a pity! . . . Well, shall I come over to you? . . . Yes, perhaps your daddy could fetch me . . . Oh, I see . . . Well, if Uncle Charles brings me over . . .”
“Uncle Charles absolutely refuses,” interrupted “Uncle Charles,” looking up from his newspaper. “Uncle Charles is too lazy to get out the car and take you to Timperton.”
“Yes, that will be all right,” said Freddie, giggling. “What did you say, Beric? . . . Yes, but he will . . . Yes, I know, but I can always tell by the way he says things . . . Yes, I’ll be over quite soon . . . Yes, right you are, Beric! . . . Perhaps your daddy could bring me home when he goes to the hospital, could he? . . . Oh, that would be even better! . . . Yes, I’ll tell Aunt Sarah. G’bye for now, Beric.”
She put down the receiver and smiled at me. “Beric’s mummie is coming over to tea, so she’ll bring us both and take Beric home afterwards. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
“Yes, it will be lovely,” I said. I noticed that “Uncle Charles” had gone out to get the car to take Freddie to Timperton.
When the days of quarantine had passed, and no cough had developed, I took the two to tea at Craignethan House; grandmama had said she wanted to see Freddie and she was quite pleased to see Beric as well. Both children behaved in a civilised manner and won the admiration of their host and hostess. It was decided that Freddie was like me and Beric resembled his father.
“Are you going to be a doctor?” asked grandpapa.
“No, I’m going to be a sailor,” replied Beric, without hesitation. “My grandfather is an admiral, you know. He fought in the First War and my daddy fought in the Second War; p’raps there’ll be another war when I’m grown-up.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed grandpapa devoutly.
“You might get wounded,” Freddie pointed out, as she accepted a second piece of chocolate cake and took a large bite of it.
“My daddy didn’t get wounded,” said Beric proudly.
Grandmama changed the subject by asking if Aunt Sarah had taken them to the old ruin to see the owls’ nest.
“She took me,” replied Freddie. “But the owls were out so we didn’t see them; it was a pity.”
“I’ll take you,” said grandpapa. “Dusk is the best time to go; owls can’t see very well in the day-time.”
The offer was accepted with enthusiasm and the expedition set off after tea. This time all was well; the children were fortunate enough to see an owl returning from a hunting foray with a live mouse.
So much for our visit to Craignethan. Another day we took the two to Edinburgh, where we had lunch and visited the Castle, and another day we went to Cairnbeck Bay beyond Dumfries, where there was a wood with tangled undergrowth and a sandy beach sheltered by a headland of rocks. Unfortunately no sooner had we got there than a mist began to drift inland from the sea and it became so dank and cold that we were forced to get into the car and come home.
“Never mind,” said Charles, in cheerful tones. “We’ll remember that little bay; it will be a good place for a picnic in the summer.”
“It’ll be super,” declared Beric. “Froggie and I can paddle, can’t we?”
“Will I be here in the summer holidays?” inquired Freddie, in a very small voice.
“I hope so,” replied Charles. “We love having you, Freddie.”
That was the last day. We were leaving early next morning to take Freddie back to Gates Head so I packed her suitcase before supper. I
was a little surprised when she said nothing about leaving us. Indeed she seemed wonderfully cheerful.
I had made her favourite dish for supper, baked fish with cheese sauce. She was in the middle of eating it when she put down her fork and began to cry. She didn’t burst into tears in a natural way. Slow tears oozed out of her eyes and slow unchildlike sobs shook her small body like an ague.
It was so dreadful and so unexpected that I was helpless.
Charles rose and picked her up in his arms and carried her into his book-room.
I left them alone; I was too upset to be any use and I knew Charles would be able to comfort Freddie.
*
Much later, when Freddie was in bed and asleep, Charles and I had a talk about her.
“You see now, don’t you, Sarah?” he said. “We’ve simply got to take Mark’s advice—no matter whether Lottie likes it or not. We must stand by that child and try to give her a feeling of security. We’ll write to her regularly and send her little presents and we’ll have a chat with Miss Gates.”
“We can’t say very much to Miss Gates about it.”
“Not very much,” agreed Charles. “We can say we’ve enjoyed having ‘Frederica’ and we should like to come and visit her sometimes and take her out for the day—when her mother is too busy. Miss Gates can’t object to that. We can butter her up a bit, you know. She isn’t the sort of woman who likes it laid on thick, but just a little of the best butter would go down well. For instance, we can say ‘Frederica’ has delightful manners and seems well-advanced for her age . . . and that would be absolutely true,” added Charles emphatically.
“You can do the bewitching,” I told him.
“Yes, leave it to me,” said Charles.
We were going to bed when the telephone bell rang. It was Clive to say that the term at Gates Head began tomorrow; he had just discovered this interesting fact in his engagement diary. He was sorry to give us such short notice but would it be possible for us to take Frederica to Harrogate and deliver her to Miss Gates?
Charles, who was taking the call, replied that the matter was under control.
“Oh, thank you!” said Clive. “It’s very good of you. I hope she hasn’t been a nuisance.”
“Not at all,” said Charles.
I nudged Charles and whispered, “Ask him about Lottie.”
“Is Lottie home yet?” inquired Charles obediently.
“No, she’s cruising with some friends in the Greek Archipelago, but she’s coming home next week. Brailsford will be all ready by that time so she won’t have any bother.”
“Oh, good!” said Charles. “It would be a pity if Lottie had any bother, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter Nineteen
The house seemed very quiet without Freddie; it was a day or two before we adjusted ourselves and resumed our usual activities, however we felt a good deal happier about the child. We had had a chat with Miss Gates. She had congratulated us on “the improvement in Frederica”—“the Scotch air is so healthy,” she said—and, when we explained that we should like to visit our niece occasionally, she agreed at once and promised to let us know. Both Charles and I formed the impression that Miss Gates liked to get rid of all “her children” on the stated Sunday holidays and mid-term weekends—and who can blame her? We had made it quite clear that we didn’t want to interfere with any arrangements made by Frederica’s parents and Miss Gates had understood. I had a feeling that Miss Gates understood a great deal more than was said.
Charles and I settled down by ourselves; he played his piano and filled the little house with gorgeous music; we worked at the translation of “Heinrich” which had been shelved during Freddie’s visit, and we went out for spins in the car. I suggested that we should visit the Brig—we had been invited to “drop in for tea” any day we liked—but Charles replied that if I wanted to “drop in for tea” with Mr Noah I must hire a helicopter for the purpose.
“A helicopter is the only way to visit Ararat,” said Charles firmly.
“He asked us,” I pointed out. “It seems rather unkind not to go.”
“His road is extremely unkind,” replied Charles.
*
After that several years passed without anything of importance to record. We kept in touch with Freddie, of course, writing to her regularly and going to see her at Gates Head when Miss Gates rang up and suggested we should come. We had asked Lottie frequently if we might have her to stay for part of her holidays but the invitations had been refused—or ignored. We didn’t know whether or not Lottie was aware of our visits to her daughter—and we didn’t greatly care. We only knew that Freddie enjoyed seeing us. The child was “growing up.” She was clever at lessons—and her letters were becoming longer and more interesting. She was twelve now, getting on for thirteen, and was leaving Gates Head at the end of the summer term and going to St Elizabeth’s—a school near Larchester where Lottie and I had both been educated. In some ways I was sorry about this, it would be much farther for us to go and see her, but as it was only a few miles from Brailsford perhaps Lottie would go more often . . . and in any case it was obvious that she had outgrown Gates Head. There would be more scope for her at St Elizabeth’s and many more interests.
Charles and I had finished the translation of “Heinrich” and Mr Maxton was so pleased with it that he had given us more work to do—and was paying us more which was good. Some of the books he had sent us were a little dull, in our opinion, but we did our best with them. We were now at work upon a historical novel which was much more amusing.
May was unseasonably cold and wet that year, but in June there was a sudden improvement in the weather and Charles suggested a long walk over the hills. Our favourite walk was up the steep path at the side of Craignethan Burn, over Grey Ghyll and home by the old Drove Road.
“Come on, Sarah! ‘My legs want to run and jump’,” declared Charles, smiling.
I should have liked to go with him but I hadn’t seen grandmama for several days so I made up a packet of sandwiches and let him go alone. He turned at the gate and waved cheerfully and set off at a spanking pace.
I walked down to Craignethan House in the afternoon. The day was perfect: the sunshine was warm and golden; the rhododendrons were a blaze of colour; the wild hyacinths lay like pools of still, blue water beneath the bright green leaves of the trees. There were two cuckoos in the woods calling to each other. As I walked on, slowly and quietly, one of them flew across the path in front of me and vanished into a thicket of elder bushes.
Grandmama had been better lately; I found her in the garden snipping off the faded heads of the violas and putting them into her basket. She waved when she saw me and came to meet me across the lawn.
“I hope you aren’t doing too much,” I said.
“No, it’s easy work,” she replied. “If you snip off their heads they come on so much better . . . and Dell hasn’t time. You’ve come to tea, I hope?”
I said I had, and we went into the house together.
Grandpapa had gone to a Red Cross meeting; he was a member of various committees in Ryddelton; so grandmama and I had a good chat.
“Have you heard from Freddie lately?” asked grandmama.
“Yes. She writes to us once a fortnight and tells us what she is doing. She writes a wonderfully good letter.”
“You should ask her to stay with you again.”
“We’ve asked her often, but Lottie won’t let her come. Lottie says we spoil Freddie.”
“What nonsense! It’s good for the child to have a little fun. She’s a dear child, so friendly and natural. Why doesn’t Lottie take more interest in her?”
“I don’t know,” I said unhappily.
“Lottie is very neglectful,” declared grandmama. “She never goes to see Freddie at school; sometimes Freddie is the only child at Gates Head who hasn’t gone out to lunch with her parents. Sometimes Lottie says she is coming and doesn’t turn up! I call that unpardonable.”
“Yes, it’s unpardo
nable,” I agreed.
“Poor Freddie has a very dull time in the holidays,” continued grandmama. “Lottie is a gadabout and Clive is immersed in his business affairs so neither of them has time for the child.”
“Did Freddie tell you all that?”
“Not in so many words,” grandmama replied. “One morning when you were picking vegetables, Freddie and I had a little chat. I asked her a few questions and it all came out in bits. I was quite horrified. We really ought to do something about it, Sarah.”
Grandmama was so worried that I told her of our talk with Mark, and what he had advised.
She nodded and said, “Mark is clever. You and Charles must do what you can for the child.”
We talked for a little longer; then I went to pick some vegetables and walked home.
Charles had come home before me; he was in his book-room, writing, so I didn’t disturb him but set to work and made a vegetable pie for supper. It was his favourite dish and was delicious when made with fresh peas and young carrots from Craignethan garden.
Presently I went to tell him supper was ready.
“Supper?” asked Charles, looking up in a dazed sort of way, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying.
“Yes, it’s a vegetable pie,” I told him, “Just come when you’re ready.”
“A vegetable pie?”
“Yes. I got the vegetables when I went to see Grandmama this afternoon. You must have had a lovely walk, Charles?”
He made no reply.
I waited for half an hour; then, as he didn’t come, I had my own supper and put the rest of the pie into a cool oven and went into the garden. It was a lovely evening, warm and bright, so I took a little fork and did some weeding. At half past nine I went in and looked at my pie—it was all dried up by this time. I was just wondering what to do when I heard Charles dash upstairs and, a few moments later, he came into the kitchen.
“Sarah, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea of the time until suddenly I looked at the clock. I couldn’t believe my eyes!”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “I saw you were busy so I had my supper.”
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 15
