Bel Lamington

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Your uncle, Dr. Armstrong, and Louise,” explained Bel. “I met them quite unexpectedly. You see Louise and I were at school together so I knew her at once . . .” and she proceeded to tell Mark all about her meeting with the Armstrongs and about having tea with them and their invitation to visit them for a weekend whenever she could manage it. This was a much safer subject than pictures and, as she had already put her foot in it so stupidly, she dilated upon it as long as she could.

  “Oh yes,” said Mark. “I used to stay with them sometimes in the summer holidays. Uncle Jack is my mother’s brother. As a matter of fact my grandfather Armstrong had an enormous family so I’ve got any amount of uncles and aunts and cousins. I don’t know how many.”

  Bel was singularly devoid of relations so she could not understand Mark’s attitude of indifference. “Don’t you know them?” she asked incredulously.

  “I know some of them. There’s Aunt Margaret—she’s married and has a huge family—and there’s Uncle Jack and Louise—and there’s Uncle Henry. He’s quite a decent sort of uncle. I go and see him sometimes. He’s a bachelor with lots of money. Sometimes he remembers my birthday and sometimes not. If he happens to remember he weighs in with a cheque. I hope he’ll remember it this year,” added Mark with a sigh.

  “Who else?” asked Bel.

  “There’s Harriet Fane.”

  “You mean the actress?”

  “Yes, she’s a sort of cousin. Her father and my mother were first cousins. Of course she’s not as young as she was—but she can act. She’s in that play, ‘Where the Gentian Blooms’—we might go and see it sometime. Harriet Fane’s real name is Armstrong but her parents blew up when she went on the stage so she called herself Fane. She has several sisters; one of them is married to a farmer in Scotland. I went and stayed with them once. They were very decent to me but it was frightfully dull—miles from anywhere—not my idea of a holiday.”

  “What’s your idea of a holiday?” asked Bel, smiling.

  “France or Italy—somewhere warm and cheerful,” Mark replied. “As a matter of fact Edward Yates asked me to go to Florence. He’s got a small flat in an old palace and he said he could put me up—but of course I can’t. It takes money to go abroad and I haven’t a bean. Well, never mind that. What about supper? Let’s go out and have a meal.”

  “We could have it here.”

  “No, let’s go out.” He rose and added, “I shall have to change of course. I can’t go out like this.”

  Bel agreed that he couldn’t. He was wearing the clothes which he kept for scrambling about the roofs and he looked dirty and disreputable.

  “I’ll change,” he said. “I’ll come down the stairs and fetch you. There’s no need for glad rags—I’m not proposing to take you to the Savoy—we’ll go to a little place in Soho where they give you very decent food. You’ll like it.”

  “Yes,” said Bel. “I’m sure I shall. It will be fun.”

  “I’ll fetch you,” Mark repeated. “It will take me about half-an-hour to clean myself up. Be ready, won’t you?” He swung himself on to the stone-coping and disappeared.

  Bel changed and was ready at the appointed time and they went out together. It was a delightful evening—Bel enjoyed it even more than she had expected.

  *

  2

  On Sunday morning Bel went to church at eight o’clock. There was a church only ten minutes’ walk from Mellington Street; she often went there. It was somewhat dark and not very well attended but there was something about it which appealed to Bel, and she liked the old white-haired vicar. She walked home slowly after the service; Sunday was a peaceful day to Bel, it was the only day upon which there was no need to hurry.

  As she climbed the stairs she became aware of a thumping noise—a loud banging sort of noise—and when she got to the landing she saw that it was Mark knocking on the door of her flat.

  “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

  He turned and looked at her. “Bel! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been knocking on your door for ten minutes. I thought you were asleep.”

  “I’ve been to church.”

  “To church!” echoed Mark in amazement. “What a funny girl you are! Here, give me the key, I’ll open the door for you.”

  He opened the door and followed her into the flat.

  “Look here, Bel,” he said. “I’ve got a car. Peter said I could have his car for the day. Where shall we go? Where would you like to go?”

  “You mean today?” asked Bel. She felt slightly dazed for she was not a “sudden” person. She had envisaged a quiet day doing various odd jobs for which she had no time during the week.

  “Yes, of course, today,” replied Mark. “We’ve only got the car for today. I thought we’d go to Brighton; you’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s a cheerful sort of spot. Have you got anything to make sandwiches? We could take a flask of coffee and have lunch on the beach—or on the pier if you’d rather. Sorry I can’t run to a proper meal in a restaurant but funds are a bit low at the moment.”

  By this time Bel had managed to readjust herself. She said, “Yes, of course. We can easily take sandwiches—but why Brighton? It will be awfully crowded, won’t it? Wouldn’t it be nicer to go to a quiet place in the country?”

  “Brighton will be more fun,” Mark declared. “Hurry up, Bel, we haven’t much time.”

  Bel was taking off her gloves. She said, “I can’t be ready till eleven. I can’t, really. I haven’t had breakfast—or anything.”

  “All right,” said Mark smiling. “Don’t look so worried. Eleven will do splendidly. Just as well, perhaps. It’ll give me time to have a look at the car. It isn’t a posh car,” he added. “But it goes like smoke. That’s the main thing.”

  It was the first really fine Sunday of the year so the Brighton Road was uncomfortably crowded—cars were nose to tail all the way—and presently Mark grew tired of the endless procession and suggested they should turn into a side road where they could put on some speed. They turned at a sign-post which said lesston haines, climbed a steep hill and arrived on the edge of the Downs. Mark turned off the engine and they sat for a few minutes looking about.

  “You were right,” said Mark. “This is much nicer than Brighton.”

  It really was lovely; quiet and peaceful. There was a little breeze ruffling through the grass, a fresh breeze, clean and invigorating. The sun was shining and a lark was singing high up in the blue sky. They decided to leave the car and take their lunch and walk up the hill to a little wood which they could see in the distance.

  Bel was a country lover; she delighted in open spaces and loved walking over the hills. Mark was not particularly fond of this form of entertainment but today he enjoyed it. Perhaps it was partly because he was thoroughly fed-up with the noise and the petrol-fumes of the main road to Brighton and the frustration of driving an unknown and somewhat temperamental old car through the traffic; perhaps it was partly because he was pleased with the society of his companion. Who knows?

  They walked up the hill together and presently arrived at the wood. The wood consisted of a few old oak-trees gnarled and twisted by the wind. They were beginning to bud and it was fascinating to see the tiny fresh green leaves appearing upon the ancient twigs. Up here the wind was chilly so Bell and Mark were glad to find shelter in a little quarry in which to sit and have their meal.

  “It’s nice to get away from town,” said Mark thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t like to live in the country—it would be deadly dull—but this is delightful. How I wish I had a car!”

  “The country isn’t really dull,” Bel told him. “I lived in the country all my life until I came to London. All sorts of things happen. You know all your neighbours so you’re never lonely.”

  “Lonely!” exclaimed Mark in surprise. “There’s no chance of being lonely in town. There are far too many people knocking about. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know so many people; there would be more time for work. It’s simply sickening wh
en you’re painting to have people battering at your door.”

  “You needn’t open your door.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But then it might be somebody I wanted to see. It might be you, for instance.”

  “I don’t batter at your door,” said Bel, smiling.

  When they had finished lunch they walked on over the hill and saw the sea in the distance; it was very blue today and there were little white waves like frills all round the rocks. Far off there were several ships steaming up the channel.

  “I wonder where they’ve come from,” Bel said.

  “What? Oh, the ships?”

  “Ships are terribly interesting. Ships are really my job.”

  “I thought you just typed letters in an office.”

  “Mostly about ships and their cargoes,” explained Bel. “Sometimes I have to go down to Copping Wharf and I watch the ships come in. They come from Brazil and the Argentine—all sorts of places. It’s the nicest part of my work.”

  “I wonder,” said Mark thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could go down to Copping Wharf one day. It might give me an idea for a picture. I suppose anyone can go.”

  Bel did not think that “anyone” would be allowed in, but she promised to ask Mr. Nelson, who was the manager of Copping Wharf, whether Mark might come and make some sketches.

  Chapter Six

  It was nearly five o’clock when Bel and Mark got back to the car so they decided to leave the car where it was and walk on to Lesston Haines and have tea at the Inn. Lesston Haines was a very small village; it consisted of a few cottages with flowers in their gardens and an Inn set back from the road with a drive in front and a bench at the door. The Inn had been newly painted and was very clean and neat; there were tables laid with red-and-white check tea cloths and red-and-white cups and saucers. Mark and Bel found a table near the window and ordered tea from an elderly woman in a clean white apron.

  “Quite a decent little place,” said Mark looking round.

  Bel agreed.

  There was nobody else in the room and she could not help wondering how the proprietors managed to make enough money to live on in such an out-of-the-way place. She was too shy to ask the woman but Mark was not shy and the woman seemed pleasant and friendly. In answer to Mark’s questions she told them that she was Mrs. Poulson and that she and her husband had bought the Inn recently and had it all done up. It certainly was very isolated, agreed Mrs. Poulson, but quite a number of people came to lunch or tea on a Sunday and they were hoping more would come during the summer months. Sometimes people stayed the night—but not often. There was a bar round at the side of the house and a skittle-alley. When asked by Mark whether it was not very dull and lonely Mrs. Poulson sighed and admitted that it was.

  Bel and Mark were hungry after their walk and enjoyed the buns and jam and the gingerbread which was homemade and really excellent.

  After tea Mark went off to get the car and Bel waited for him sitting by the window. She waited for a long time and at last she went out and gazed down the road. It was only five minutes’ walk to where they had left the car so she could not understand why he was taking so long. She had just made up her mind to go and see what had happened when she saw Mark walking towards her up the road.

  “What’s happened?” she exclaimed.

  “I can’t get the blinking thing to start.”

  “You can’t get it to start?”

  “No. I don’t know what on earth is the matter with it.”

  “Mark!”

  “Nuisance, isn’t it? Gosh I’m hot,” he added. “I’ve been cranking it for about half-an-hour.” He threw himself down on the bench at the door and wiped his forehead.

  “What are we to do!” cried Bel in consternation.

  “I shall have to get hold of a mechanic,” said Mark wearily. “There must be a garage somewhere about.”

  “We’ll ask Mrs. Poulson,” said Bel.

  *

  2

  It soon became evident that Lesston Haines was one of the worst places in England to get marooned. There was no telephone in the village and the nearest garage was five miles away. Mrs. Poulson was doubtful whether it would be open on a Sunday—it might, of course, but then again it might not. Mr. Poulson was consulted and gave it as his considered opinion that George Stock’s garage would be shut. George Stock, being a Methodist, was very particular about Sundays.

  “But perhaps he would come,” suggested Mark. “If I could borrow a bicycle I could——”

  “He wouldn’t come,” declared Mr. Poulson. “I told you he’s very particular about Sundays. He doesn’t hold with all this rushing about in cars. You’d get short shrift from old George Stock if you was to knock him up on a Sunday.”

  “What are we to do!” cried Bel.

  “I’ll come and have a look at the car myself,” suggested Mr. Poulson.

  Mark and Mr. Poulson went off down the road together and Bel was left once more to her own devices. She went into the lounge and sat down. Somehow she had little faith in Mr. Poulson; she did not like him. She did not like his ferrety face and his large sticking-out ears. Mrs. Poulson was nice, but there was something rather horrid about Mr. Poulson. Bel felt cold and shivery and miserable. The inn, which had seemed so pleasant, was pleasant no longer. Bel’s one hope was to get away from it—but how? That was the question.

  The two men were away for a long time—or so it seemed to Bel—but at last when she had begun to get quite desperate they returned.

  “It’s no good,” said Mark, coming into the lounge where Bel was sitting. “Poulson knows quite a lot about cars and he says it’s hopeless. The battery is as flat as a pancake, there must be a short in one of the leads.”

  This verdict was quite unintelligible to Bel. She said, “Mark, are you sure? Isn’t there anyone in the village who knows about cars? Couldn’t you try——”

  “It’s frightfully cold and it’s beginning to rain.”

  This was true, as Bel could see for herself. The wind had risen and was driving the rain against the windows. By this time it was beginning to get dark, which did not help matters.

  “It’s hopeless—honestly,” declared Mark. “I’m sorry, Bel, but it’s not my fault, you know.”

  “But what are we to do!”

  “We’ll have to stay here for the night.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Mr. Poulson who had followed Mark into the room. “We’ll give you a nice little supper and you can stay the night. I’ll send the boy over to George Stock first thing in the morning.”

  “Stay the night!” cried Bel. “Oh no, we can’t do that!”

  “There’s nothing else for it,” said Mark.

  “I can’t!” cried Bel. “I’ve got to be at the office at nine tomorrow morning! Besides——”

  “It’s all right,” Mark told her. “No need to panic. We’ll ring up the office in the morning and explain what’s happened.”

  “Mark, I can’t! I must get home!”

  “How can you?”

  “I could walk, couldn’t I? There must be a station somewhere. I could get a train. Or perhaps I could walk down to the main road and get a bus. I must get home somehow!” cried Bel in desperation. “Surely there’s some way——”

  “Bel, darling, don’t panic,” said Mark in reasoning tones. “Anyone would think something frightful had happened if they could see your face. Nothing frightful has happened. It will be rather fun to stay here for the night. The Poulsons can give us two nice rooms——”

  “That we can,” agreed Mr. Poulson rubbing his hands. “Two nice rooms there is. Mrs. Poulson will get them ready in a minute—and the beds aired. We’ll light the fire and give you a nice little supper.”

  “No, I can’t,” declared Bel. “No, really. I must go home.”

  “You can’t go home,” said Mark somewhat impatiently. “It would mean walking for hours in the dark. Look at the rain! It’s pouring now. Do be sensible, Bel.”

  Bel tried to be sensible
but she was frightened. She did not want to spend the night at Lesston Haines. She wanted to go home. There was something quite unreasoning about her desire to go home.

  It was at this moment that Mrs. Poulson appeared and said doubtfully, “There’s Mr. Darley, of course.”

  “Mr. Darley!” exclaimed Bel, clutching at a straw. “Who is Mr. Darley?”

  “He’s just come in for a bit of supper,” Mrs. Poulson replied.

  “That’s no good,” declared Mr. Poulson angrily. “You could never send the young lady with Mr. Darley. Where’s your wits, Annie?”

  “I just thought——”

  “You go and get the rooms ready and don’t talk nonsense.”

  “Has Mr. Darley got a car?” asked Bel.

  Mrs. Poulson nodded.

  “Bel, don’t be silly!” exclaimed Mark. “Just make up your mind to stay here for the night.”

  “That’s right,” put in Mr. Poulson.

  “You can’t go off in a car with a strange man,” added Mark.

  “He wouldn’t take you,” said Mr. Poulson.

  “I could ask him,” said Bel.

  “Ask him!” echoed Mark in dismay. “You can’t possibly go off by yourself with a stranger. I can’t come with you because I shall have to stay here and see about the car. It’s Peter’s car and I can’t just abandon it.”

  “No, of course not,” agreed Bel. “You must stay here and I’ll go home—if that man will take me.”

  “Do be sensible!” Mark exclaimed. “Bel, listen. It will be fun to stay here and have supper together. It will, really.”

  “I’d rather—go home,” said Bel with a little catch in her breath.

  *

  3

  By this time Bel was so desperate that she found it quite easy to walk into the dining-room and accost a total stranger. Mr. Darley was the only person in the room; he was sitting at a table in the corner having his supper—as Mrs. Poulson had said. He was quite young and good-looking, with dark hair and brown eyes; he was dressed in a lounge suit and a white shirt with a green tie. His socks also were green. His shoes were brown. Bel noticed these details as she approached him.