Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  There was nobody in the dining-room when she went down to breakfast, so she rang the bell and sat down and looked out of the window. It was nice to see Cairn again; the mist had vanished and the sun was struggling through the pale-grey clouds. She saw the boats leaving the harbour—there were five of them—and she recognised the Kittiwake by its big brown sails. She was still watching the boats when Annie came in with her porridge and inquired whether she would rather have a kipper or a boiled egg.

  “A boiled egg, please,” replied Frances promptly—she was not very fond of kippers.

  “The new ladies are not in yet,” said Annie.

  “Perhaps they would like their breakfast in bed,” suggested Frances. “They were very tired last night—”

  Annie laughed. “But they’re not in their beds,” she declared. “They’ve been out most of the night. Did you not hear the soldiers, Miss Field?”

  “The soldiers?” Frances exclaimed.

  “The Green Buzzards,” said Annie, nodding. “That’s what the regiment’s called. They’ve got a wee green toorie in their caps. Och, they’re fine-looking fellows and no mistake.”

  “Were there many of them?” asked Frances, who had no idea of the size of a battalion of infantry.

  “Thousands of them,” replied Annie, who was given to wild exaggeration in moments of excitement. “Thousands and thousands. They had a band, too, but it wasn’t playing. You should have been out like the rest of us, Miss Field, and then you’d have seen them yourself. There was scarcely a person in their beds—the whole of Cairn was in the street, and that’s a fact. It might have been four in the afternoon, let alone four in the morning. They marched right through the street and away out to their camp, and their lorries with them—thousands of them there were. You’ll take a kipper, then?”

  “No, a boiled egg,” replied Frances. “I wish I had known they were coming.”

  “Nobody knew,” said Annie. “The Germans might have bombed the road. . . . I’ll get your kipper in a moment.”

  “A boiled egg,” repeated Francis firmly.

  “Will they get time off?” asked Annie, hesitating and looking down at Frances anxiously. “Will they be allowed into Cairn?”

  “I should think they would be,” replied Frances, smiling with amusement.

  “They must get off sometimes . . .” nodded Annie as she hastened away.

  Frances was still eating her porridge when the door opened and Tommy Widgery came in. She looked pale and tired, but her eyes were more sparkling than ever. “They’ve come!” she exclaimed. “Did you hear them? We were over at the camp. It was fun. . . . Elise and Tillie are coming. I didn’t wait, because Midge was so busy. He’s the adjutant, you see. May I come and have breakfast with you, or would you hate it?”

  “I’d like it,” Frances declared.

  Tommy sat down and sighed and ran her fingers through her thick hair—it was a gesture which Frances was beginning to know. “Don’t marry a soldier,” she said a little sadly, “or, if you have to marry a soldier, don’t let yourself get too fond of him. . . . Of course, sailors are worse . . . and, of course, in war every one is in the same boat. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen more of Midge since the war started . . . he was training recruits for a bit. I must get a house . . .”

  As usual Tommy had packed a deal of meaning into a very small space. Frances thought: She packs her sentences in the same way as she packs her suitcase when she is starting off, like Mrs. Bagnet, to meet her husband at the other side of the world. She fills her shoes with bottles and rolls up her stockings into tight balls and pushes them into the corners. . . .

  “I must get a house,” repeated Tommy in desperate tones.

  “I thought you had heard of one,” said Frances.

  “We’ve heard of two,” replied Tommy. “There are two bungalows on the hill. They belong to the grocer and the butcher. They let them to people who come to Cairn in the summer.”

  “What are they like?”

  “I’m going to see them this morning. Tillie must have one, of course, because of the children, and we’ve got to offer the other to the Colonel’s wife. If she doesn’t want it, Elise and I will toss.”

  It seemed a curious way of taking a house, and Frances said so a trifle diffidently. “Perhaps neither of them will be suitable,” she added.

  “Oh, suitable!” exclaimed Tommy. “Anything would be suitable as far as that goes . . . I’d put up a tent . . .”

  “Couldn’t you stay on here?” asked Frances in surprise.

  “Yes,” said Tommy. “Yes, it may come to that . . .”

  When they had finished breakfast Frances followed Tommy to the door and watched her walking up the street. Her small, slight figure was full of courage and determination, her step was light, her head was high, her short skirt swung like a kilt from the hips. We owe a good deal to people like that, thought Frances, with a surge of admiration and affection for her new friend. We think of the men who spend themselves in the service of the Empire, but who thinks of their women?

  Frances was so stirred by all that was happening that she decided to go for a long walk, and soon she was wending her way along the shore in a southerly direction, the opposite direction from that which she had taken before. She left the harbour and the fishermen’s cottages behind her, and was suddenly out of sight of all signs of human life. There were no straggling cottages at Cairn; they were all built closely together, and around them was wild and rocky land. Before her was the wide sweep of Cairn Bay; it was full of water this morning, grey tumbled water, and all that was left to walk on was a strip of white sand and shingle between the sea and the woods. At first Frances tried to walk along by the edge of the sea, leaping back when a wave broke and rushed up to her feet, but after a few minutes she decided that it was too soft—her legs were already aching from the effort of ploughing through the sand—so she went up over the seaweed and the shingle and found a little path which twisted along between the trees at the edge of the wood. They were all fir trees here, she noticed, dwarfed and distorted by storms, and their roots were like fingers clutching the sandy soil. It was easier walking here, and she strode along swinging her arms and humming cheerfully to herself. Her trousers felt much more comfortable today; they gave her a feeling of absolute freedom. Presently she came to the other side of the bay and found herself upon a little headland which jutted out into the sea; and here, to her surprise, Frances found a house. She had been thinking about houses all the morning; thinking of Tommy and wondering how to help her, so the moment she saw the house she decided that this was the very house for Tommy.

  Frances went up to the little house, noticing as she went that the place looked deserted and somewhat unkempt. There had been a little garden, but it was overgrown with weeds. The fence was down, and heather had crept in and invaded it. Frances went up the path and peered in through the dirty windows and saw that the house was empty. It was very small, but it was “a house” in the sense that it had walls and a roof. Whether or not Tommy would like the place Frances did not know . . . but she had spoken of a tent, and this was certainly a good deal better. She was still poking round the place and flattening her nose against the windows when a woman with a basket on her arm came swinging up the path. She was a tall, big-boned woman with dark hair and dark eyes. She did not take any notice of Frances, but produced a key from her pocket, opened the door, and went in. Frances looked in and saw her on her knees before the little fireplace, kindling a fire.

  “Is this house to let?” asked Frances.

  “To let!” repeated the woman in surprise. “Who would want it?”

  “I know someone who might take it,” replied Frances, looking round the room. It was a good-sized room and of a pleasant shape, square, with one wall slightly rounded. It was dirty, of course, but the wallpaper was in fairly good order. The windows faced seawards. Cairn harbour and the grey stone cottages of the fishermen looked for all the world like a toy village set down at the other side of the
bay. The house was built on a low cliff, and was so near the sea that when you stood in the middle of the room and looked out of the window there was no ground visible. It was like being in a ship, Frances thought. She had never been in a ship, but still—

  “It’s my house,” the woman said. “It belonged to my grannie. She died at the New Year and left it to me. I’m thinking to sell it.”

  “Why not let it?”

  “I’d need to do it up.”

  “You couldn’t sell it now,” continued Frances. “Nobody wants to buy a house just now.”

  “Maybe not,” said the woman in a disinterested fashion.

  She said no more, but busied herself lighting the fire, and Frances found herself up against the stone wall of her indifference. The woman did not seem to care whether she let the house or not; it was an attitude which was exceedingly difficult to tackle. When she had lighted the fire she proceeded to open the windows, and the breeze, blowing in from the sea, dissipated the slightly musty smell. Frances looked into the other rooms which led off the main room. There were two—one fairly good-sized room and one small room. The kitchen was a pleasant place with an old-fashioned range and a large cupboard. There was a sink in the window. Frances was examining the sink when she heard the woman come into the kitchen.

  “It’s called Sea View,” said the woman in a grudging tone of voice. “It was my grannie called it that. It was called another name before. It’s an old house.”

  She flung the information at Frances ungraciously, but in spite of her awkward manner Frances thought that she was coming round and was willing to consider letting the place.

  “There’s no bathroom, I suppose,” Frances said.

  “There’s nothing but the sink,” replied the woman. “I could have sold it if there was a bathroom. There’s no light either. It’s lamps you have to have—you wouldn’t care for that.”

  “I don’t know,” said Frances doubtfully. “It’s for a friend of mine.”

  “How long would you want it for?”

  “Several months,” said Frances.

  There was a short silence. “Och, well,” said the woman at last, “I’m not caring much one way or the other, but maybe it would be better than standing empty. You can take the key and let me know in a day or two.”

  Frances was rather amused at this sudden change of heart. She realised that the woman was quite anxious now to obtain a tenant for the house. She accepted the key and asked the woman’s name and where she lived, and was informed that it was Mrs. MacNair and that she lived in Cairn.

  “But where?” asked Frances. “I mean, what’s your address? I want to know because of returning the key.”

  “You can give it to Alec,” she replied. “He’s my husband’s brother. . . . I’ll clean the house, but I’ll not do anything else. It wouldn’t be worth my while.”

  The sea had retreated a little by this time and had left a narrow path of golden sand. Frances walked back along the golden pathway with the key of the house in her pocket. (It was a large, heavy key, an old-fashioned door-key, with curiously shaped wards.) She had no idea whether the little house would be any use—whether Tommy would be disgusted or delighted with it—but she was determined that if Tommy wanted the house she should have it.

  The three ladies were having lunch when Frances went in. They looked up and smiled and went on talking. They were discussing the bungalows on the hill.

  “I dare say it isn’t so nice, but it’s bigger,” Tommy was saying. “And Tillie had much better take it, because there won’t be room for the children in the other one. Freda can have the small one, and Elise and I must just stay on here.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Elise Crabbe. “It’s quite nice, really. I was talking to Mrs. MacNair, and she doesn’t mind having baby and nurse. I shall have some trouble getting them away from mother, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s your own child,” Tommy pointed out.

  “I know,” replied Elise, “but mother likes having her—that’s the trouble. Mother has had her there off and on ever since she was born, and every time I say I want her mother says she’ll keep her a bit longer. Nurse isn’t particularly keen to move either. I don’t blame her, really.”

  “It’s nonsense,” Tommy said. *“If you want Jennifer you’ve only got to say you want her—”

  “It isn’t as easy as that,” replied Elise. “Tillie knows what I mean, don’t you, Tillie?”

  Tillie nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “You daren’t offend your relations, because you never know when you may have to ask them to have your children back again. Jack and I have had vast experience,” she added a trifle bitterly.

  “So you walk like Agag,” Elise continued, “and when you aren’t walking like Agag you’re grovelling on the floor. . . .”

  Frances had found a folded note on her table; she opened it and was surprised to discover that it was an invitation couched in formal language and containing the information that Mrs. Crabbe, Mrs. Liston, and Mrs. Widgery requested the pleasure of her company at dinner to-night at eight o’clock.

  “Oh, how nice!” exclaimed Frances, looking across at the authors of the note.

  “It’s a party,” said Tommy, somewhat unnecessarily. “We had to make it eight o’clock, because the husbands are coming. It’s going to be a proper dinner—we’ve squared Mrs. MacNair. I do hope you can come.”

  “I don’t see how she can get out of it,” said Elise.

  Frances did not want to get out of it. She was quite excited at the prospect of a dinner-party.

  When she had finished her lunch Frances pursued Tommy Widgery to her room and found her resting on her bed. She took the key out of her pocket and handed it to Tommy.

  “What’s this?” asked Tommy, laying down her book and looking up at Frances in surprise.

  “It’s a house,” replied Frances. “I mean, it’s the key of a house. I found it this morning—the house, I mean.”

  “You found a house!”

  “A very tiny one,” said Frances hastily. “It hasn’t any bathroom or electric light. It’s a small cottage on the cliff at the other end of the bay. You can have it if you like—at least, I’m almost sure you can.”

  “Is it furnished?” asked Tommy eagerly.

  “No, it’s completely empty except for a few spiders.”

  Tommy shook her head. She explained that it would cost thirty pounds at least to bring their furniture from the south. “And I don’t want to bring it,” added Tommy gravely, “because if I send for the furniture Midge is certain to be moved.”

  “But surely—”

  “No,” said Tommy. “No, it isn’t superstition or coincidence or anything like that. It’s just plain fact. It’s happened over and over again. The moment I begin to think of getting the furniture out of store Midge is wafted away to the other side of nowhere.”

  “You wouldn’t want much furniture,” said Frances thoughtfully—somehow or other she was very anxious for Tommy to have the little house.

  “No,” agreed Tommy. “No, that’s true, we shouldn’t want much. Perhaps we could hire furniture—just beds and chairs and things. It’s frightfully good of you to bother—”

  “It wasn’t a bother—”

  “It was frightfully kind,” repeated Tommy. “I hate hotels.”

  Frances was rather surprised. She thought hotels—and especially the Bordale Arms Hotel—were pleasant places to stay in. It was pure bliss to have everything done for you; to have your food cooked and brought to you without having to order it from the shops; to live in a place which was cleaned and swept by people for whom you had no responsibility whatsoever.

  “You see,” said Tommy, sitting up in bed and hugging her knees. “You see, I do like to have Midge all to myself, and you can’t be by yourselves in a hotel. You can’t do as you like . . . there are too many people about. Elise and Ned will be here, and that makes it worse. Midge wouldn’t mind so much, of course, and so—so I should mind more.”


  “What—” began Frances in bewilderment.

  “You’ll see Midge to-night,” said Tommy with a dazzling smile.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Two cars drove up to the door, and in a moment the quiet hotel was full of laughter and the sound of men’s voices. Frances was dressing for dinner when the cars arrived, and all at once she was overtaken by shyness. Her face looked back at her out of the mirror, rather white beneath its recently acquired tan, and her eyes seemed larger than ever. They all knew each other, and she knew none of them—she was an outsider, a mere chance acquaintance. She saw suddenly that they had had to ask her—it would have been impossible not to have asked her to join the party—but they didn’t really want her. “You can’t get out of it now,” said Frances to the white-faced nincompoop who stared at her from the mirror. “You’ll just have to go through with it. If you were worth your salt you could make friends with them and enjoy yourself.” She slipped into her frock—it was an afternoon frock of heavy navy-blue silk with white frills at the neck and elbows. She smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back, then, summoning all her courage, she ran downstairs.

  The lounge seemed full of men. There were only four of them, but they seemed to fill the room. They were all big men, and their uniforms made them look massive.

  “Here she is!” cried Tommy’s voice above the din of conversation. “Here’s Miss Field. For goodness’ sake be quiet till I get you all introduced.”

  Every one immediately stopped talking and turned and looked at Frances, and Tommy made the introductions. “Major Crabbe, Major Liston, Captain Tarlatan, Captain Widgery,” said Tommy, waving her hand.

  “. . . And here’s some sherry to revive you after the ordeal,” added one of the officers, offering her a glass on a tray.

  Frances accepted it gratefully. She felt she required it.

  “It’s quite decent sherry,” declared another officer with a surprised inflection in his voice.

  “Yes,” agreed Tommy. “Elise tried it. She said it was all right.”