“Mrs. Widgery,” said Frances.
“Oh, she’s there,” he said, nodding towards the house, and with that he seized the saw and applied himself once more to his task.
Frances knocked on the door and then, as nobody came, she opened it and went in. One of the many inconveniences of Sea View was that the front door opened straight into the sitting-room, and Frances, as she walked in, nearly collided with another tall young man who was dressed in almost exactly the same garments as the first one. In fact, the two young men were so alike to the casual glance that if Frances had not heard the sound of industrious sawing going on she might have concluded that this was her second encounter with the first young man instead of her first encounter with the second.
The second young man was carrying a tray of tea-things and had a tea-cloth over his arm. “Hallo, look out!” he exclaimed. “By Jove, that was a near thing!” He paused in the middle of the room and added: “I say, would you mind taking this white cloth and spreading it on the table? There’s nowhere for me to put down this blinking tray.”
Frances took the cloth and spread it, and the young man planted the tray in the middle of the table. “Thanks awfully,” he said. “It was Mrs. Widgery’s fault. She must have thought I had four hands or something.”
“You could have put it on a chair,” said Tommy, appearing from the kitchen attired in a bright-green pinafore. “You never thought of that, I suppose. No initiative—that’s what’s the matter with young officers today. . . . Hallo, Frances, have you come to tea?”
Frances said she had. She said it quite boldly, for she was beginning to get used to the free-and-easy manners of her new friends.
“Well, there isn’t much to eat,” said Tommy, sitting down in one of the easy-chairs. “There’s nothing to eat except bread and marge. . . . Barry, go and make another piece of toast for Frances.”
The tall young man seized the toasting fork and started for the kitchen. “Does Frances like her toast brown or golden?” he inquired, pausing at the door.
“Miss Field to you,” declared Tommy, aiming a cushion at his head.
He ducked and said in a hurt tone: “Well, how was I to know? You never introduced us.”
“Nice children, but wearing,” said Tommy as the door closed behind him with a bang. “Nice children, but distinctly wearing. Sit down, Frances, and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.”
Frances sat down. She had just opened her mouth to comply with Tommy’s request when the outside door opened and the other young man appeared. His arms were full of sawn logs. “I say, will this do?” he inquired. “I mean, isn’t it nearly tea-time? D’you want this stuff or shall I pile it in the shed?”
“Put it there,” said Tommy, “and then say ‘how d’you do’ to Miss Field and go and wash your hands.”
“She’s like this sometimes,” explained the young man, grinning at Frances . . . “but at other times she’s really quite civilised. One has to make allowances for her, because she hasn’t been properly brought up. What I really need is a bath,” he added hopefully.
“There isn’t a bathroom,” replied Tommy. “You know quite well there isn’t a bathroom, Mark.”
“I’d forgotten,” he admitted. “Though how I managed to forget I can’t imagine. Every one in the mess has been informed of the fact, not once but several times . . . as a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind a bathe in the sea.”
“In the sea!” exclaimed Tommy, shuddering.
He nodded. “We bathe every morning, Barry and I. It’s pretty grim, to tell you the truth.”
“Why on earth do you do it?”
He blushed and replied: “Oh, well . . . it’s just an idea we had. Hardening ourselves and all that sort of rot, you know.” He piled the logs neatly beside the fireplace and stood up. “Will that do?” he asked.
“Yes, it will do beautifully,” said Tommy, nodding. “Now you can go and help Barry to make the tea.”
“Thank you so much,” he replied. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Widgery, but I think I’ve earned my tea already. Please tell Barry to bring it to me on a silver tray.” He sat down as he spoke and leant back and crossed his long legs—he looked the picture of indolence.
Frances was amused at the back-chat, but she could not take part in it; in fact, the only remark she had made since her arrival was the simple statement that she had come to tea. She felt that it was about time she made another remark, so she inquired whether she should go and help in the kitchen.
“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Tommy. “Why should you bother? Barry will manage it all right.”
At this moment the door opened and Barry appeared with a pot of tea in one hand, a rack of toast in the other, and a jar of honey under his arm. He placed them on the table with a triumphant air.
“Where did you get that?” asked Tommy, coming over to the table and pointing to the honey.
“In the cupboard, darling,” he replied. “I opened the cupboard and there it was, sitting on the shelf. I know you like honey, so—”
“It’s for Midge,” said Tommy.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Barry, snatching it from under her outstretched hand, “of course it is, but he wouldn’t grudge it to us. We’ll only eat the tiniest, littlest spoonful. Two spoonfuls, that’s all—one for you and one for me. The others can have marge. How would that do?”
“I want honey too,” declared Mark. “As a matter of fact, I’ve earned it. You should see the lovely pile of wood I’ve cut up, Mrs. Widgery.”
Tommy laughed. “We’ll each have one spoonful,” she said. “We mustn’t have more, because, honestly, it’s difficult to get . . . and I can’t get marmalade, so I must keep the honey for Midge’s breakfast.”
“I’ll get you some honey,” declared Barry. “There must be honey somewhere, and if there is I’ll find it.”
They sat down to tea, and Frances noticed that in spite of all their nonsense the boys were extremely sparing of the honey—each of them taking only the slightest smear of the precious stuff on their toast. The tea was good and the toast beautifully made—neither too hard nor too soft but crisp and golden.
“I never tasted such lovely toast before,” said Frances after the first mouthful.
Barry smiled complacently. “Very few people know how to make toast,” he replied. “There’s an art in making good toast. I learnt it at Eton. It was one of the few really useful things I learnt.”
“I know,” agreed Mark. “You got licked if you didn’t make it properly.”
“What were the other useful things you learnt?” asked Tommy with an innocent air.
“Rowing,” said both the boys with one voice.
They did not explain why rowing was useful to them, so after a moment Tommy lifted her eyes and said: “Well, is it a secret or what?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Mark doubtfully. “It’s Major Crabbe’s idea. We’ve got two boats down at the camp and we take the chaps out and teach them to row. It’s rather fun, isn’t it, Barry?”
“What’s the idea?” inquired Tommy with interest.
“Oh, just training,” said Barry.
“Hardening ’em up and making ’em fit,” said Mark.
“Makes a change from foot-slogging,” said Barry.
“Frightfully good exercise,” said Mark.
Tommy waited till the chorus was over and then she said: “Oh, I see. I thought perhaps you intended to row across the North Sea and beard Adolf in his den.”
“That would be fun,” said Barry in a languid tone.
“I like this house,” declared Mark, looking round as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I like it awfully. There’s something very cosy and comfy about it I think I shall get married after the war and buy this house and live here for the rest of my life.”
“You had better make certain that your wife can cook,” said Tommy dryly.
“Oh, of course,” he agreed. “I shall say: ‘Dear Miss Smith, I love you to distraction.
Can you cook?—if so, be mine.’”
“Sea View,” said Barry suddenly, waving his hand towards the window. “Who on earth thought of calling this house Sea View?”
“Why shouldn’t it be called Sea View?” Tommy inquired.
“It’s so obvious,” complained Barry. “A bit too obvious. It’s as if you were to launch an ocean-going liner and christen it Sea View . . . I wonder why they don’t.”
“A bit too obvious,” suggested Mark in a thoughtful tone.
“Idiot!” cried Barry, aiming a punch at him across the table. “Idiot—that’s what you are! Can’t you see that I was expressing an extremely subtle and penetrating idea? Sea View is the sort of name they give a boarding-house at Eastbourne. Doesn’t any one understand?”
“Yes,” said Frances, smiling at him. “As a matter of fact, I stayed at a boarding-house once and it was called Sea View. If you leaned out of the bathroom window you could catch a glimpse of the sea between the chimney-pots.”
“There,” said Barry. “That’s exactly what I meant. Miss Field is the only person who understands and appreciates me.”
He was so earnest about it that they all laughed uproariously, and they were still laughing when the door opened and Captain Widgery appeared; with his appearance the laughter ceased abruptly and the two boys sprang to their feet.
“A tea-party!” said Captain Widgery. “You didn’t tell me you were having a tea-party this afternoon, Tommy.” He came in and drew off his glove and shook hands with Frances. He nodded to the boys.
“I didn’t know,” Tommy was saying. “It wasn’t an arranged tea-party. It just happened. If it had been a proper tea-party there would have been cakes and scones and things . . . but it just happened, and, of course, that’s much the nicest kind of tea-party.”
It was so unlike Tommy to babble like this that Frances was quite alarmed. She said: “I’m afraid I invited myself.”
“I’m sure Tommy was delighted to see you,” replied Captain Widgery in deliberate tones.
The two boys had put on their tunics and were busy fastening on their belts. Captain Widgery looked at them. “You aren’t going away, are you?” he inquired. “I seem to have burst up the tea-party—and it was going with such a swing. I heard you laughing as I came up the path.”
“Afraid we must be getting along, sir,” replied Mark.
“It’s been tremendous fun,” declared Barry.
They were fully accoutred by this time—neatly belted and hung about with tin helmets and revolvers and gas masks. Somehow or other their faces looked different too; their faces looked older and more responsible; there was a tightening of the muscles about their mouths. It was as if they had armed their minds as well as their bodies. They were men and soldiers—no longer carefree boys.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Widgery,” said Mark gravely. “Thank you very much indeed. Good-bye, Miss Field. Good-bye, sir.”
Barry echoed his companion’s words, and they retreated somewhat hastily but in good order, shutting the door after them quietly but firmly.
Frances realised that she had missed her chance . . . she ought to have gone with the others. She rose from her chair.
“You needn’t go yet,” said Captain Widgery, sitting down at the table and looking at Frances with a grim smile.
“I was just going, really,” replied Frances somewhat feebly.
“You must change your mind. It wouldn’t be polite to go away the moment your host appeared on the scene, would it?”
“No,” said Frances uncomfortably. “No, I don’t suppose it would.”
“Besides, you have no excuse, have you?” he continued. “You aren’t engaged in any work of national importance; you aren’t defending your country from the rapacious Hun. You’re a lady at large.”
“Yes,” agreed Frances. She was somewhat annoyed, for this was beyond a joke, but she was determined not to show her annoyance. “Yes,” she repeated, smiling. “I’m a useless mouth—that’s all.”
He looked a trifle taken aback, and there was a short silence.
“Shall I make you some fresh tea?” asked Tommy.
“I don’t want tea,” he replied. “Tea is a beverage which doesn’t appeal to me at all. Sit down, Miss Field. Tell me what you were laughing at when I came in. It must have been a good joke.”
Frances sat down. She did not want to, but what else could she do? She tried to think what it was that had amused them so much—that nonsense about Sea View—it had seemed funny at the time, but she realised that it would sound extremely puerile if it were to be repeated in this cold-blooded atmosphere. She was wondering what to say, when Tommy came to the rescue again.
“It was quite silly, really,” Tommy said. “Jokes are always flat if they have to be explained. I’ll go and get you a drink.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and Frances was alone with Captain Widgery. She thought—as she had thought before: He hates me; I wonder why. She was surprised and annoyed to discover that she was frightened of him.
“How do you like this house?” he asked, leaning forward and fixing her with his dark, pirate’s eyes.
“I like it very much indeed,” she replied firmly. “Tommy has made it so comfortable and cosy . . . and there’s such a lovely view.”
“The view is monotonous,” he retorted. “In fact, it isn’t a view at all; it’s merely an expanse of water, I like a view of fields and trees; I like a house with electric light and proper sanitary arrangements. No view on earth is as important as a good bathroom with a heated rail for towels. Perhaps if you had knocked about as long as I have you wouldn’t be so keen on a picnic.”
“The summer is coming,” Frances pointed out. She was aware, the moment she had spoken, that it was a feeble thing to say.
“Summer!” he repeated with a mirthless laugh. “There isn’t any summer here. In this part of the world they have eight months of bad weather and four months of worse. If you expect to be warm here in the summer you will be very disappointed.”
“They said at the hotel that people came here for sea-bathing,” objected Frances.
“I dare say they did,” he replied. “These people will say anything. They just say what they think you want to hear without the slightest regard for the truth. Some people will bathe in Arctic water, of course—and as a matter of fact the whole regiment will probably be invited to use my house as a bathing-machine—but I prefer warm water for my ablutions.”
Tommy had now returned with a bottle of whisky and a siphon of soda. She put her hand on his shoulder and said: “We won’t ask any one if you don’t want them.”
“Ask any one you like,” he replied. “I’m sure I don’t care. It might be quite amusing if you asked amusing people. I don’t know how you can be bothered with those young jackanapes.”
“Oh, Midge, it’s good for them to come here and play,” said Tommy earnestly. “It’s good for them to get away from—from the war and all that sort of thing. They’re so young . . . and there’s nowhere else for them to go.”
He laughed unpleasantly and replied: “And when we were at York—I suppose there was nowhere else for them to go there either?”
Somehow or other Frances managed to escape. She was not very clear, herself, how she had accomplished it. Her host and hostess accompanied her to the door, and when she looked back to wave to them she saw them standing together in the doorway of the little house—the tall pirate chief and his fragile fairy wife—his arm was round her shoulders and she was gazing up into his face. Frances walked home very slowly. She didn’t understand in the very least . . . somehow or other she didn’t want to understand.
Part II
FRANCES AWAKE
CHAPTER XV
Frances was getting ready for bed when there was a knock on her door. She hesitated for a moment and then put on her dressing-gown and opened the door. It was Major Crabbe.
“I’m frightfully sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but the fact is I’m rather worried about Elise; she’s�
�she’s just had a heart attack. She has them sometimes. It frightened me—it always frightens me horribly,” he added with rather a wan smile. He certainly looked as if he had been badly frightened; there was a strange pallor beneath the tan of his weather-beaten skin.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Frances said in concern.
“She’s better,” continued Major Crabbe. “She’s all right, really, but I’ve got to go. I’ve been sent for from the camp. I wondered if you would sit with her for a bit.”
“Of course I will. I’ll come at once—”
“I hate leaving her,” he said unhappily.
“Couldn’t you get special leave?” asked Frances, who had begun to understand the workings of the military machine.
“Not to-night,” he replied. He hesitated for a moment and then added: “I shouldn’t tell you, really, but the fact is we’ve had orders to stand to. I don’t suppose anything will come of it.”
“Do you mean—they’re expecting—an invasion to-night?” inquired Frances in amazement.
“It means there’s something up,” admitted Major Crabbe. “It might be a big air-raid, or—or something like that; but we’ve had scares like this before several times and nothing has happened. You aren’t windy, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“That’s right,” he said, smiling at her. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll deal with the blighters—that’s what we’re for. In any case, I don’t suppose there’s a dog’s chance of them coming here. It’s the east coast that’s the danger spot.”
His voice sounded a trifle regretful, and Frances looked at him in surprise. “You wouldn’t like them to make an attempt here, would you?” she added.
“No,” he said, but he said it doubtfully.
“You would!” she exclaimed.
“No,” he repeated. “I mean—Oh, I don’t know what I mean. We’ve been hanging about waiting for it for such ages . . . if it were not for Elise, it might be rather a good show. In fact, I’m pretty certain it would be a dashed good show. . . . You’ll go along to Elise, won’t you?”
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