Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  Somehow or other the mere fact of Jennifer’s presence in the hotel made a difference in the atmosphere of the place. The hotel felt more home-like, more friendly. Every one in the house fell a victim to her charm and talked about her and boasted of her smiles. Frances made friends with Jennifer’s nurse—a pleasant-faced elderly woman—and was therefore free to peep into the nursery when she felt inclined. She peeped in quite often and saw Jennifer having her supper, or Jennifer asleep in bed. She was invited to come into the bathroom and saw Jennifer having her bath.

  It was amusing to see Elise with the baby. Elise tried so hard to be sensible and to disguise her pride in her daughter’s beauty and charm. Major Crabbe made no attempt to disguise his feelings; his adoration of Jennifer was open and unashamed.

  The day after Jennifer’s arrival Winkie appeared and announced that he had come to see her, so Elise asked him to stay to tea. The nurse had gone out for a walk, and Frances and Elise and the two children had tea together in the dining-room. Jennifer ate her tea daintily. Occasionally she took part in the conversation.

  “I’m going to marry her,” said Winkie, looking at her with adoring eyes.

  “Are you?” inquired Elise.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Crabbe?” asked Winkie gravely.

  “That depends,” she replied with equal gravity. “It depends what sort of person you are when you grow up, and what you’re going to be. I want Jennifer to marry a banker.”

  Frances was amused. She said: “Why a banker, Elise? Why not a peer of the realm?”

  “Because I’m like Robinson Crusoe’s father,” replied Elise promptly. “I believe that the middle state of man—-or woman—is the happiest and I want Jennifer to be happy. I don’t want riches or high places for Jennifer, I just want happiness, that’s all. A banker is settled and secure—”

  “What is a banker?” asked Winkie. “How does a person begin to be a banker?”

  Elise looked at her prospective son-in-law and smiled affectionately. “I thought you were going to be a soldier,” she said.

  “Well, I did think of it,” admitted Winkie, “and then I thought of being a pilot in the Air Force, but now I’ve quite decided to be a banker. What does a banker do?”

  “Winkie!” said Jennifer suddenly. She pointed at Winkie and smiled.

  “Yes,” said Winkie, nodding at her. “Yes, this is Winkie. You remember me quite well, don’t you, Jennifer?”

  “Nice Winkie,” Jennifer said.

  Winkie blushed to the tips of his ears. “You see,” he mumbled, gazing at his plate. “You see she likes me. Of course she’s very young, but—but she likes me quite a lot already . . . and she’s quite sensible . . . I mean, she know things. She knows what she means, I mean. Dolly just says anything, but Jennifer is quite different.”

  Frances knew exactly what he: meant, and she agreed that Jennifer was different. Nothing could have been more unlike than the two babies—the only thing they had in common was their extreme youth. She was thinking this over and wondering about it when Winkie changed the subject.

  “I like people to be pretty,” he observed, looking around at his three female companions with a satisfied air.

  Elise laughed. She replied: “I’m glad you approve of us, Winkie.”

  “I like pretty people,” Winkie said. “We had a terribly ugly nurse once. She had a crooked face and I didn’t like looking at her. Of course you’re different, Mrs. Crabbe. I mean, I would like you even if you were ugly.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Elise teasingly.

  Winkie hesitated. “No, not absolutely honestly sure,” he said at last. “You see, it’s so difficult to imagine you being ugly.”

  Frances could not help laughing at this. She thought, that Elise had had the tables turned on her very neatly.

  Elise laughed too. “I think you ought to go into the Diplomatic Service,” she declared.

  Frances had not forgotten her “true promise” to take Winkie out in a boat, and now that the weather was settling down she arranged the matter with Alec. It was a beautiful afternoon and the sea was like glass—the expedition was a tremendous success in every way. Alec and Winkie liked each other at first sight, and before they had known each other for half an hour they were fast friends, chatting with each other gravely and seriously as if they were exactly the same age. Frances had noticed that these people had a genius for getting on with children—perhaps it was because they loved children, or perhaps because they were a little like children themselves. Alec offered to take Winkie out in the boat again whenever he liked, even if Miss Field were otherwise engaged, and Winkie accepted the offer with rapture.

  “Would you really, Alec?” he said, “That would be lovely. I mean, of course, it’s lovely to have Miss Field, isn’t it? But you and I could go out together when it was too rough for ladies. I could help you, Alec.”

  “You could indeed,” agreed Alec gravely.

  “I’m small, of course,” continued Winkie, “but I’m very strong for my size. You’d be surprised at how strong I am, really. I could help to pull in the lines and to hoist the sail.”

  “I would be glad to have you and that’s the truth,” Alec said.

  Alec was taking them out to his lines. There was just enough breeze to fill the big brown sail and to send them gliding over the water. The sun was warm and dazzling, the air was crystal clear. It was the most peaceful, beautiful scene that any one could imagine.

  “Alec,” said Winkie suddenly. “Alec, what would you do if a German submarine suddenly rose out of the water just there, in front of the boat—what would you do, Alec?”

  “That is a difficult question.”

  “Yes, but what would you do? It might, you know. It might suddenly rise up all gleaming wet and the water pouring down off the sides.”

  Alec looked somewhat alarmed and Frances was not surprised, for Winkie’s vivid imagination had made the picture live. She could almost see the monstrous thing rising from the calm blue sea—just like a gigantic whale but a hundred times more dangerous. She wondered whether Winkie had ever seen a submarine break surface. If not, how did he know that the water poured down off the sides. Frances did not know this herself—she had never thought about it—but now that she thought of it she realised that it must be like that. As the submarine rose the water was bound to pour down its sides. . . .

  Alec had evidently followed the same train of thought. “Have you seen one?” he asked.

  “No, but I can imagine it,” Winkie said. “I can see it happening if I want to. Would you ram it, Alec?”

  “What would be the use?” inquired Alec gravely. “It would not do the submarine any harm to be rammed by a fishing-boat.”

  “Would you shoot it, then?”

  “How would I do that?” asked Alec with the glimmering of a smile.

  Winkie pointed under the seat. “That’s your rifle, isn’t it?”

  “So you saw it!” exclaimed Alec, smiling broadly now. “Och, it’s sharp eyes you have and no mistake. I thought I had hidden it under my coat. I did not want you to be seeing my rifle, Winkie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Och, it is an ugly thing. I take it with me when I go out in the boat, for it gives me a safe kind of feeling, but it would not be much use against a submarine.”

  “What is it for?”

  “It might be for a shark—” began Alec in a doubtful tone.

  “It’s in case you see an aeroplane,” said Winkie eagerly. “That’s what it’s for. In case a Jerry suddenly swooped out of a cloud and attacked us.”

  “There are no clouds today,” replied Alec, looking at the sky.

  “That’s what it’s for—isn’t it, Alec?”

  “I would have a shot at it,” admitted Alec.

  “Of course you would. It would be splendid to bring it down.”

  “It is a long chance,” Alec said. “It is not an easy thing to do, but my cousin was away at sea in a trawler and they were attacked by
a dive bomber and my cousin shot it down with his rifle, so there is no reason why I could not do the same thing. I would have a try at any rate. It would be a fine thing to do.”

  “Why aren’t you fighting the Germans, Alec?” Winkie inquired.

  Frances was somewhat embarrassed by her young friend’s curiosity. She had often wondered why Alec had not been called up, but naturally she had not asked the reason for his exemption from military service. Winkie had no such scruples.

  “It is because of my lung,” replied Alec frankly. “I have a bad lung, you see. I went up to the office at Rithie, for I wanted to serve in the Royal Navy, but the doctor would not have me. It is a pity, because I am really very strong and I would have been useful, for I know about ships. I told the doctor all that, but he sent me away.”

  “You don’t look ill,” said Winkie, looking at Alec critically.

  “I am not ill at all. My lung does not trouble me much now. I could have done the work quite well,” said Alec. He smiled rather sadly and added: “Sometimes I wish that I looked ill. It is not a pleasant thing to be a young man and not in uniform.”

  Frances had a feeling that Alec had explained his disability for her benefit rather than Winkle’s. He seemed glad to have been given the opportunity to explain. “You’re doing very useful work,” she pointed out.

  “It is work that anybody could do,” he said. “It does not satisfy me at all. I am thinking I might go to London for the firefighting—they would not bother about my lung there. Sometimes it is difficult to bear being left behind with the women and the old men—look, Winkie, there is a seal!”

  The days were passing quickly, and Frances began to feel that this pleasant existence had been going on for months. It was such a peaceful, happy existence that she would have been quite pleased if it could have gone on indefinitely; but that was impossible, of course, for this was just a holiday, it was just an interlude between her old life and her new. Dr, Digby had written to her again, assuring her that she was quite capable of taking the post he had found for her and urging her to take it without delay, and she had received a letter from Mr. Fleming, the manager of the munition works, saying that he hoped she would decide to come and that the canteen would be ready in about three weeks. Three weeks seemed a long time in prospect, and Frances—secretly very glad of the delay—wrote to Mr. Fleming and said that she would come.

  Now that she had made up her mind, and her holiday had a definite limit, Cairn seemed more beautiful and more lovable than ever. Spring had come, and to Frances, who had never before spent the spring months in the country, the beauty was amazing. The weather was a mixture of smiles and tears, of warm sunshine and silver showers. In the fields near the village and on the slopes of the hills there were lambs with black faces and tiny black legs, chasing each other and frolicking with gay abandon. Frances wanted to frolic too. There was magic in the air; magic in the sunshine, in the springing grass, in the flowers and the song of the birds, in the veil of tender green which was spreading rapidly over the earth. Frances saw the green buttons on the larches; she watched the chestnut tree outside her window, and every day there was a difference in it. The fat, brown sticky buds burst apart and the sheaths fell away, and the tiny fingers of tender green leaves spread themselves in the still air—it was a magic spring—or so Frances thought—she could not believe that spring had ever been so beautiful before. She said something of this to Elise, and Elise agreed with her.

  “Perhaps it’s because of the war that everything seems so beautiful,” said Elise thoughtfully. “The war and all its horrors—and this peaceful, beautiful place . . . we appreciate it more. Perhaps it’s because we know that our country is in danger, that all the things we value more than life itself are in danger. . . . I don’t know . . .”

  The Crabbes were now the only people living in the hotel besides herself, and Major Crabbe could scarcely be described as living in the hotel. He came over when he could and was usually there at night, but there were evenings when Frances and Elise sat by themselves in the lounge with the windows wide open, reading or knitting and listening to the wireless. They had reached the stage of friendship when they could talk or not as they felt inclined—it was very pleasant. There were other evenings when people dropped in, the Listons or the Widgerys or some of the officers from the camp. Barry and Mark had discovered a grass tennis court behind the hotel and had spent a whole afternoon cutting and rolling it. The court was by no means level and it was very short, but it provided them with a good deal of amusement. The subalterns came over and played on it whenever they were free, and sometimes Tommy came and joined in the game. There was always more laughter than tennis when Tommy was there—she was a popular person. The tennis court provided the inhabitants of Cairn with free entertainment, and although the niceties of the game were lost upon them, they enjoyed seeing the white-clad figures leaping about and hitting the ball. The fence which surrounded the court was usually lined with people watching and commenting upon the play. Sometimes there were soldiers in battle-dress amongst the onlookers—already the soldiers had found friends and sweethearts in Cairn.

  One day when Frances was watching the tennis the Widgerys arrived with Angela, and a few minutes later Guy appeared. It was obvious that they had arranged a match and had met by appointment. Guy was clad like the others, in white flannel trousers and a tennis shirt open at the neck, and Frances, who had never seen Guy in anything but uniform, was surprised to see how different he looked . . . even his face looked different, younger and more carefree.

  “Why aren’t you playing?” he inquired, coming over to Frances and looking down at her. “Go and put on your tennis frock at once.”

  “I can’t play,” she replied frankly. “I never played tennis in my life, and I’m too old to start.”

  “Nonsense, you would soon learn,” said Guy.

  The others shouted to him to come, so there was no more opportunity for talk. He picked up his racket and went over to the net.

  They started to play; Guy and Angela were partners against the Widgerys, and for some reason Frances wished that they had arranged it differently. She watched them for a little and then she gathered up her knitting and went indoors.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Frances awoke with the feeling that something was going to happen today, something not particularly nice. She lay and wondered what it was, and after a few moments she remembered that this was the day she had promised to go up to the Castle and help Mr. MacDonald with his notes. . . . But I want to go, said Frances to herself. I’m very interested in the notes and I like Mr. MacDonald. Having assured herself of these facts, it was strange that her spirits remained low and that she had little appetite for breakfast.

  The bus was just starting for Rithie when Frances came out of the hotel, so she asked the conductor whether he could take her as far as the Castle gates, and he replied, in the usual fashion of the Cairn inhabitants, that he saw no reason why he could not do so. Frances got in. She did not know why she had chosen to go to the Castle by a different route—it would have been just as easy to have walked along the cliff; but the cliff path was associated with Guy . . . and Guy did not want her to go . . . it was all rather silly, really.

  The bus stopped at the big gates and she got out and began to walk up the avenue. It was a well-kept road, curving away over a moor like a grey ribbon. The moor was covered with brown heather and yellowish-green tufty grass; here and there were clumps of gorse bushes with a few yellow flowers on them. The day was silver—silent and cold—every now and then a few drops of cold rain fell; there was scarcely any wind but the clouds moved in from the sea slowly and steadily. Frances wondered where they all came from and where they were going, those heavy masses of pale-grey cloud. She remembered having read somewhere or other that all our bad weather comes from Iceland, that Iceland is the grave of worn-out cyclones; she remembered that before the war started (and weather bulletins on the wireless were discontinued) the B.B.C. Announcer used to d
eclare that “a V-shaped depression is approaching from Iceland.” How cold and dreary it sounded—just like the day—cold and dreary and unfriendly. It was the sort of day that makes one feel small and defenceless . . . Undoubtedly Frances was experiencing a V-shaped depression of some magnitude.

  Presently the avenue sloped down and entered a wood, a dank, dripping wood with moss growing upon the bark of the trees. . . . Frances shivered and walked faster. She had gone about fifty yards farther when the sound of shots broke the stillness—two shots in quick succession followed immediately by the most frightful screams. The screams died away in a sobbing sound and all was quiet again. Frances stopped dead in the middle of the road. She was petrified. Her heart thumped like a sledge-hammer in her breast. She stood there for a few moments listening . . . and then Mr. MacDonald emerged from the wood and came towards her. He had a gun over his shoulder and a canvas bag on his back, and in his left hand he carried a rabbit swinging by its legs.

  “Hallo, Miss Field!” he exclaimed. “I thought you would be coming the other way. It is good of you to remember your promise to come and help me.”

  “It screamed,” said Frances, pointing to the rabbit.

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. MacDonald. “Did it frighten you? I’m very sorry indeed. The poor little brute wasn’t killed outright—it was inexcusable. I hate shooting rabbits, but the fact is we have nothing for lunch, and my cousin asked me to hunt for the pot. I have managed to bag half a dozen, so I think I have done my duty.” He opened the breach of his gun and emptied it. “There, the rabbits are safe now,” he said, “so please don’t look so sad.”

  Frances smiled. She realised that she had been rather foolish. The day and the stillness of the wood and her own peculiar state of mind had combined to frighten her. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all, and Guy had been quite wrong.

  They walked up the avenue together and soon came to the Castle; it was warm and pleasant inside the door, and there was a leaping fire of logs in Mr. MacDonald’s study. Frances took off her hat and her oilskin coat and put them on a chair—she was determined to be very business-like. “Let’s get to work,” she said.