Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Yes,” agreed Tillie. It sounded easy enough but she had no illusions on the subject; she was aware that she was in for a most unpleasant time.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Guy suddenly. “I’ll come up with you if you like. I won’t come in, of course, but I’ll wait in the garden while you do the deed. You’ll know I’m there, you see . . .”

  CHAPTER XXXII

  After a good deal of discussion, it was arranged as Guy had suggested, and he and Tillie and Winkie set off together for the bungalow on the hill. During the walk the conversation was concerned with the fish, and was conducted entirely by Winkie and Guy. Tillie walked along with a white, set face, and her lips moved slightly all the time. It was not difficult to guess that she was engaged in framing sentences which would convey her intentions to Miss Cole as tactfully as possible.

  “Will it live?” asked Winkie for the third time. “Will it grow into a big fish—big enough for mummy to have for breakfast? Will it be a herring when it grows up? Do you think it’s quite happy in my pail? What do you think I ought to give it to eat? I should like to give it something to make it grow very quickly. What do you think would make it grow very quickly, Jennifer’s uncle?”

  Guy answered all these questions as best he could—which was not very satisfactorily.

  “You don’t know much about it, do you?” said Winkie at last with his usual frankness.

  When they reached the bungalow Tillie pressed Guy’s hand and hurried up the steps—she was muttering to herself now and was obviously keyed up to concert pitch—and Guy led Winkie to the summer-house.

  “But it’s my bed-time,” Winkie said. “It must be nearly my bed-time, and Miss Cole will be angry if I don’t go in—she’ll be angry anyhow when she sees my shorts—”

  “You’re staying up a bit later to-night,” said Guy.

  “Am I?” inquired Winkie in surprise. “Why am I staying up later? I haven’t been specially good.”

  “Because—because you caught the fish, of course,” said Guy in desperation.

  They went into the summer-house and sat down. It was warm and sunny and sheltered from the wind, and it had a lovely view over the sea. The tide was half-way up the bay—it was coming in fast—and far away on the point you could see the little house where the Widgerys had lived. Guy searched about in his mind for something to amuse Winkie and to ward off any more awkward questions. “What about that story?” he inquired. “You said you knew a very interesting story . . . by the way, I suppose the house-agent lady is Miss Field?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Winkie. “She taught me the game, you see, and she told me the story.” He wasted no more time on explanations, for he loved telling stories and it was so seldom that any one wanted to listen, and he realised that if he did not start off at once Jennifer’s uncle might change his mind and decide that he did not want to hear it after all. Winkie perched himself on the edge of the table and began his tale, and as he had an exceedingly good memory, he told it in almost the same words as it had been told to him.

  “Once upon a time there was a princess, and she lived in a lovely palace in the middle of London; but the princess was very lonely and had a dull time because she was invisible. It was a spell, you see. She had all sorts of nice things to eat—ice-cream and strawberries and things—but she had nobody to play with. People couldn’t play with her, or talk to her even, because she was invisible; they didn’t know she was there.”

  “That was hard luck,” said Guy.

  “Yes, wasn’t it? Well, one day when the poor princess was feeling specially sad—because she had nobody to play with—a kind, old magician came along. It wasn’t Merlin, it was another magician called Digby. Some people thought he was just an ordinary doctor, but he wasn’t; he was a very powerful magician. He was sorry about her being lonely, so he broke the spell with his magic and the princess escaped—and where do you think she went? She went to Cairn.”

  Guy looked at Winkie. “She came here?” he said slowly.

  “Yes,” said Winkie. “She came here to Cairn—wasn’t it fun? It makes the story sound—sort of true, doesn’t it?”

  Guy had been thinking the same thing. “What was the princess’s name?” he asked.

  Winkie was delighted to find he had awakened the interest of his audience. “I don’t know what her name was,” he replied, “but we could think of a name for her, couldn’t we?”

  “No,” said Guy. “No, Winkie, I’d much rather hear the story exactly as Miss Field told it. Go on, there’s a good lad.”

  “Well, she came to Cairn,” continued Winkie, “and, of course, she had lots of people to talk to. At first it was difficult to talk, because she wasn’t used to it, but after a bit she got quite good at talking—she found her tongue—it was funny to have lost her tongue, wasn’t it?”

  “Go on, tell me more.”

  “It’s a good story, isn’t it?”

  “The best story I’ve heard for years,” declared Guy.

  “There isn’t really very much more after that. I rather wanted her to live happy ever after; but, you see, after the spell was broken she was just an ordinary person, like you and me, and it’s only fairy princesses who live happy ever after.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Well, that’s all,” said Winkie, “and I think I had better go in now because they seem to have forgotten all about me.”

  “They’ll fetch you when they want you,” declared Guy. “It’s quite all right, Winkie. Tell me what the girl did at Cairn.”

  “I don’t know what she did,” said Winkie sadly. “I wish I knew. I rather wanted to see Miss Field and ask her whether the girl went on living at Cairn or whether she ever went back to the palace in London.”

  “Yes,” agreed Guy. “I should like to know that too?”

  “I don’t think she would go back to the palace, because she was so lonely when she was there.”

  “You don’t happen to know where the palace was—what part of London, I mean?”

  “No,” said Winkie, shaking his head. “The palace was called Wintringham Square, but—”

  “What?” exclaimed Guy.

  “Wintringham Square,” repeated Winkie. “It’s an awfully silly name for a palace. It was called that because it was a square sort of palace—at least that’s what I thought.”

  “No,” cried Guy. “By Jove—it was called that because—because that was its name! Winkie, you’re the most sensible person in the whole of Cairn. In fact, you’re the only person in Cairn who has any sense at all. Would half a crown be any good to you?”

  “Half a crown?” asked Winkie, looking at Jennifer’s uncle to see if he had suddenly gone mad.

  “No, five bob,” said that worthy, fishing in his pocket and producing four separate shillings and two sixpences and tucking them into Winkie’s grubby little hand.

  “But what’s it for?”

  “It’s a prize,” declared Guy. “It’s a prize for remembering the story so well—and especially for remembering the name of the palace—that’s what it’s for.”

  “Golly!” exclaimed Winkie in amazement.

  Guy got up. He was so excited that he could not sit still a moment longer. He would wangle leave somehow—they must give him leave—and he would go to London and find her. Wintringham Square . . . that was where she had lived, of course, so if he went to Wintringham Square he was bound to find her. She might be there now—at this very minute—she had said that she was going to stay with her aunt. There were several things he must do before he left. It would be difficult to get away, but Ned would understand. Ned would let him go.

  Winkie was counting his money, gloating over it like a small miser. “Need I put it into my savings bank, Jennifer’s uncle?” he inquired.

  “No,” replied Guy. “It’s to spend. You’re to buy anything you want with it.”

  “Golly!” exclaimed Winkie again.

  At this moment the front door of the bungalow burst open and Mi
ss Cole appeared; she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but rushed down the steps and through the gate and disappeared from view. There was such an air of madness about her departure that Guy took to his heels and pursued her at top speed. He saw her in front of him when he reached the road, and he overtook her quite easily just before she got to the beach.

  “I say, what’s the matter?” he inquired.

  Miss Cole stopped at once. Her face was extremely red and her breath was coming in gasps. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, it’s you! Oh, Captain Tarlatan, I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do. Mrs. Liston says—says I’m to go away. I can’t believe it. I’ve done—you’ve no idea what I’ve done for them—and now—and all because of Winkie—oh, dear!”

  Guy did not know what to say. He felt like a villain.

  “You’re so sympathetic,” continued Miss Cole. “You understand, don’t you? I’ve done all I could—nobody could have done more—I’ve loved them all and given my best. Dolly is so sweet—dear little Dolly! How can I leave her and go away! She’s so devoted to me, she’s so sweet and funny—her funny little ways—how can I bear it! Oh dear!”

  She sat down on the sand, and Guy sat down beside her. He felt that the least he could do for Miss Cole was to listen to her.

  “I’ve done my best,” she continued in a calmer tone. “I’ve tried to lay the foundations of their characters. I’ve tried to teach them from the very beginning, to bring them up really well—and now it’s all lost—all my work. Oh dear, we were all so happy together until just lately. Just lately everything seems to have gone wrong. Winkie—it’s all Winkie, of course—Winkie has been so disobedient, so different from what he was before. He used to be such a dear little boy—but now—”

  Guy said nothing. He was aware that nothing need be said.

  “Mrs. Liston spoils him,” complained Miss Cole. “Every one spoils him. Of course he has been ill, but you can’t go on making allowances for ever. People don’t understand how difficult Winkie is, how terribly difficult to manage. They think he’s such a dear little boy because he talks in that old-fashioned way. Really and truly he’s very stubborn indeed—underneath—very stubborn.” Miss Cole hesitated, and then she continued in quite a different tone of voice. “It began—it all began when he got to know that Miss Field. It was she who put Winkie against me—he was always a thousand times wilder and more independent when he had been with her. She made him cheeky too.”

  “How could she?” asked Guy.

  “You may well ask,” replied Miss Cole, taking Guy’s words in a different sense from the perfectly plain and straightforward sense in which Guy had intended them. “How could she have been so—so unkind—as to put Winkie against me? It wasn’t right of her to do it.”

  “But she didn’t,” said Guy. “I mean, she couldn’t change Winkie’s attitude to you? It isn’t possible. Besides, she wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t she? You don’t know what she’s like. I knew she would do me a bad turn if she could—I knew it from the first.”

  “I don’t think there is any need to discuss Miss Field,” said Guy.

  “No,” replied Miss Cole. “People like that always come to grief in the end. I’m a great believer in poetic justice—aren’t you, Captain Tarlatan?”

  Guy did not know what she meant, and he wondered whether she herself knew what she meant by poetic justice. He was beginning to feel that he had listened to Miss Cole long enough, but he did not know how he was going to get away from her.

  “Poetic justice,” repeated Miss Cole. “That’s what comes to people who interfere and poke their noses into other people’s affairs.”

  Guy was rather amused at this. He wondered whether his misfortunes could be classified as poetic justice—he thought this over while Miss Cole elaborated her theme. It was true that he had poked his nose into other people’s affairs and had got severely punished for his trouble, but he would find Frances now and all would be well—thanks to Winkie and also thanks to Miss Cole. It was curious how the thing had worked (thought Guy), for, if Miss Cole had not fallen out with Winkie so seriously that Tillie had been obliged to sack her, Guy would never have listened to the story and would never have heard of Wintringham Square. If Miss Cole were to be believed it went right back to Frances herself, for Miss Cole blamed Frances for Winkie’s rebellion. Was that poetic justice or was it the long arm of coincidence? wondered Guy, smiling to himself at the trite phrases.

  Miss Cole rose and dusted the sand from her skirt. It had done her good to talk—Captain Tarlatan had been so kind and sympathetic—already she was feeling a good deal better, already she was beginning to get used to the idea of leaving the Listons.

  After all, Cairn was exceedingly dull. There was no picture house and no shops worthy of the name . . . and they would have a fine time with Dolly when she had gone . . . that would show Mrs. Liston. . . .

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Once Guy was actually in the train on his way to London he felt a different creature, for he was doing something active—he was on a trail. He travelled by night and should have arrived early in the morning, but the train was delayed by a serious air raid, and it was ten o’clock before it reached Euston. He bathed and breakfasted at the Station Hotel, for he felt grubby and unkempt after his night in the train, and then, leaving his luggage at the hotel, he strode out into the sunshine to look for a taxi. He found one standing on a rank, and calling the driver asked him if he knew Wintringham Square.

  “South-west,” replied the driver tersely. “It’ll mean a bit of a day-tour, but I’ll get ye there O.K.”

  “Carry on, then,” said Guy, getting in.

  Guy had not been in London for months, and he was anxious to see for himself what damage it had sustained from the recent raids. Some parts looked just the same as usual, but other parts showed the scars of battle. Here and there Guy saw crumbling masonry; he saw houses which looked as if they had been sliced in half with a gigantic knife. One house, which must have been damaged quite recently, reminded Guy of Elise’s doll’s house. The whole front was gone, and one could see straight into the rooms—there were beds and chairs and tables standing in their accustomed places; there was flowered wallpaper on the walls—somebody’s home had been shattered past repair. In other places workmen were busy demolishing smoke-blackened masonry, or shoring up tottering walls with timber struts . . . then for some time Guy was carried though streets which looked perfectly normal, streets which apparently had not suffered at all from enemy action. The taxi driver went by back streets, narrow and twisting and sometimes blocked by drays. Guy had lived in London at one time and he prided himself upon his knowledge of the city, but today he was being taken through districts he had never even heard of.

  “You’re taking me by a very roundabout route,” said Guy at last, pulling back the window which shut him off from the driver.

  “It’s quicker in the long run,” replied the man. “I told ye it would mean a bit of a day-tour. Fact is we’re supposed to keep clear of the main streets when we can—saves blocks. Don’t want blocks with Jerries coming over.”

  “They don’t come much in the day-time, do they?”

  “Not much—scared of our lads—still, ye never know. Sometimes we gets a stray Jerry.”

  They came at last to a district of large squares—one leading out of another—and here the driver slowed down and looked about him. “Ought to be ’ere somewhere,” he said. “It’s some time since I was in this part. Ah, there it is—Wintringham Square—wot number did ye say, Guv’nor?”

  “I didn’t say any,” Guy replied. “Just drop me out here.”

  The taxi drew up at the kerb, and Guy got out and paid the driver. Then he straightened his back and looked round . . . this was Wintringham Square.

  When Guy had heard at Cairn that Frances had mentioned Wintringham Square he had thought, that’s easy, I’ll go there and find her, but now that he was actually on the spot it seemed a good d
eal more difficult. It was a large square with gardens in the middle, and there were houses on all four sides . . . he counted the houses and found that there were sixty. Frances might be living in one of these houses with her uncle and aunt or she might not; she might have lived here once, years ago, and gone away; she might never have lived here at all. Guy’s heart sank. He realised what an optimistic fool he had been . . . all the same, it was a clue and the only clue he had. He could go round the whole square and ask at every house. It might take days. . . .

  He looked round the square again. How deserted it was, how quiet and peaceful! It was a sort of backwater, and the hum of London was like the distant sound of the sea. There were no children or nurses to be seen as there would have been in peace-time. There was nobody about, nobody except an errand boy on a bicycle.

  Guy crossed the road and spoke to him. “Do you know any one here called Field?” he asked;

  “Field!” repeated the boy. “In this ’ere square d’yer mean? No, I don’t know nobody called that.” He got on to his bicycle and pedalled off.

  Guy walked round the square looking at each house (he had started at number 60, so the numbers went backwards). They were all exactly the same, these Victorian houses, and yet they were all different, for the people who lived in them had impressed them with a different personality. Some of the houses were well cared for, with good paintwork and shining door-knobs; others looked as if they had come down in the world . . . most of the houses were residential, but one or two had brass plates with dentists’ names on them, and there was one large nursing home. So far Guy had seen no doctors’ plates, and that seemed odd, for Wintringham Square was a sort of place in which doctors like to live. It was not one of the very expensive squares, but it was quiet and pleasant and eminently respectable.

  Guy had now walked round three sides of the square and had come to the fourth. Ah, there was a doctor’s plate. He stopped and read it.

  J. DIGBY, M.B., CH.B.