The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

“It just shows how interesting everything is when you know about it,” declared Wynne.

  He left them and went away and they sat down on the grass and ate ham sandwiches and drank coffee out of a Thermos flask. Frank was more cheerful and companionable than he had ever been—he was still wearing his hair parted at the side and it made him look younger. He seemed younger, too, Wynne thought, and, because she was Wynne and had no inhibitions whatever, she put her thought into words.

  “Younger!” echoed Frank thoughtfully, “I believe I feel younger as well though I didn’t notice it until you said. Yes, I feel younger and the heart more light … I am beginning to see through you,” he added.

  Wynne was a little startled. She looked at him quickly and saw that he was smiling at her in a friendly fashion. “Sec through us!” she said, wrinkling her brows.

  “Yes. At first I could not see through you at all. It was like looking at a wall and wondering what was at the other side.”

  “To ‘see through’ is rather a horrid expression—it usually means that you see something nasty.”

  “But I see through to something nice,” declared Frank cheerfully.

  “That’s splendid,” Wynne said, “but there isn’t any wall really—we’re the same all through. We don’t put on airs or anything. Besides you’re one of the family, aren’t you? Come on, Frank,” she added, “finish up your coffee, we had better start or we shan’t be home in time for tennis. We must have some exercise.…”

  Frank chuckled to himself as he rose and followed her to the car. Here was another thing he had begun to “see through.” He had been rather scornful of Wynne’s air of fragility for, in Germany, the young of both sexes were expected to be sturdy and strong. Wynne looked like a fairy, and wore such an air of slender delicacy that one might imagine a breath of wind could blow her away, but Frank had discovered that her stamina equalled his own—she was practically indefatigable and could play games all day and dance half the night without turning a hair.

  “The air of England is very wholesome,” said Frank, as he settled himself beside her in the car. He was following out his own thoughts to a logical conclusion but Wynne could not know this.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “of course it is. You’re much fitter than when you came.”

  He was rather surprised at having the tables turned—but it was true. He had gained five pounds in weight, despite the fact that he was taking even more exercise than he was used to at home. The food was amazingly good, of course, but Frank preferred to ascribe his increased weight and fitness to the English air.

  This was the first day that Frank realised how much he was enjoying his visit to his English relatives. He was beginning to feel quite at home with them. They had told him so often that he was “half English” and, every time that they had said it, Frank had denied it in his own mind, but now he was beginning to weaken. It was quite a pleasant thing to be “half English,” to have his own small place in the family life of Fernacres. He was still a German Citizen, of course, a loyal member of the Third Reich, but why not accept the good things that were offered to him so kindly and make the best of both worlds?

  When they arrived back at Fernacres, Frank ran upstairs two steps at a time, and he whistled cheerfully as he changed into his tennis flannels before tea.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sophie Braithwaite was alone in the drawing-room when Frank came down. She was sitting behind the large silver tray with its elaborate equipment of teapots, cups and saucers and jugs of cream and milk; and the silver kettle upon the spirit-lamp was hissing in a friendly way.

  “I heard you whistling,” Sophie said. “It was one of Schubert’s songs. Your father used to sing it long ago. Come and sit near me, dear.”

  He flung himself into the chair and smiled at her. He was feeling good. He liked the pretty drawing-room with its flowery chintz covers, he liked the golden sunshine pouring in at the big glass doors, and he had suddenly realised that he liked Cousin Sophie very much indeed. She was part of the pleasantly leisurely air of peace and security which was the flavour of England.

  She opened the two silver tea-caddies and measured out, into the two teapots, carefully judged spoonfuls of China and Indian tea and Frank watched her carrying out this ritual and thought about her.… She really was an extraordinary woman—extraordinarily unselfconscious and spontaneous—she possessed the extremely useful power of making everybody fond of her and anxious to help her, and she exercised this power unconsciously, which made it even stronger. Wynne’s friends might laugh at her and make fun of her, but they took care not to hurt her feelings and they were always ready to post her letters or to change her library books. The servants were her willing slaves. Frank had thought it odd, at first, that Major Worthington should live in the house and look after her affairs, but now he did not think it odd at all—Cousin Sophie had needed a man to look after things; she had needed Dane Worthington, that explained it.

  Cousin Sophie looked up and met his eyes. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she inquired.

  “Very much,” replied Frank. “It was a lovely drive. The English country is very pretty. It has an air of its own. What have you been doing all day, Cousin Sophie?”

  “I was very lazy. I got a new book from the library and I’ve been reading all the afternoon.”

  “It is very interesting?” Frank inquired.

  “Yes … no,” said Sophie in a doubtful tone. “I mean you wouldn’t like it, dear. It isn’t very good, I’m afraid, but it’s the sort of book I like. It’s about nice people and it ends properly—she marries the right man and they live happily ever after.”

  “Have you looked at the end?”

  “Of course not, but Elaine Elkington’s books are all like that. You can trust her to end it all happily—such a comfort! Some of the books nowadays begin quite nicely and cheerfully and then, half way through, they go all wrong and make you miserable. You’ve begun to like the people by that time, so it isn’t fair. That book, for instance,” said Sophie, pointing to another library book which lay on a side table, “that book began beautifully, and then they had a little tiff—well, of course lovers often have a tiff—and I thought they would be sure to make it up; but they didn’t,” said Sophie, shaking her head sadly. “They never made it up at all … she married quite the wrong man, and the really nice man went off to Rhodesia to shoot lions. It upset me dreadfully … Miss Elkington would never do that.”

  Frank hid a smile. “But sometimes people do marry the wrong one,” he pointed out.

  “Yes dear, but that’s just why,” returned Sophie.

  They were silent for a few moments and then she looked at him and inquired, “Are you tired, Frank, dear?”

  “No, I am very comfortable, thank you.”

  “You mustn’t let Wynne wear you out. She’s so terribly strong, you see, and she never thinks of anyone being tired. The young people are very strong, nowadays, and of course it’s a good thing, but it’s wearing sometimes. I was often tired when I was a girl; I wasn’t brought up scientifically, you see … certified milk and fresh air and airtex and all that,” said Sophie, tipping up the kettle and pouring a stream of boiling water into the Indian teapot. “I mean we never had our windows open at night because the night air was bad for us—so Nannie said—the windows were tightly shut and the curtains drawn and even the chimney was blocked up by a sort of tin thing that you worked with a handle. We wore starched petticoats and flannel petticoats with scalloped edges embroidered with silk, and the milk came in cans …” she sighed and added, “I suppose it’s a wonder we’re alive.”

  Frank watched the tea being made and listened to the flow of talk. He was feeling in harmony with the world. At first Cousin Sophie’s chatter had bewildered him, and then, when he had begun to understand it, he had decided that it was extremely silly, but now he had begun to realise that it was not nearly so foolish as it seemed. There was a great deal of interest in it, and it wandered along in a pleasant, soothing, leisurely
way like a little English brook.

  She had stopped talking now and Frank wanted her to go on.

  “How many brothers and sisters had you?” he asked.

  “No sisters,” she replied. “Your mother was like a sister to me—but I have two brothers. You’ll see Tom on Friday when we go and have lunch on board his ship … You know,” she continued, “it always seems very funny to me when I see Tom ordering people about and everyone doing what he says. I can’t believe it, somehow. You see Tom was always the naughty one of the family—not really badly naughty, and in fact he was a model boy compared with Roy and Eric—but in those days lots of things were supposed to be naughty which aren’t considered naughty now … things like tearing your clothes and getting dirty and being late for meals. One day Tom took the door off the potting shed and used it for a raft; it floated quite nicely down the stream until it caught on a rock and turned over (that was the sort of thing Tom did, and it was very trying for his elders but not really terribly wicked, you know) so Father said that if he wanted to go to sea he had better go … and he was sent into the Navy.”

  “Was he pleased at this?” inquired Frank with interest.

  “He wasn’t asked,” she replied, “it was all decided for him. I sometimes thought that it happened very luckily for Father because there had been a good deal of discussion as to what Tom was to do. Henry was destined for the firm almost before he was born, but Tom was a problem. He was full of high spirits and Father was often impatient with him, but I believe he was always Mother’s favourite … and now, when we go and have lunch with him in his ship and everyone rushes to do what he tells them, it makes me think how proud Mother would be if she could see him … though, as a matter of fact, she would be eighty if she were alive and too old to go on board a battleship.” Sophie was silent for a moment and then she continued thoughtfully, “Perhaps she does see him. You know, Frank, I don’t believe that anyone could be really happy and contented in Heaven unless they knew what was happening to their children … and of course God wants people to be as happy as possible … so I expect Mother knows that Tom is an admiral with a ship of his own and a beautiful dining-room and drawing-room on board … but I hope she doesn’t know about all the trouble he has had with his wife.”

  Frank rose to take his cup, and also to hide a smile. “It might be difficult for your mother to know the one thing and not the other,” he suggested.

  “It might be,” agreed Sophie, pausing and looking a little concerned for a moment, and then she smiled very sweetly and added, “but with God all things are possible, Frank dear.”

  She was so serene and happy in her innocent belief that Frank felt a twinge of shame for his scepticism. He knew suddenly that he loved Cousin Sophie in the way that he might have loved her if she had been his mother. He loved every bit of her, she was precious to him, and because his feelings were suddenly so strong he bent down and took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Dear boy,” she said, looking up at him with her heart in her eyes, “it’s such a pleasure to have you … sometimes you remind me of Elsie … I feel I can talk to you.”

  “I like you to talk to me.”

  She nodded. “I know. You seem older than the others and more understanding. I wonder why that is.”

  He certainly felt no younger than Cousin Sophie and it seemed quite natural that they should talk to each other like contemporaries.…

  They were both a trifle embarrassed when the door was flung open and Wynne ushered in her friends. Frank seized his cup and stood up very straight, and Sophie welcomed the newcomers with a little more cordiality than she felt.

  “Darling Nina!” she said, holding out her hands, “and dear Migs too … here you are just in time for tea. You know Frank? … yes, of course you do, how stupid of me! Sit here Nina so that we can talk. I want to hear about your mother’s pelargoniums. How are they? Such a frightful thing has happened to ours … a sort of blight or something. The petals are all turning brown at the edges and I’m sure Ellis has done something silly but I don’t dare to tell him. Milk and sugar, Migs? … no sugar … oh, no milk either? Never mind, this cup will do for Dane. Where is Dane? Does anyone know?”

  “Here is Dane,” said Dane’s voice from the window. “I’ve been looking at the pelargoniums. What is it that ‘will do for Dane’? It sounds a trifle sinister.”

  Sophie waved to him to come in. “It’s only tea,” she said, “because I forgot about Migs not taking milk. Aren’t the pelargoniums wretched?” She poured out another cup and added, “That just shows how mistakes can be made.”

  “Too much water,” said Dane. “Ellis has a passion for watering everything.”

  “Not that,” Sophie declared. “I had left off talking about the pelargoniums, Dane. It’s the mistake you made. You thought there was something sinister about the tea when it was only because Migs doesn’t like sugar or milk and I had very stupidly forgotten. If you hadn’t mentioned it you might have gone on thinking that the perfectly innocent tea had something odd about it. You might even have thought I was trying to poison you.”

  Dane considered the matter gravely. “No,” he said, “no, because I’m too useful to you, Sophie. You wouldn’t have anyone to add up the books or make out your Income Tax return if you poisoned me … besides I don’t believe it would ever have crossed my mind. I don’t read so many detective novels as you do.”

  He accepted the perfectly innocent cup of tea and crossed over to the fireplace. There was no fire there, of course, but Dane liked standing, and it was his habit to have his tea with his cup and plate on a corner of the mantelpiece. Migs took no notice of him but Frank continued to stand, for he was too polite to sit down before the older man.

  Dane smiled at him across the room. “Sit down, Frank,” he said, “you know my bad habits by this time. This is my favourite place and Sophie has given up her attenpts to make me behave like a civilised being. I can see you all so well, I can help myself to food when I want it, and I can join in the conversation or withdraw from it as I please.”

  “You could talk just as well if you sat down, sir,” declared Migs.

  “Haven’t you ever noticed that a man on his legs can talk down any seated man?” inquired Dane. “In an argument the advantage is with the standing man. I’d put my money on him every time.”

  Migs nodded. “Yes, unless there’s a desk in front of the seated man,” he said.

  Dane admitted this point—he was bound to admit it, for it aroused lively recollections of occasions when he had been forced to stand on the wrong side of a desk. The Headmaster’s Study, the Orderly Room … he glanced at Migs and caught his eye and smiled.

  After this conversation strayed happily as it always did when Sophie Braithwaite was present. Various points were raised and debated, and, whenever the talk flagged or became dull, Sophie was ready and willing to start a new theme. Frank was to remember this day and this particular tea-party for a very long time; he was to remember it when he was far away, and this was not because it was different from other tea-parties which took place during his stay at Fernacres, but rather because it was typical of every tea-party which took place there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frank had surrendered to the kindness of his new friends and for a time he was completely happy. He had never been so happy in his life. They all noticed his changed appearance, his light step, his ready smile, and the gay abandon with which he threw himself into the business of living.

  “You’re looking so much better, dear Frank,” Sophie told him.

  “It’s the English air,” replied Frank.

  The sun shone, the birds sang and everything was as nearly perfect as it could possibly be in a very imperfect world.

  The halcyon period lasted for nearly a fortnight, as halcyon periods often do, and then it ended abruptly. Frank discovered that he was in love. He discovered it quite suddenly when he was helping Wynne to put on her coat after a set of tennis … she slipped her arms i
nto the sleeves and he folded it around her … and Wynne looked up sideways to smile her thanks. She was so sweet … she was so dear and beautiful … he loved her.

  Once he discovered that he was in love he realised that he had been in love for some time. He could not believe that there had ever been a time when he was not deeply and tenderly in love with Wynne. He looked back, as all lovers do, and tried to decide when it had happened—had he been in love that day at Ashbourne? Yes, he had, and if he had not been a complete fool he might have realised it then. Had he been in love the day they had bathed with Roy and Harry? Yes, it must have been before that. He thought of the morning when the two policemen had come, he had been in love even then, for he could remember Wynne’s slight figure standing in the sunlight outside the open glass doors, and he could remember how his heart had stood still, and then raced madly with fear lest anything should happen to her.…

  Frank was dismayed when he considered the matter. He did not want love, and especially he shrank from the idea of loving Wynne. He remembered the ghastly affair of his father and mother. He was pulled in two directions. Sometimes he almost hated Wynne for what she had done to him, and at other times he abandoned himself to loving her; but whether he loved her or hated her it was impossible for him to keep his eyes off her. He watched her all the time. She was so lovely, so gay. Her spirit shone through the transparency of her skin like a bright light … she lived every moment of her life with childlike intensity. In his love Frank reverted to type and became a romantic, and all the beautiful old songs seemed to express what he felt. “Du bist wie eine Blume,” thought Frank—indeed it seemed to him that the poem must have been made for Wynne and Wynne alone. She was like a spring flower—gay and vivid and tender. He spent a few hours translating the poem into English with the vague idea that someday he might show it to her.

  “Thou’rt like a little blossom

  So pure and fair and bright.