The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Is Gladys behaving herself?” she inquired in a casual tone.

  “Gladys!” said Sophie in surprise. “Oh, Gladys … yes, I think so. She wants to go to her sister’s wedding on Saturday so I told her she could have the week-end. Barber and Rose will manage all right—they don’t mind a bit.”

  Wynne became aware that the trouble was not Gladys and she tried another tack. “Anything wrong with Roy?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, poor Roy!” said Sophie with a worried frown. “Where did I put his letter? He hasn’t a single pair of socks without a hole in them. I don’t know what Roy does to his socks … I must write to Harrods at once.”

  Wynne realised that Roy was perfectly sound and well. “What about Dane?” she inquired.

  There was a little silence and then Sophie said, “What about him, dear?”

  “I mean,” said Wynne, feeling sure that she was getting warm, “I mean … well, when is he coming home?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sophie shortly.

  “He’s been away a long time, hasn’t he?”

  “Three weeks and five days,” replied Sophie without thinking.

  “Sophie,” said Wynne, leaning forward and speaking very seriously. “Sophie, where is Dane? Do you know? Do you know what he’s doing or anything?”

  “No,” said Sophie, and she added, “you must remember to give that jumper to Rose. There’s a stitch gone and it will get worse if it isn’t mended … I told you about it yesterday.”

  “Yes, but what about Dane?” urged Wynne. “It’s funny that he hasn’t written.”

  “He would write if he could.”

  “If he could!” echoed Wynne. “Why couldn’t he write?”

  “Sometimes he can’t,” said Sophie firmly.

  Wynne looked at her in surprise—so Sophie knew what Dane did! That was odd. She waited a few moments and then she asked, “Are you worried about him?”

  “It isn’t any use being worried,” said Sophie, moving her hands vaguely. “He doesn’t like being worried about … and anyhow it doesn’t do any good. I mean I believe it does a person harm if you worry about them. You can pray, of course, and of course I always do … but, just lately I haven’t been able to pray in quite the same way. It’s as if there was thick cotton-wool between … well, between me and Heaven … such a horrid feeling …” and she looked at her daughter apologetically.

  Wynne nodded. “Yes,” she said, “but Dane will be all right—he always is. He’s so clever—much cleverer than he looks.”

  “He is clever of course,” agreed Sophie, “but still—”

  “And he’s got Hartley,” Wynne continued. “Hartley will look after him all right.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sophie a shade more cheerfully. “Yes, there’s Hartley, of course.”

  “I feel sure he’s all right.”

  “Do you?”

  “I have a sort of Feeling in my Bones … yes,” said Wynne, feeling her Feeling carefully, “yes, I’m sure Dane’s all right.”

  Sophie smiled. “Well dear,” she said, “I must say I’m a great believer in Feelings like that. It was really because I had a sort of Feeling that Dane … but perhaps …”

  “He’s all right,” Wynne assured her. “It was just that you … I mean you were worried about him, and so …”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sophie nodding.

  This conversation comforted Sophie a good deal and she decided to take some exercise, so, after she had written a letter to Harrods about Roy’s socks, and had seen Gladys to order the food (which seemed, on the whole a waste of time and energy when there were only Wynne and herself to eat it), and had listened with an assumption of interest which she was far from feeling to more details about the wedding arrangements, Sophie put on her hat and sallied forth with the intention of walking to the village and posting her letter at the Chellford post office so that it would reach its destination without delay.

  Mrs. Audley was working in her garden and she waved to Sophie and signalled with her hoe, and then came down to the gate, hoe in hand, to speak to her.

  “I haven’t seen you for ages,” said Mrs. Audley, “not since the flower show. It was better than usual, I thought.”

  “Yes,” said Sophie.

  “You ought to have got a first for your sweet peas.”

  “We got a third,” said Sophie. “And a first for our Gloire de Dijon roses. Ellis was awfully pleased.”

  “They were beautiful,” nodded Mrs. Audley; “so were your sweet peas. Ours were hopeless this year. We didn’t show any. It’s the first time for six years that we haven’t got a first for our sweet peas.”

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Sophie.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?” inquired Mrs. Audley, smiling at her.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Sophie. “Just the usual things.”

  “You ought to come to the bandaging class, Sophie.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sophie doubtfully. “I suppose I ought, but to tell you the truth I think it would be a waste of time. I’m not very clever at practical things.”

  It was true, of course, and Mrs. Audley knew it, and the thought shot through her mind that perhaps Sophie was right to absent herself from activities which were not in her line. There were people quite as vague and impractical as Sophie who attended the First Aid Classes regularly as clockwork—but what a nuisance they were!

  “I shouldn’t be any use,” continued Sophie earnestly, “because even if I learnt how to bandage properly I should be too frightened to do it when the time came. I should be frightened of doing quite the wrong thing and perhaps making them worse than they were before.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Audley kindly.

  There was silence for a few moments and then the subject was changed.

  “How’s Wynne?” Mrs. Audley inquired.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “That’s good,” said Mrs. Audley. “I thought … I wasn’t sure. Of course, it’s been very hot lately.”

  “Oh!” said Sophie, “er—yes … yes it has.”

  “And these young things are so energetic. They will dash about in the sun. Are you going to the Corbett’s Sherry Party?”

  They discussed the Corbetts’ Sherry Party for a minute or two and then Sophie walked on. She and Mrs. Audley had understood each other perfectly and, as Sophie now perceived, Mrs. Audley was right—there was something the matter with Wynne. It was Frank, of course. Sophie had been afraid of that all along … terrified of it. That was why she had been quite glad (in a way) when Frank had left Fernacres and gone to London; that was why she had said nothing about his coming back. Wynne had suggested twice that they should ask Frank to come down and spend a week-end, and on both occasions Sophie had provided a water-tight excuse. Then Frank and Roy had gone off together on that trip and Frank had vanished … Sophie thought about it and the more she thought the more worried she became … Wynne and Frank, Elsie and Otto … “Oh no!” cried Sophie to herself, dashing along the road in a sort of blind panic. “Oh no, not that. Please, God, don’t don’t let that happen.”

  Chapter Three

  It was tea-time at Fernacres and Sophie and Wynne were having it alone. Wynne was attired in her Girl Guide Captain’s uniform for she was going down to the hall directly afterwards. The girls were going to give an entertainment—a sing-song in the Village Hall—and this necessitated a good deal of extra work for Wynne. Nellie Gurney had had her operation and was almost well again, and Wynne was particularly glad of this because Nellie had a very sweet voice.

  “Last year there were such a lot of us,” said Sophie as she measured out the tea. “There was Dane, of course … he always takes Indian tea … and Frank liked it too.”

  “Yes,” said Wynne. She had been lying back in her chair gazing at the ceiling and not listening at all, but at the mention of Frank’s name she seemed to prick her ears. “Yes,” she said. “Frank likes strong tea … and he loves cream buns.”
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  “Nobody eats cream buns now,” continued Sophie, “so I told Barber we wouldn’t have them any more … it’s such a waste.”

  “They eat them in the kitchen, I suppose.”

  “Why should they?” Sophie inquired. “I mean Gladys can make a cake for them. Do you think Frank has gone back to Germany?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think he has. Roy said he had given up that job so where else could he go? If he were here—I mean in this country—he would come and see us, wouldn’t he?”

  “Not unless he was asked,” said Wynne.

  Sophie was aware of the implication but she ignored it. “My dear!” she exclaimed, “how can we ask him when we don’t know where he is?”

  “We knew where he was before,” Wynne pointed out. She hesitated a moment and then added, “Frank is very sensitive, you know. He wouldn’t go anywhere unless he was sure he would be welcome.”

  “Surely he knows us well enough … and anyhow he could have written. Why hasn’t he written to Roy or somebody?”

  “He will write,” said Wynne in a dreamy voice. “He will … someday.”

  There was quite a long silence after that. Sophie had time to pour out a cup of tea and drink it. She thought it tasted a little odd and discovered that she must have put sugar into it for there was crusted sugar at the bottom of the cup … quite a lot of it.

  “At least two lumps!” said Sophie, looking at it in surprise.

  “Two lumps?” inquired Wynne.

  “Of sugar,” explained Sophie. “So queer of me to put it in when I know I don’t like it … and so wasteful too. I gave up sugar in the war and I never liked it afterwards. I must have saved hundreds of pounds of sugar by now.”

  It was rather an interesting point, and they were still discussing the amount of sugar which had been saved by Sophie’s abstention over a period of twenty-three years, when Barber came in with the afternoon post … and they both saw that a letter from Dane lay on the top of the pile.

  Sophie took it and tore it open. “Oh, isn’t that nice!” she exclaimed. “He’s in Paris … and he’ll be home on Thursday.”

  “Lovely!” agreed Wynne, rising and seizing her hat.

  “The day after tomorrow,” added Sophie with a sigh of relief.

  “Yes,” agreed Wynne. “Yes, splendid … but you’d better buck up before he comes. You’re looking a bit under the weather.”

  The next morning Sophie announced that she was going to Kingsport to do some shopping. “Some things we need …” she said in her usual vague way. “It’s been so hot lately and there are one or two things …”

  Wynne was aware that Sophie wished to kill the fatted calf for Dane’s benefit.

  “You want to buy a duck, of course,” she said (it was always a duck for Dane and a chicken for Roy) and she added in a pleasant voice, “I’ll take you in the car.” It was rather a nuisance of course, but if Sophie wanted to go to Kingsport she must go—Wynne could easily put off the Audleys’ tennis—

  “No thank you, dear,” said Sophie.

  “Did you say, no?” inquired Wynne, unable to believe her ears.

  “I shall go in the bus,” explained Sophie. “Rose says there’s a bus at twenty minutes past ten—it will suit me beautifully.”

  “But Sophie darling, you hate buses—”

  “It will be a change,” said Sophie—and she blushed.

  Wynne looked at her in amazement and she perceived that there was a mystery here. It was so unlike Sophie to deal in mysteries that she was quite alarmed. “Don’t be silly,” she said in affectionate tones. “You know I like taking you, darling, and I can do some shopping, too. How long will you be?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know how long.” replied Sophie. “It’s very kind of you, dear, but I want to be perfectly free and not have the feeling that someone is waiting for me.”

  Wynne saw the point. “All right,” she said, “but you had better hurry. The bus won’t wait for you.”

  Wynne despatched her mother safely and then went on to the Audleys’ and played tennis all the morning. She returned home at lunch-time to find that Sophie had not come back—nor was she expected back, for there was only one place at the table. She saw that she ought to have inquired more thoroughly into Sophie’s plans … it was really most peculiar.

  “She’ll be home for tea, I suppose,” said Wynne as she sat down to her solitary repast.

  “I don’t know, I’m sure, Miss,” replied Barber shortly.

  It was obvious from Barber’s manner that she had formed an entirely wrong impression of the whole affair, but Wynne could do nothing to clear herself of guilt; she could not very well explain to Barber that she had offered to take her mother to Kingsport and that her offer had been refused. “They’re all talking about it, I suppose.” said Wynne to herself, as she toyed about with her food under Barber’s reproachful eye, “they’re all saying I’m a beast not to take her in the car. I wish to goodness I’d been firmer about it.”

  At three-thirty Wynne was at the gate, peering down the road for the Kingsport bus. She saw it coming in the distance and watched it anxiously … but the bus did not stop at Fernacres gate, it swooped past in a swirl of dust and Wynne was left staring after it in surprise and dismay. She was aware that there was not another until five-fifteen and she was quite absurdly worried. “I’m a perfect fool,” declared Wynne to herself. “Anyone would think Sophie was five years old …” but this reflection did not comfort her much.

  There was nothing to be done except wait in patience, and Wynne’s stock of patience was not very large. She returned to the house and spent an hour tidying her clothes—it was a duty long overdue. Her chest of drawers looked very nice when she had finished and there was a pile of discarded pullovers and stockings which would gladden the hearts of some of the Guides. She had also found a very pretty blue scarf which had been lost for months.

  It was tea-time now, and Wynne had tea by herself (she could have rung up Nina, of course, but she did not feel like company. Besides Nina would be sure to think that she had been grumpy about taking Sophie to Kingsport. She hadn’t been grumpy, but Nina wouldn’t believe it.) Wynne turned on the radio—a recent acquisition—and listened to a band from Bournemouth but, although they were playing selections from “Iolanthe”—an opera which Wynne adored—she did not enjoy it as much as usual.

  At five-fifteen Wynne was once more at the gate and this time the bus drew up and Sophie was helped down the step by the conductor. She was laden with parcels; and more parcels and boxes were handed out to her by the conductor and her fellow passengers, all of whom had obviously become deeply attached to her during the twenty-minute drive.

  “Thank you so much,” Sophie said. “How kind of you! Oh thank you … yes, I shall manage beautifully now … I see my daughter has come to meet me. Yes, thank you. Goodbye. Goodbye, and thank you so much, I do hope your cold will soon be better …”

  “Sophie!” exclaimed Wynne. “Sophie, where on earth …”

  “My dear, such a nice man,” declared Sophie, picking some of the parcels off the road and piling them into Wynne’s arms. “Such a very very nice man … but he’s had a cold for three weeks. You see, a bus is a draughty sort of place and he can’t get rid of it. I told him about Coldine and he promised to get a bottle this evening when he gets back to Kingsport …”

  “Sophie,” said Wynne again. She had intended to be very dignified and reproachful, for she really had been extremely worried about Sophie, but it is almost impossible to be dignified and reproachful with your arms full of parcels.

  “Yes,” said Sophie. “Don’t drop the duck … I had to bring it with me because it might not have been in time … and that’s my new hat, so don’t crush it.”

  “Sophie, where have you been? Where have you been?”

  They were both aware that Sophie had been to Kingsport, but that was not what Wynne meant. Sophie knew what she meant of course.

  “Oh,
my dear!” said Sophie in concern, “were you worried about me? I am sorry but I thought I could be certain to get the other bus. It took so much longer than I expected and she wasn’t ready to start until half past two.”

  “Sophie, do stop dithering and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “Wynne!” exclaimed Sophie. “Really, Wynne! If I had spoken to my mother like that I don’t know what would have happened.”

  They had reached the house by now, and Wynne put down her load upon the hall table. “All right,” she said, “if you don’t want to tell me, don’t.”

  “Wynne, I only—”

  “But I don’t think it’s very kind of you,” added Wynne.

  “Oh Wynne, darling!” exclaimed Sophie in distress. “I would have told you only it seemed so silly, and I was rather ashamed, really. I thought you might think it was a waste of money (it cost such a lot) but the girl assured me that it wasn’t, and she said I had such a nice skin. She was a most delightful girl—her father is a Colonel in the Indian Army and she was out there, too—most interesting, she was. I’ve got to put one kind of stuff on at night and quite a different kind in the morning … Oh dear!” cried Sophie, searching feverishly amongst the parcels, “oh dear, I hope to goodness I haven’t lost it.”

  “Here it is,” said Wynne, putting a small parcel marked “Harriet Sherwood” into her hands; “but I can’t for the life of me understand why you couldn’t say you were going to have a facial treatment or a mud pack or whatever it was. It would have saved me a good deal of unnecessary suffering,” added Wynne, half laughing and half in earnest.

  “I was rather ashamed,” repeated Sophie, “… besides it was you who suggested it.”