SUMMERHILLS
D. E. Stevenson
© D. E. Stevenson 1978
D. E. Stevenson has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1978 by Ace Books.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
ENVOI
Chapter One
1.
The aeroplane was flying over green rolling hills; they were beautiful hills, bathed in summer sunshine, with the shadows of small clouds trailing across them. Here and there was the flash of a little burn or a sky-blue tarn and there were dozens of tiny white dots—which were sheep. Major Roger Ayrton, looking down over the silvery wing of the aircraft, recognised the hills as the Cheviots. He had seen many hills of all sorts and sizes (during the war he had served in Africa, in Italy and in Germany), but no scenery however magnificent gave him the same pleasure as the rolling hills of his own country.
Roger had left Hamburg that morning, had changed planes at London Airport and was now on his way to Renfrew. The flight had been somewhat uncomfortable for they had run into bad weather and been forced out of course, but that was over now and best forgotten. Looking round at his fellow passengers, Roger saw that they were recovering from their unpleasant experience and their faces were resuming a natural expression and hue. This recovery was completed by the second pilot who came into the cabin with a breezy air to promise clear skies and a happy landing.
“We’re a bit late, aren’t we?” asked Roger.
“About half an hour, that’s all,” replied the man. He hesitated and then added a trifle diffidently, “I don’t suppose you remember me, sir?”
Roger prided himself upon his memory for faces, but although he had a vague feeling that he had seen the man before he was unable to place him. Was it in the Desert Campaign? Was it in Italy? Could it have been before that when he was training recruits on Salisbury Plain?
“My name is Fraser,” said the second pilot. “I worked for a bit in Amberwell Gardens before the war.”
“Did you!” exclaimed Roger. “Well, of course I ought to remember you, but I expect you’ve changed a good deal since those days.”
Even now Roger could not place him, for there had been so many garden-boys at Amberwell—boys in earth-stained overalls who had dug and burrowed and mowed under the eagle eye of Mr. Gray, and this man was smart and dapper in his pilot’s uniform.
“I’ve changed a good deal,” agreed Fraser smiling. “I was a dirty little tyke in those days and Mr. Gray was always after me, but all the same I was very happy at Amberwell and I often used to think of the gardens—the green stretches of grass and the fine old trees—when we were in the desert with the sun glaring down and miles of nothing but sand.”
Roger had had the same experience. He had often thought of his home when he was in the desert. It had been like an oasis—far off and unobtainable, haunting his dreams.
“I knew you at once, sir,” continued Fraser eagerly. “You came home on leave from Sandhurst while I was there. I was at Amberwell when you had a big Christmas party and I helped to carry in the tree—and I saw it when you and Mr. Tom and the three young ladies had decorated it with tinsel and fairy-lights and coloured balls. I thought it was beautiful. And I found a sprig of mistletoe in the woods for Mr. Tom. He was the one for jokes!”
“He still is,” declared Roger smiling.
“Perhaps you don’t remember . . .”
Roger remembered the Christmas party very well indeed. It was the winter when his parents had gone to South Africa and Aunt Beatrice had come to Amberwell to keep an eye on things. Aunt Beatrice was a queer mixture, sometimes moody and irritable, sometimes cheerful, so that you never knew where you were; but it was she who had ordained the party and organised it, and the party had been a tremendous success.
“And the young ladies,” said Fraser. “I hope they’re all right. Miss Connie was the pretty one and Miss Nell was the shy one. I don’t think she ever spoke to me once, all the time I was there, but she had a very nice smile . . . and Miss Anne was the laughing one. How she used to laugh! There was one afternoon when I was cutting the bowling-green and you were all having tea out of doors. There was some joke on and you were all laughing. Miss Anne was rolling about on the ground—helpless.”
“Yes,” said Roger smiling. “She used to laugh like that.”
“I hope—” began Fraser.
“Oh she’s all right, but of course she’s grown-up now,” Roger explained.
“Oh, of course.”
“She married when she was very young and her husband died. She’s got a little daughter. Connie is married too; she’s got three children.”
“Fancy that!” exclaimed Fraser. “It doesn’t seem all that time ago since I was at Amberwell.”
Roger did not reply; to him it seemed a very long time ago since the five of them had played so happily in Amberwell Gardens.
“I hope you didn’t mind me speaking to you, sir,” continued Fraser. “I wouldn’t have bothered you but we’ll be passing over the Ayrshire Coast in a few minutes and I thought you’d be interested to see Amberwell from the air.” He lowered his voice and added, “I told the pilot about you being in the plane and he said we’d come down a bit lower and give you a good view.”
“But will that be all right?” asked Roger in surprise. “I mean I don’t want him to—to—”
“Absolutely O.K.,” replied Fraser cheerfully. “Don’t you worry about that. It’s a pity we can’t drop you off as we pass. I suppose that’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m going home to Amberwell.”
The mere saying of these words gave Roger’s heart a lift. He was going home to Amberwell. He had been looking forward to his leave for months, he had arranged things so that he could take his leave in June. Amberwell was always lovely, but in June it was at its best—breathtakingly beautiful.
*
2.
The pilot was even better than his word for not only did the plane “come down a bit lower” on reaching Amberwell but it banked and circled once, so Roger experienced the curious sensation of seeing his property rise up from the ground. He had flown a great deal, so he was aware that it was merely an illusion—the plane was leaning sideways, that was all—but to see Amberwell rising up like a tilted plate and looking in through the window was quite extraordinary. Roger gazed at it, entranced. The old grey house lay in a fold of the hills and all round it were the gardens, gay with flowers and blossoms, green with lawns and trees. There was the bowling-green, surrounded by its high hedge of yew, and beyond was the kitchen-garden, sheltered within sturdy stone walls. Roger could see the avenue winding down to the gates and he could see the slender spire of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church which had been built by his great-grandfather. . . . The Town of Westkirk looked like a toy town with its harbour full of toy boats; the tide was out,
revealing stretches of pale brown sands and rocks covered with seaweed.
Roger’s delight in this unusual view of his home was slightly marred by the feeling that this should not be happening. He had no idea how much latitude the pilot of a civil aircraft was allowed, but he was pretty certain that a tour round a passenger’s private estate was out of order. Perhaps he should have refused—but how could he? The reactions of the other passengers added to his uneasiness; they laid aside their books and papers and looked out of the windows in surprise.
“Are we there?” somebody enquired.
“We’re coming down, aren’t we?”
“But this isn’t Renfrew!”
The plane, having accomplished a circle, rose higher and flew on.
“What was that in aid of?” asked another passenger casually.
Nobody replied.
Fraser had said jokingly, “It’s a pity we can’t drop you off as we pass.” This was the obvious thing to say, so obvious as to be rather foolish, but now that Roger had seen Amberwell and was watching it disappear rapidly into the distance he would have given a good deal to step out of the plane and float down to the ground. It was almost unbearable to be carried on to Renfrew. What an ass I am! said Roger to himself. I’ve waited months and months quite patiently. Why should I begin to fuss now? That was the curious thing about Amberwell: when one was far away one remembered it off and on, as one remembered one’s childhood with a vague nostalgia which was not unpleasant, but the moment one started home one was filled with impatience. Amberwell pulled like a magnet; the nearer one approached the harder it pulled.
However there was nothing to be done but to curb his impatience. He could hire a car at Renfrew and be home in time for tea and as they were not expecting him until Friday (for it was only at the last minute he had made up his mind to fly) he would walk in and surprise them. They would be having tea on the terrace as they always did in fine warm weather. Nell would be sitting at the table behind the silver teapot and beside her, tucking into scones and honey, would be Stephen. These two were all the world to Roger: Nell, his half-sister, and Stephen, his little son. They had been all the world to Roger ever since his young wife had been killed in London in an air raid when Stephen was a few weeks old. Clare’s death had been such a terrible shock that Roger’s heart had withered within him and he had felt that he would never care for anybody again. But that was eight years ago now, and although Roger still thought of Clare quite often the memory was no longer unbearable.
The third member of Roger’s household was his stepmother. She would be having tea on the terrace too—reclining upon her chaise longue with a rug over her knees and a little table beside her. Mrs. Ayrton had been an autocrat in her day (when he was a boy Roger had been frightened of her) but now she was ageing, her reactions were slow and she had lost her grip. It was Nell who held the reins and guided Amberwell. Nell managed everything—and yet she was not a managing sort of person. Nell was still “the shy one” as Fraser had said. She was so quiet and retiring that people scarcely noticed her and despite all that she accomplished she was unsure of herself and doubtful of her own capabilities. Dear Nell, thought Roger, it would be lovely to see her and have a good chat. There were all sorts of things—some important and some not—that Roger wanted to discuss with Nell.
The plane was now approaching Renfrew. Roger’s thoughts were interrupted and a problem presented itself to his mind. What ought I to do? he wondered. Shall I thank the pilot for giving me a tour round Amberwell or not? Could I possibly give him something—or couldn’t I? It was rather a difficult problem, but fortunately it was resolved quite easily for when the plane had landed and the door was opened the pilot was standing at the bottom of the steps, and Roger knew, the moment he laid eyes on the man, that he could not offer him money. Besides, the other passengers were crowding round and there was only time to shake the pilot’s hand and to murmur, “Thanks awfully, I enjoyed it,” before passing on.
Chapter Two
1.
Roger had decided to approach the terrace by a flight of stone steps leading from the garden. It would be fun to surprise his family by running up the steps and saying, “Hullo!” He left his luggage at the front door, paid the taxi and went round the side of the house. The gardens looked beautiful in the afternoon sunshine; the lawns smooth and green, the borders a mass of colour. During the war the gardens had been neglected and the whole place had got into a frightful condition, but Mr. Gray had managed to get it into proper order again. Of course Mr. Gray was not satisfied and grumbled that the grass would never be the same and the hedges were ruined for want of pruning and the weeds which had flourished unchecked were still coming up every year, but to Roger the place looked beautiful; he could find no flaw in it.
He passed beneath a trellis of roses and paused for a few moments beside the lily pool. There was a rock in the middle of the water and on the rock sat the bronze mermaid with a shell in her hand. Roger remembered when the pool was made and the fountain placed in position, and he remembered the first time he had seen the fountain playing and how the water had sprung up from the shell like a silver pillar in the moonlight, with opalescent rainbows in the falling drops. How long ago it seemed!
But it was no use dawdling here. Roger wanted to see his family and have a cup of tea, so he turned and ran up the steps to the terrace; but he did not say “Hullo!” because nobody was there.
For a few moments Roger stood there gazing at the empty terrace. He had imagined the scene so vividly that he could hardly believe his eyes, but perhaps they were having tea in the morning room this afternoon. Roger opened the French windows and looked in. No, they were not there. He was ridiculously disappointed—even a trifle annoyed—for Roger had never in all his life returned to Amberwell and not found Nell to welcome him. It was quite an unreasonable feeling of course because they were not expecting him until Friday.
Having looked all over the house and failed to find his relatives, Roger made a bee-line for the kitchen and pushing open the door discovered Mrs. Duff and Nannie sitting at the table having tea. They did not see him at first and Roger stood and looked at them affectionately. These two were part of Amberwell. Roger could not remember a time when they had not been here. Mrs. Duff had been born on the estate—her father had been his grandfather’s coachman—and Nannie had been with the Ayrtons since Roger was an infant in arms. They were old now. Roger, who had not seen them for some time, realised that they were both very old and it made him feel sad. Amberwell would not be the same when——
“Maircy, it’s Mr. Roger!” exclaimed Mrs. Duff.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Roger smiling.
They both rose with remarkable alacrity and began to talk at once, welcoming the wanderer with delight, declaring that he was not expected till Friday and explaining that the family had all gone to tea at the Rectory.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Nannie. “Nell will be upset! Fancy you arriving and her not here!”
“Well, never mind,” said Roger. “You’ll give me a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“I’ll make a fresh pot and take it through to the morning room,” suggested Nannie.
“But I’d much rather have it here with you,” said Roger smiling.
Nannie and Mrs. Duff were very pleased, and presently the three of them were sitting round the table and Roger was hearing all the news.
“Mrs. Ayrton’s not too grand,” said Nannie. “Very wandery, she is.”
“But not always,” objected Mrs. Duff. “Just off and on—and if you ask me she knows a good deal more about what’s going on than you think.”
“How does she get on with Anne?” asked Roger.
This was one of the problems which Roger wanted to solve, and he had no qualms at all in asking Mrs. Duff and Nannie about it, for these two were loyal to the core and knew as much about the Ayrton family as Roger himself—perhaps more, if the truth be told. Anne was Roger’s youngest step-sister, she had married when scarc
ely more than a child and without her parents’ consent. They had been very angry, of course—any parents would have been angry—but instead of making the best of a bad job they had literally cast her off and forbidden her to write to her family. Perhaps they had not intended to cast her off completely; perhaps in time they would have relented—Roger did not know—but the War had come and Anne had vanished. Anne and her husband had moved from their little flat in London leaving no address. When Roger returned from France he had tried to trace them, but without avail, and it was years before Anne was found. By this time her husband, Martin Selby, had died and Anne was working in a market-garden near London and was having a hard struggle to keep herself and her little girl.
Roger often wondered what had happened to Anne during those lost years; she said very little about them but they had changed her from a happy-hearted child into a serious-minded woman with a passion for independence. It was the passion for independence that bothered Roger, for instead of coming home and living comfortably at Amberwell—which seemed to him the obvious thing for her to do—she had insisted on “doing a job” and in Roger’s opinion Anne’s job was most unsuitable. She was keeping house for old Mr. Orme, the rector of St. Stephen’s at Westkirk. She and little Emmie were living in the Rectory at the gates of Amberwell and in spite of Roger’s efforts to induce them to come home Anne refused to budge. The only concession Anne had made in response to Roger’s persuasions was the acceptance of his offer that little Emmie should come to Amberwell daily and do her lessons with Stephen.
All this was in Roger’s mind when he put his question to Mrs. Duff and Nannie; he wanted to see Anne again, and renew his persuasions, but before doing so it was important for him to know how she was getting on with her mother. Nell would tell him of course (he would ask Nell about it) but it would be useful to hear what these two had to say on the subject.
“It’s funny,” said Nannie, stirring her tea with a thoughtful air. “It’s funny how Mrs. Ayrton’s taken to Anne. All those years when she wouldn’t speak of Anne—and now Anne can twist her round her finger. Sometimes I wonder if she’s forgotten the row altogether.”
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 1
