Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “She’s not forgotten the row,” declared Mrs. Duff. “She’s just put it all out of her mind.”

  “It’s the same thing, Kate,” said Nannie in surprise.

  “It’s not. It’s quite different.”

  “If you forget a thing——”

  “But she’s not forgotten. She’s just put it out of her mind.”

  Roger listened to them arguing. Mrs. Duff was right, thought Roger. He knew exactly what she meant and agreed with her.

  “Och, well,” said Mrs. Duff at last. “I know what I mean and I know I’m right, but it’s no good arguing with you. I’d as soon start an argument with Ailsa Craig—it would be more useful.”

  “What about Stephen?” asked Roger tactfully.

  The red herring was successful as he knew it would be. They both adored Stephen and could talk about him endlessly without the slightest disagreement.

  *

  2.

  When they had finished discussing Stephen and his doings there was a short silence.

  “And the new governess is a nice enough creature,” said Mrs. Duff.

  “Not bad at all,” agreed Nannie.

  “Oh yes, the new governess,” nodded Roger. He remembered now. Nell’s last letter had informed him of Miss Paterson’s departure and the arrival of a substitute. “She’s like a horse,” Nell had written. “A very nice-looking horse—if you know what I mean! She’s got very long legs and she wears trousers.” Roger had smiled over the description (he had never seen a horse wearing trousers). As a matter of fact the description had not predisposed Roger to the new governess for he was allergic to trousers upon a female. It was Roger’s firm conviction that no female looked well in trousers. He was surprised to find Mrs. Duff and Nannie so enthusiastic about the woman—“nice enough creature” and “not bad at all” were the height of praise.

  “She’s no bother,” continued Nannie. “I will say that. We’ve given her the nursery flat to herself. I’ve come down to the dressing room to keep an eye on Mrs. Ayrton. It seemed queer at first not to be in the nursery, but I’m getting used to it—and it saves me the stairs. My legs are not as young as they were and that’s the truth.”

  Mrs. Duff gave Roger a look that was almost a wink.

  “That sounds a splendid arrangement,” said Roger solemnly. He was aware that Nell had been trying for years to coax Nannie down from the nursery flat.

  “I’m getting used to it,” repeated Nannie. “At first I was always finding myself halfway up the nursery stairs.”

  “She’s teaching them well,” put in Mrs. Duff as she poured out another cup of tea and pressed another large slice of cake upon her guest. “There’s not a doubt she’s teaching them better than Miss Paterson.”

  “I’m not so keen on the running,” Nannie declared. “It seems daft to me. I never knew a child yet that couldn’t run of its own accord.”

  “Running?” asked Roger in surprise.

  “She’s mad about it—” began Nannie.

  “Wheesht, this’ll be her!” exclaimed Mrs. Duff holding up her finger.

  The kitchen door opened and a young woman came in with a tray in her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, putting down the tray and turning hastily. “I wouldn’t have come in if I’d known you had a visitor.”

  Roger got up. He could not think of anything to say; but Mrs. Duff rose to the occasion.

  “It’s not a visitor, it’s the major,” said Mrs. Duff with admirable poise. “It’s Major Ayrton, Miss Glassford.”

  Roger had time to think of several things as the young woman hesitated at the door. He thought: Good old Duffy! No society hostess could have done it better. And of course Nell is right—she is like a horse.

  But all the same Nell’s description had given Roger an entirely wrong idea of the new governess, for although she was like a horse, had unusually long legs and wore trousers she was very attractive indeed with smooth dark hair and a beautiful complexion. She was tall and slender . . . and as Roger looked at her he was obliged to revise his lifelong conviction and to admit that there was at least one exception to the rule about females in trousers.

  “I’ve just arrived,” said Roger. “Mrs. Duff is giving me a cup of tea.”

  “We were expecting you on Friday——”

  “I flew,” explained Roger smiling.

  They shook hands. Miss Glassford’s hand was cool and firm. There was no nonsense about her handshake.

  “It’s Amberwell’s fault,” continued Roger. “I didn’t mean to fly, but when I begin to think about Amberwell it makes me impatient to get home.”

  “I don’t wonder.”

  “You like Amberwell?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  Miss Glassford said no more than that, but it was enough. Panegyrics about the beauty of Amberwell would have spoilt the effect completely.

  By this time Nannie and Mrs. Duff had begun to clear the table so it was easy for Roger and Miss Glassford to talk. They began by discussing the weather, but soon got on to Stephen’s scholastic progress.

  “Stephen is precocious in some ways, but a little backward in others,” said his new instructress. “I think Miss Paterson’s methods must have been old-fashioned. Emmie is different of course. Emmie has had a proper grounding.”

  Roger was not so interested in Emmie. “Will you be able to push him on?” asked Roger anxiously.

  “Oh yes, but not all at once. You can’t cram children of eight years old.”

  Roger explained that he did not want Stephen crammed, but he did want him to be up to standard before he went to school.

  “School?” asked Miss Glassford in surprise. “Miss Ayrton didn’t say Stephen was going to school.”

  “Oh, not till next year at the very earliest,” Roger assured her.

  Miss Glassford sighed. “Of course it would be splendid for Stephen but I can’t help feeling a little sad. You won’t want me when Stephen goes to school, will you?”

  What could Roger say? Of course they would not want her, but how brutal it would be to say so! It was quite impossible to say so with Miss Glassford’s soft brown eyes gazing at him appealingly. Miss Glassford’s soft brown eyes had a sort of hypnotic effect upon Roger and he did not know whether to be glad or sorry when the conversation was broken off by Nannie exclaiming that she heard voices in the hall.

  “It’s them!” cried Nannie. “Oh my, won’t they be excited when they see you!”

  *

  3.

  Stephen sat upon Roger’s bed and watched him unpack. There were presents for Stephen in the suitcase—he had known there would be presents and he would not have been human if he had not watched eagerly for them to come to light—but the presents were nothing compared with the joy of seeing his father and knowing that he would be here at Amberwell for three whole weeks.

  “We’ll bathe, won’t we?” said Stephen. “I can swim now—very nearly. Can we have a picnic tomorrow at the Smuggler’s Cave?”

  “I don’t know about tomorrow. I’m going to be pretty busy with one thing and another . . . here, Stephen, catch!” A brown-paper parcel came flying across the room and landed on the bed.

  “Ooh, what can it be,” cried Stephen falling upon it and tearing off the string. It was a mechanical toy, a little acrobat who turned amusing somersaults. Stephen was enchanted with the gift.

  It was amazing to Roger to see Stephen growing up, to watch the development of his personality. Every time Roger returned to Amberwell he discovered a new and more mature Stephen. This time Stephen had grown from a child into a little boy and somehow in the process had become more like Clare. He was very like Clare, thought Roger: the small pointed face, so full of affection and intelligence, and the bright eager eyes. Even the unruly lock of hair which strayed onto Stephen’s forehead reminded Roger of Clare.

  “Can I have a holiday while you’re here, Daddy?” asked Stephen. “Aunt Nell said she thought I could, but I was to ask you.”

  “Not all
the time, I’m afraid. You see you’ve got to buck up like anything with lessons. You don’t want to be behind the other boys when you go to school.”

  “Am I going to school?”

  “All boys go to school.”

  “But Daddy, that would mean going away from Amberwell!” cried Stephen in dismay.

  Roger looked at his son thoughtfully. Here was another Ayrton who already, at eight years old, had got Amberwell in his blood.

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Roger. “I’ve got a plan about that . . . but anyhow it won’t be for ages, so there’s no need to worry. Look, Stephen, here’s another parcel.”

  This time the parcel did not come flying across the room. Roger brought it over to the bed and helped to open it. This time it was a very small parcel with a box inside—and, inside the box, there was a little silver watch wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Oh Daddy, a watch!” shrieked Stephen. “A real watch of my very own! Oh Daddy, how gorgeous!”

  The watch was strapped firmly onto the small thin wrist to the joy and delight of its new owner. Roger’s pleasure in the gift was somewhat dimmed by the thinness of the wrist.

  Stephen was not so robust as other boys. It was no wonder, for he had come through a dreadful experience when he was a few weeks old. When the bomb fell upon the house in London, and Clare was killed, the baby had been buried in the ruins. It had been thought by the salvage men that there were no survivors but Roger, who had arrived on the scene shortly after the explosion, had heard the baby crying. Clare was gone—there was no hope of saving her—but the baby was alive. Clare’s baby, the precious little creature that she had loved so dearly, was somewhere in the midst of that ghastly pile of rubble. Roger crawled in beneath the twisted girders and tottering masonry and found him.

  The baby had been sent to Amberwell and had arrived there very ill indeed. He had been at death’s door and if it had not been for Nell and Nannie, who had nursed him tenderly and coaxed him back to life, he certainly would not have recovered.

  All this passed through Roger’s mind as he strapped the watch onto the thin little wrist—and that awful night of agony seemed real and near, as if it had happened last week instead of eight years ago.

  “What’s the matter, Daddy?” asked Stephen.

  “Nothing,” said Roger hastily. “Nothing’s the matter. We’re going to have a fine time. We’re going to have picnics and we’re going to bathe and we must go round Amberwell—you and I together—and look at all the old haunts, but we’ve got work to do as well. I’ve got various things to arrange and you’ve got your lessons, so we can’t just enjoy ourselves all the time.”

  Chapter Three

  1.

  “What do you think of Georgina?” Nell enquired.

  Dinner was over and she and Roger had settled down comfortably in the morning room for a talk. Nell had her mending-basket beside her and Roger had lighted his pipe.

  “Georgina?” echoed Roger in surprise.

  “Miss Glassford,” explained Nell. “She asked me to call her Georgina. I’m finding it rather difficult but it would be rude not to—when she’s asked me.”

  Roger smiled; it was so like Nell.

  “Georgina is a difficult name,” continued Nell. “I believe I could manage it better if her name was—was Margaret, or Helen. I mean something fairly ordinary. The only thing to do is to practice saying it to myself over and over again.”

  “Have you managed it yet?”

  “Not to her face. It’s awfully silly, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” said Roger comfortingly. “In fact I think it was silly of her to ask you. Either you feel like calling a person by her Christian name—or else you don’t.”

  Roger was quite pleased at the red herring which saved him from the necessity of answering Nell’s question. He was not ready to say what he thought of Georgina Glassford.

  “She’s a good teacher,” said Nell. “She makes lessons more interesting than Miss Paterson.”

  “That’s good,” said Roger. “Lessons ought to be interesting and we want Stephen to be up to the right standard before he goes to school.”

  “Oh Roger, don’t send him to school,” exclaimed Nell in dismay.

  “Nell, listen——”

  “Oh Roger—please! You know how delicate Stephen is. He might be miserable, miles away from home. He might get ill. There isn’t a good school anywhere near. It would mean sending him to Edinburgh—and he isn’t used to boys——”

  “That’s just it. Listen, Nell——”

  “But he’s got Emmie to play with—it would be different if he were alone—and they get on splendidly——”

  “Will you listen to me for a moment?” cried Roger. “I want to tell you something. I’ve been thinking about this for months and I’ve got a Big Idea.”

  Roger had been thinking about the problem for months, in fact ever since he had gone back to Germany after his Christmas leave. On the one hand he felt that Stephen really ought to go to school, and have the companionship of other boys and learn to look after himself, and on the other hand he felt that Nell had a right to her say in the matter and that he had no right to seize Stephen away and pack him off to school.

  Roger was still shillyshallying when he received a letter from Arnold Maddon presenting him with another problem to solve; Arnold’s affairs were not really Roger’s responsibility of course, but all the same he was very anxious to help him. Arnold’s father was the doctor at Westkirk and had attended the Ayrton family for years. Arnold himself was a year younger than Roger, he had played in the Amberwell Gardens when they were all children together and in fact had been one of Roger’s closest friends. Later, when they grew up, their ways had parted: Arnold had gone to Cambridge and Roger to the Army, so they had not met for years, but they wrote to one another occasionally and Roger heard news of his friend through Nell. He had heard that Arnold had been wounded in the war—so badly wounded that he had spent several years in hospital—and he had heard that at long last Arnold had been released from the hospital with an artificial foot and was living with his father in Westkirk. Roger felt a little guilty when he saw Arnold’s letter amongst his other correspondence for he had intended to write to Arnold.

  The letter started in a ribald manner which made Roger smile but his smile faded as he read on:

  I felt a bit like Rip van Winkle when I got out of hospital. It’s rather an alarming experience to tumble suddenly into a big bustling world and rather humiliating to find oneself de trop. I have been trying to get a job and have been answering advertisements and pursuing possible openings all over the country but nobody seems to want me. A post as junior master in a boys’ school is the sort of thing that would suit me best, but unfortunately most schools would rather have a hefty fellow with two feet who could coach rugger and take the boys for cross-country runs. I don’t blame them really. What use is a cripple even if he does happen to have a First in History and Mods.? Now, at last, I have heard of a post in a small private school in North London. It is a dim sort of place and I did not like the headmaster—he was rather Squeerish I thought—but I have got to the stage when I would take any sort of job. You see I can’t go on living at home and doing nothing. Dad has been wonderful to me but quite honestly he can’t afford to keep me here eating my head off and not earning a penny piece. The point of all this drivel is that the headmaster wants a reference and I thought perhaps you would not mind writing a thing to say I am honest and respectable and moderate in my habits! You could also say you had known me since my boyhood without stretching the truth. Sorry to bother you, old top, but it would be helpful.

  Yours ever

  Arnold.

  Roger had immediately sat down and written a glowing testimonial which he could do quite easily “without stretching the truth” for Arnold was a fine fellow and extremely clever. In fact Roger was of the opinion that any school would be very lucky indeed to get Arnold as a master—despite the handicap. It would be nice to enc
lose a fat cheque in the envelope, thought Roger, but of course he could not do so; Arnold would be furious. He sat and thought about it sadly. What a waste! Arnold as a junior master at Dotheboys Hall!

  Then quite suddenly Roger’s two problems clicked together in his mind and he saw that they solved each other. The Big Idea was born. He would buy a large house in the vicinity of Amberwell and start a school himself; thus Arnold would have a worth-while job and Stephen could be educated within comfortable reach of his home.

  Fortunately Roger was in a position to back his plan financially, for he had inherited a fortune from his wife, and although he looked upon the money as belonging to Stephen he need have no qualms about using some of it for this purpose. It would benefit Stephen, and other people as well, and it was a project which would have appealed to Clare—he was sure of that.

  This was one of the occasions where money was useful; it was not always an asset, Roger had found. Most of his brother officers had little beyond their pay, and those with families had difficulties in making ends meet. It was embarrassing to sit and listen to their conversation upon the subject—and to say nothing yourself. You would willingly have helped them but it was not easy, for those you would have liked to help were too proud to accept a penny and the other kind were apt to sponge, knowing that you could afford to pay for their entertainment and seeing no reason why you should not do so.

  The more Roger thought about his plan the more he liked it and instead of despatching the glowing testimonial to his friend he tore it into small pieces and sent a cable saying:

  RETURNING AMBERWELL FRIDAY KEEP

  YOURSELF FREE UNTIL I SEE YOU.

  *

  2.

  All this had happened only a few days ago, and so far Roger had said nothing to anybody about his Big Idea; before the thing was settled he wanted to discuss it with Nell.

  “Look here, Nell,” said Roger. “Stephen really must go to school. We don’t want him to grow up a sissy. You wouldn’t worry about him if he could go to school near Amberwell, would you?”