Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “There isn’t one,” said Nell.

  “We’ll make one,” said Roger . . . and he proceeded to lay bare his plans. “You see, don’t you?” said Roger earnestly. “It would solve the whole problem. If Stephen could go to school near Amberwell you could keep an eye on him and see he was all right.”

  “Yes,” said Nell a little doubtfully. “Yes, that wouldn’t be quite so bad. There’s no hurry of course.”

  Roger left it at that. Nell would think about it and gradually she would realise what a splendid idea it was. Meantime Roger intended to get on with his plan for there was a great deal to do: he must see Arnold about it; he must find a suitable house and put in hand the necessary alterations.

  “There’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about,” said Roger after a short silence. “I wondered whether there was any chance of persuading Anne to come home.”

  “Oh Roger, I wish you could!”

  “You’re sure it would work?”

  “Of course it would work. It would be splendid. You see Anne understands Mother. I’ve never understood Mother,” said Nell rather sadly. “I’ve tried my best, but it’s hopeless. I simply can’t understand what she’s thinking or feeling. For instance when Anne came to see her after all those years there was no reconciliation; Mother never even kissed her. Mother just accepted her as if she had been away for the week-end and sent me to make the tea. Wasn’t that strange?”

  Roger nodded. As a matter of fact Nell had told him this before, and he had thought it very strange indeed, but Mrs. Duffs explanation threw light upon the subject. “She’s just put it all out of her mind,” Mrs. Duff had said.

  It occurred to Roger that his step-mother was fortunate. Most people have uncomfortable memories which they would like to banish, but few can banish them completely. The brain plays queer tricks upon us. We can wrap up an uncomfortable memory and put it away on the top shelf of the cupboard and lock the door upon it; there it stays until a chance sight or sound or smell unlocks the door and the thing tumbles out at our feet—the nasty ugly thing that we had forgotten. There were not many ugly things in Roger’s cupboard, but he would not have been human if he had never done anything to be ashamed of. There was the ugly thing which had happened soon after Clare’s death, when Roger had been feeling utterly miserable and full of bitterness, and there was the ugly thing which had happened at Sandhurst when he and another fellow had got tight and made fools of themselves; but one of the worst things in the cupboard was a childhood memory, quite a small and ridiculous incident to haunt a grown man. The occasion was a party given by his father and his step-mother to celebrate the opening of the fountain in Amberwell Gardens. It was a very hot day and Roger and Tom, dressed up in their kilts and doublets, had felt boiled and sticky with heat. They had been thoroughly bored with the proceedings and had sneaked away to bathe. The tide was in and the sea was cool and clean. It was a gorgeous bathe, they had enjoyed it enormously and had prided themselves upon their cleverness in escaping from authority and spending the fine summer afternoon in such a sensible way.

  Then, on their return, they had met their father and their conduct had been shown in a new light. He had been furious with them and had told them they had neglected their duty as hosts. “Amberwell is offering hospitality,” Mr. Ayrton had declared. “You belong to Amberwell—these people are your guests as well as mine. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves . . .” He had said a good deal more, for Mr. Ayrton had never been one to mince his words, but the rest did not matter. What mattered was that Roger had failed in his duty to Amberwell. The idea haunted Roger; it would haunt Roger until he died. Sometimes he wondered if Tom remembered the incident with discomfort—probably not, for Tom was different. Tom loved Amberwell in his own way, but he lived in the present, enjoying life and taking things as they came.

  Nell’s voice broke into Roger’s memories. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “About Tom—really,” replied Roger (which was true enough). “Tom takes things as they come. He’s far too good a doctor to go wandering round the world on pleasure cruises; he ought to settle down and take his profession seriously.”

  “What a lot of trouble you have with your family,” said Nell smiling. “Stephen is to have a school specially made for him; Anne is to come home and live like a lady; Tom is to put up a brass plate in Harley Street. Haven’t you any plans for Connie and me?”

  “Connie is all right,” replied Roger with a grin. “She spoils her children of course—I’d like to send young Gerry to a tough school where he would get bullied into shape—but I shan’t lose any sleep over it. As for you, I’d like to send you for a long sea voyage. You’ve been mewed up in Amberwell all your life, toiling and moiling for other people. You ought to get away from all the worries and enjoy yourself and see the world. That’s my plan for you.”

  Nell laughed. She said, “You had better find somebody else to look after Amberwell—and Stephen—before you buy my ticket.”

  Chapter Four

  1.

  Roger had so many jobs on hand, arranging the affairs of his family, that he felt he had better start upon them at once, so the very next morning after his arrival he walked down to the Rectory to see Anne. It was a cloudy morning but there was a brightness behind the clouds which promised a fine day, probably a very warm day. A wicket-gate led from the grounds of Amberwell into the little churchyard, and beyond that was the small garden belonging to the Rectory surrounded by a fine beech hedge.

  It was essential for Roger to get Anne alone—without Mr. Orme—so he was pleased when he saw her kneeling upon the ground planting out lettuces. She was wearing an old blue overall, her hands were dirty and her soft brown hair was untidy—and altogether she looked like the little Anne of long ago who was always getting into trouble with Nannie on account of her unruly hair. Roger had come with the intention of speaking to Anne firmly—he was annoyed with Anne—but he felt his annoyance vanishing as he looked at her.

  “Hullo, Roger, how nice to see you,” she exclaimed, sitting back on her heels and smiling at him. “Nell said you weren’t coming till Friday——”

  “I flew,” said Roger. He was getting rather tired of explaining how and why he had arrived before he was expected. He had explained the matter to Nannie and Mrs. Duff, to Miss Glassford, to Nell and Stephen and Mrs. Ayrton and also to Mr. Gray whom he had seen for a few moments in the gardens.

  “Well anyway it’s lovely to see you,” declared Anne. “You don’t mind if I go on with this job, do you? Sit down on the barrow.”

  He sat down on the barrow and watched her. She did the job quickly and neatly, singling out the seedlings and tucking them cosily into their little holes.

  “You do that well,” remarked Roger.

  “It’s one of my favourite jobs. You know I worked in a market-garden during the war.”

  “Did you like working in the garden?”

  “Yes, but I like my present job better. I think I do it better, too. I’m an old-fashioned sort of person; making a home and looking after people is my line. It satisfies me completely.”

  “I wish you’d come home to Amberwell.”

  “I know. You said that before, and it’s very kind of you, but I’m not coming home, Roger.”

  “Why?” he asked. “You’ve never explained why. Is it because you still feel bitter about the way you were treated? It wasn’t our fault, you know. We did our best to find you.”

  “I never felt bitter,” cried Anne in surprise. “You’ve got it all wrong, Roger. Everything that happened to me was my own fault and nobody else’s. I was an absolute fool to marry Martin.”

  Roger gazed at her in surprise. “But Nell told me——”

  “Nell thinks I loved Martin and was happy with him. I wasn’t happy—I don’t think anybody could have been happy with Martin—but I made my bed and I had to lie on it. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t told anybody else except Mr. Orme.”

  “
I won’t tell anybody——”

  “I’ll kill you if you do,” declared Anne fiercely.

  There was a short silence.

  “Forgive me, Roger,” said Anne at last. “It was horrid of me to say that, but—but I don’t want anybody to know.”

  “I’m terribly sorry you had such a rotten time,” said Roger. He hesitated and then added, “But I don’t see why that should prevent you from coming home.”

  “There are dozens of reasons,” she declared. “Every one of them is enough to prevent me from coming home.”

  “Tell me one.”

  Anne sighed. She said, “I’m awfully bad at explaining things and I don’t know which reason comes first. Perhaps Mr. Orme comes first. He needs me. He really needs somebody to take care of him and I can do it well. I’m very, very fond of him, you see. He needs me—and I like to be needed. Nobody has ever needed me before. That’s a whole reason in itself isn’t it?” urged Anne, looking up at Roger appealingly.

  “Yes . . . I suppose it is.”

  “And then there’s Mother, of course. That’s another reason.

  “But your mother wants you. Nell says you get on with her splendidly.”

  “It isn’t fair,” declared Anne.

  “What isn’t fair?” asked Roger in surprise.

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Anne. “Don’t you understand? I thought Mother would be difficult; I thought she might refuse to have anything to do with me. Nell thought so too.”

  “But it wasn’t like that at all. Your mother was delighted to see you.”

  “That’s what’s so unfair.”

  “I don’t see it,” said Roger hopelessly.

  “Don’t you see it isn’t fair to Nell? Nell has been here all these years, looking after Mother, running Amberwell, coping with everything—and Mother treats Nell like a black slave. Then the prodigal daughter walks in and gets roast chicken and new peas and a ring on her finger. Is that fair?”

  Roger could not help laughing, and Anne who never could resist a joke began to laugh too (but not, Roger noticed, with her usual abandon).

  “I don’t know why we’re laughing,” said Anne at last. “It’s all perfectly true—even the ring is true. Mother insisted on giving it to me (it’s a sapphire, set with diamonds, that belonged to Grandmother) and she always orders chicken and peas when Emmie and I go there to lunch. As a matter of fact I’ve always thought the story of the Prodigal Son was awfully unfair. Mr. Orme has explained it to me, but I still think the Elder Brother had every right to be annoyed. Nell isn’t annoyed of course—she’s an absolute saint, there isn’t a grain of jealousy in her—but I’m annoyed on her account. The chicken and peas make me sick. I’d rather have shepherd’s pie.”

  Roger did not laugh this time. “Yes, I see,” he said. “Well, in that case I suppose we must leave things as they are in the meantime, but remember you can always come home to Amberwell if and when you want.”

  Roger was thinking that things might change. Anne’s mother was frail; she would not live forever; Mr. Orme was old and not very strong. Yes, circumstances were bound to alter, perhaps sooner, perhaps later. One had to face facts. The day might come when Anne’s two reasons would disappear. Of course one could not say this to Anne; one could only say—as he had said—that she could always come home if and when she wanted.

  Roger would have been surprised if he had known what Anne was thinking as she looked up at him from her kneeling position on the ground. She had told him that she had dozens of reasons for not coming home to live at Amberwell . . . perhaps she had not as many, but she had more than two. He’s very good-looking, Anne was thinking. He’s very attractive indeed; so big and strong and vital, with his nice brown face and his fair hair and blue eyes. I wonder if he has got over the tragedy of losing Clare? I don’t believe he has—quite—but some day he’ll get over it and have eyes for other women and I do hope he’ll find the right woman. Roger deserves a very special sort of wife.

  It was Roger’s future wife—that shadowy but very special sort of woman — who was the absolutely unsuperable obstacle to Anne’s return home. For, however special she might be, she would not want a sister-in-law to share Amberwell (to sit at her table and take up a place at her fireside), and Anne loved Amberwell so dearly that she could not go back and live there and then be banished again. No, she could not bear it . . . but of course one could not say this to Roger.

  “Are you coming in to talk to Mr. Orme?” asked Anne, rising from her knees.

  “Not today,” replied Roger. “I’ve got to go and see Arnold—about something.”

  “Poor Arnold, I wish he could get a job,” said Anne with a sigh.

  *

  2.

  The Maddons’ house was in Westkirk High Street. Dr. Maddon was a widower and lived in a flat above the surgeries and except for a woman who came in for a few hours daily he lived alone. His daughter Harriet had a job in Glasgow and came home only very occasionally for a week-end. Since Arnold had been discharged from hospital he had been living with his father. Dr. Maddon was an old man now; he had retired two years ago leaving his partner, Dr. Brown, to carry on the practice, but there were a few patients in the district who insisted upon having their old friend to see them when they were ill and this gave Dr. Maddon an interest in life and kept him from stagnating.

  Roger knew the house well. He had often visited it when he was a child, and today as he approached it he remembered happy times. The door of the Maddons’ private apartments was at the back of the house, so Roger went round and was about to ring the bell when he heard a shout from the garden and Arnold came towards him up the path. They had not met for years and Roger was shocked at his friend’s appearance—shocked and distressed—for not only was Arnold lame, but he looked much older; his hair was gray at the sides and his face was thin and lined.

  “Hullo Arnold,” said Roger more cheerfully than he felt. “Don’t say you thought I wasn’t coming until Friday.”

  “All right, I won’t,” replied Arnold smiling (and the smile lighted up his face and made him look more like the Arnold of byegone times). “As a matter of fact you couldn’t come soon enough for me. I’ve been wondering ever since I got your cable whether I was destined to be secretary to the Prime Minister or assistant dustman in the Westkirk Cleansing Department.”

  The words were jesting, but Arnold’s eyes were anxious and Roger was so upset by their expression that for a moment he could not speak.

  “Don’t worry old boy,” said Arnold quickly. “I expect the job has fallen through—they always do. It was decent of you to bother. I turned down Squeers but I can easily write to him and I’m pretty sure he’ll take me. He’s not likely to get anybody else for the money he’s offering.”

  “The job’s all right,” said Roger.

  “The job’s all right!” echoed Arnold incredulously.

  “Yes, it’s yours if you want it.”

  “But Roger, they’ll want to see me before they take me. I mean—I mean did you tell them I’d lost a foot and—and——”

  “It’s all right, I tell you,” said Roger gruffly. “Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you about it.”

  They sat down on the wooden bench beneath the chestnut tree. The bench was an old friend. Roger remembered one very warm summer afternoon when he and Arnold had played with it for hours. They had been reading The Last of the Mohicans and the bench had been a canoe in which they had navigated rivers and shot rapids. . . . But Arnold was waiting to hear about the job and it was difficult to know how to begin to tell him.

  “I want to start a school,” said Roger bluntly.

  “You want to start a school?”

  “Yes, will you take it on?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Headmaster,” said Roger.

  For a few moments there was silence. Then Arnold said, “You’re not really thinking of it seriously?”

  “Yes, I am,” declared Roger, seizing Arnold’s stick and beg
inning to poke a hole in the grass. “I want to buy a big house near Westkirk and start a school for little boys.”

  “Look here, what’s this in aid of? I mean I shall get a job all right. I don’t want—”

  “It’s in aid of Stephen,” said Roger firmly. “Stephen must go to school and Nell wants to have him within reasonable distance of home.”

  “You don’t mean you’re going to start a school on purpose for Stephen?”

  “Stephen—and others.”

  “My dear old boy, you’re mad. Do you realise the snags? Have you the slightest idea what it would cost? Where would you get the boys?”

  “We’d get lots of boys,” said Roger confidently. He was beginning to get into his stride now that the subject was opened. “I’ve got plans about that. There isn’t a Prep. School in the district—so we’d get some of the locals—and my idea is to have reduced fees for the sons of serving officers. There are dozens of fellows nowadays who can’t afford enormous school fees and would be only too glad to send their sons. You can’t help people by giving them money, but they could be helped indirectly—like this—and we could have special arrangements for keeping the boys in the holidays if their fathers were serving abroad. . . .”

  Roger continued to enlarge upon his ideas and Arnold listened. At first he listened with disbelief, as if to a fairy tale, but after a few minutes he began to realise that his friend was in earnest—and he began to hope. For months and months Arnold had tried to get a job; he had answered advertisements for junior masters; he had answered advertisements for assistant librarians, for secretaries and for clerks; he had even answered advertisements for floor-walkers (though how he proposed to walk about and stand upon his feet all day long nobody knew—least of all Arnold). Nobody had wanted him. Most of the advertisers never even answered his letters. If Roger’s idea came to anything it would be a miracle—no less. Arnold had never even dreamed of anything so marvellous as a school of his own. It would be something to make, something to build—a worth-while task. He could carry out his own ideas of education; he could . . . but of course it was too good to be true. It could not happen.