Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  After that there was no opportunity for private talk, they all filed into Church together and the Ayrton family took up its usual position in the Amberwell pew.

  St. Stephen’s was not large, but it was well-designed and solidly built. It had been erected by Henry Ayrton as a memorial to his father and there was a plaque upon the wall commemorating the fact. Beside this plaque was another larger one with the names and dates of all the Ayrtons beginning with the first William who had built Amberwell and continuing in unbroken line with Roger, Stephen, Henry, William Henry and William the Third.

  Roger had seen this plaque hundreds and hundreds of times but he still liked looking at it and thinking about the family history which was implicit in those names and dates. Someday his own name would be added and, below that, Stephen Ayrton . . . after that who knew? Stephen should call his eldest son Henry; it was time there was another Henry in the family. Today Roger was in an imaginative mood and he reflected that it would be very pleasant if the old Roger and Stephen and Henry and all those Williams could return from the shades for a brief visit and take up their positions in the Amberwell pew. How interesting it would be to trace the family resemblance in their features, to talk to them about Amberwell and hear their views! Each would be dressed in the fashion of his time with the formal precision due to the occasion. The modern Roger, in his well-cut lounge suit of grey worsted tweed, would find himself very much out of step with the fine broadcloth of his forebears. (They wouldn’t think much of me, thought the modern Roger with an involuntary smile.)

  Roger noticed that his son’s eyes were fixed upon the the plaque and he wondered what Stephen was thinking . . . but there was no time for any more reflections for the service had begun.

  Unlike most churches nowadays St. Stephen’s was always well-filled, which probably was due to the personality of the rector. Mr. Orme was good and wise; he inspired affection. It was his custom to preach for ten minutes exactly, to take one idea for his theme and one idea only—so all the members of his congregation went home with it clearly in mind—and Mr. Orme’s sermons had the unusual merit of being interesting to adults yet not above the heads of his youngest listeners. Lately he had formed the habit of trying out his ideas upon Emmie—who was one of his youngest listeners—and of altering his notes accordingly. To Mr. Orme religion was simple, there was nothing complicated about it—nothing abstruse. Mr. Orme’s religion made him happy and his chief object in life was to share his happiness with his neighbours.

  This morning Mr. Orme had taken Strength as his theme: “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped.” If we trust our own strength (said Mr. Orme), it may sustain us up to a certain point and then give way and let us down just at the moment when we need it most, but if the Lord is our strength, and our hearts trust in Him, He gives us His help in time of trouble. All the great men of history had the Lord as their strength: Drake, Nelson, Gordon—and a host of others. In modern times we need look no further than Churchill who was sustained through terrible strains and stresses by the Lord’s hand. But it is not only great occasions which call for strength beyond our own; ordinary people who go about their daily duties feel the need of God’s strength to help them, and God’s shield to protect them from harm. The chief cause of unhappiness in modern times is fear, said Mr. Orme; fear of illness, fear of the future, fear of death; but the heart that trusts in the Lord fears nothing.

  The theme was by no means new—most of Mr. Orme’s listeners had heard sermons before on the same subject—but the sermon was strangely impressive for it was so absolutely sincere. Most of Mr. Orme’s listeners were aware that for years the speaker himself had lived in the Shadow of Death and had seen him going about undismayed and cheerful with a ready smile for everybody.

  When the service was over, there was the usual gathering in the churchyard, but the Amberwell party did not stay long. They greeted their friends and set off home without delay. Roger had regained his sanity by this time; he realised that he had very nearly done an exceedingly foolish thing: he had very nearly asked Georgina if she would like a post on the staff at Summerhills after Easter, and he had no business to do this without the permission of the man he had chosen to be headmaster of the school. Arnold would not mind of course (Roger felt sure of this) but that did not make it right. Arnold must ask Georgina himself.

  Having made this decision it was wiser to avoid any further tête à tête conversation with Georgina and Roger accomplished this by the simple method of seizing Stephen’s hand and walking home with him.

  “We’re going to bathe in the afternoon, aren’t we?” said Stephen happily.

  Roger nodded. It was not a particularly warm day, there was a fresh westerly breeze and he was aware that the sea would be rough and somewhat chilly; but he had promised, and promises were important, especially to a child. Indeed if Roger had not promised his son to bathe this afternoon he would even now be on his way to Rome.

  They bathed together and as it was even colder than Roger had expected they did not stay in long, but there was another bather that afternoon who had swum far out beyond the waves and was disporting himself in the water like a seal . . . and when at last he came ashore, borne upon the crest of a breaker, the courageous mortal proved to be Bob Grainger.

  When Bob had dressed and had emerged from behind a rock, clad in slacks and a fisherman’s jersey, Roger went over to speak to him. It seemed a good opportunity for a quiet chat. Although Nell had sung his praises, Roger was not sure that Bob was quite the right chap to take over the management of Amberwell Gardens. You needed something more than knowledge of plants to be a successful head-gardener. You needed the ability to manage men and get the best out of them—and this boy was so young! But Roger had not spoken to Bob for more than five minutes before he changed his mind; the boy was young, certainly (and looked even younger than his nineteen years with his hair all rumpled with the towelling he had given it), but there was a strange dignity about him which betokened strength of character. He was respectful, but he had the fearless independence of the true Fifer, and looked you in the eye.

  When they had been chatting for a bit, Bob produced a postcard from his pocket and showed it to Roger proudly. “It’s from Mr. Tom,” he said. “I just thought maybe you’d like to see it.”

  The postcard was from Trinidad and there was a good deal written upon it in Tom’s small neat “doctor’s writing,” and after obtaining permission from its owner Roger read it.

  Hullo Bob (Tom had written). This is a fine town. Lots to see and do. Lots of pretty girls. Nice hot sun and gorgeous bathing. You would open your eyes if you could see the flowers. They are marvellous. Just got your nice long letter. Most interesting. I shall be home for Christmas. Cheerioh. T.A.

  Roger smiled as he handed it back. It was difficult to know what to say. He himself would not have written quite like that to a garden-boy, but Tom was different. Tom was “hail-fellow-well-met” with everybody . . . and of course there was a special sort of bond between Tom and Bob Grainger. Bob had jumped into the sea and saved Tom’s life when the Starfish was blown up by a mine.

  “It tells you a lot,” said Bob as he put the postcard back in his pocket.

  Roger agreed that it did.

  Chapter Nine

  1.

  Tea was a hasty meal for Roger, and no sooner had he swallowed it than he set off to Summerhills in the car. He parked it in the drive and ran upstairs to have another look round and to make sure about one or two measurements in the big dormitory. The Findlaters had sold a good deal of their furniture to Roger and the rest had been stored until they found a suitable house. Meantime they had all gone to Harrogate for a restful holiday; Stark Place—or Summerhills—was empty. Roger was pleased to be there by himself, without Arnold or Mr. Strow, for he could look round quietly and brood upon the plans, a copy of which he had brought with him.

  Suddenly there was a noise. The hall door was opening and somebody was coming into
the hall. Roger went down to see who it was and met Mary Findlater on the stairs. He was surprised to see Mary, not only because he had thought she was in Harrogate, but also because she had said that she did not want to come back to Stark Place. Roger had understood her feeling perfectly . . . but here she was.

  “Hullo, I thought you had gone to Harrogate!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, I did,” replied Mary. “I got the parents comfortably settled in the hotel and then I came back. I’m staying with the Lamberts at Merlewood.” She hesitated and then added, “I thought I’d come over.”

  “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t you?” said Roger trying to speak as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “It seemed silly not to come.”

  “Yes, of course. At least I don’t think it was a bit silly, but still——”

  “It seemed silly,” repeated Mary. “So I just made up my mind to come. Really and truly I’m awfully interested in what you’re doing and I thought I might be some use—knowing the place so well.” She looked round the big empty hall as she spoke. Roger noticed that her face was white and strained. He felt very sorry for her.

  “Are you making any alterations here?” asked Mary.

  “Hardly any,” said Roger hastily. “We’re just—er—we’re just going to put in a radiator and—and that sort of thing.”

  “Where? Tell me about it, Roger.”

  Roger told her somewhat awkwardly; it seemed all wrong to be making alterations in Mary’s home.

  “Don’t worry, Roger,” said Mary, “you’ve got to alter the old place to make it into a school. As a matter of fact I’ve been thinking about it and I was going to suggest one or two things.”

  “Grand! Go ahead, Mary.”

  “A hatch in the dining room for one thing, but perhaps you’ve thought of that already.”

  Roger nodded. “Yes, but there isn’t a suitable place.”

  “Oh, there is! I’ll show you. If you put it at the far end of the room it will open onto the passage just outside the kitchen door.”

  This was an excellent suggestion and soon Roger and Mary were busily tapping the wall and measuring and deciding exactly where the hatch was to be put . . . and Mary took the piece of chalk from Roger’s hand and marked the wall firmly. After this there was no awkwardness, and the two of them went all over the house together, tapping walls and measuring and making a lot of notes.

  “It is good of you,” declared Roger as they came out of the front door and lingered on the steps in the sunshine. “You’ve been a tremendous help and I appreciate it more than I can say. I hope . . .” He paused and looked at her.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “It was just the first few minutes. I’m glad I came. You see, Roger, I understand what you’re doing; I mean it’s a worth-while plan to start a school for boys whose parents couldn’t afford to send them to a very expensive place . . . people like us,” said Mary, looking up at Roger and smiling rather sadly. “People who used to have enough money, but haven’t enough now. The new poor.”

  Roger nodded. “That was the idea.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I understand, and that I’m awfully glad you bought Stark Place.”

  “If you feel like that perhaps you’ll come again?”

  “Yes, of course, if you want me.”

  “I shan’t be here,” Roger told her. “I’ve got to fly to Rome tomorrow. Aunt Beatrice is ill—in Rome—and I’ve got to go and see what I can do for her. It’s an awful nuisance,” said Roger frankly, “but there it is. Arnold will carry on here. It would be a help to Arnold if you could look in occasionally.”

  Mary said she would.

  After that they wandered round the gardens; Roger had plans for the gardens too, and Mary listened and made several suggestions.

  The meadow lay beyond the gardens (it was to be levelled and made into playing fields); at one end of the meadow was a big oak tree with a huge spread of branches.

  “You’ll have to take it down, won’t you?” said Mary sadly.

  Roger hesitated. “I’ve been wondering about it,” he said. “I hate the idea of taking it down. Do you remember one afternoon when Ian climbed onto that big branch and dared me to come after him?”

  Mary smiled at him. “Yes, and you stuck halfway and Nell and I ran and got the gardener’s ladder for you.”

  “What a fool I felt!”

  “Nobody could climb that tree except Ian. We called it Ian’s tree. He used to dare all sorts of people to climb it—and they always stuck.”

  “I shan’t take it down,” said Roger. “We’ll rearrange the playing fields.”

  “Roger, you mustn’t——”

  “We’ll manage,” declared Roger. “It’s a beautiful tree. I hate cutting down trees, don’t you?”

  Mary said nothing—she could not speak—and they walked on in silence for a little.

  “How long are you staying with the Lamberts?” asked Roger at last. “I mean if you’re staying for some time it really would be a tremendous help if you could come over here now and then and keep an eye on things. The fact is—between you and me—I’m just a bit worried. Arnold and Mr. Strow don’t pull together very well. Arnold is the boss—I’m writing to Strow tonight and making that perfectly clear—but I wish Arnold had a bit more drive.”

  “Perhaps he will when he’s on his own,” suggested Mary.

  “Yes, perhaps. I hoped Nell would help, but Nell is a bit half-hearted. She thinks the school is a good plan but she’s not keen to get on with it quickly.”

  He glanced at Mary to see if she understood and saw that her eyes were twinkling with amusement.

  “Yes,” said Roger with an answering grin. “Yes, our Nell will be only too pleased if Stark Place—I mean Summerhills—takes a long, long time to get going.”

  *

  2.

  Mary had intended to stay with the Lamberts for a few days only, but after her talk with Roger she decided to ask her hostess if she might stay on. She was practically certain that Mrs. Lambert would not mind. So when Mrs. Lambert appeared at Mary’s bedside to say goodnight—as was her very pleasant custom—Mary broached the subject.

  “It’s lovely being here,” said Mary. “And the parents seem perfectly happy without me, so if you could possibly have me a bit longer——”

  “Stay as long as you possibly can,” said Mrs. Lambert warmly. “We both love having you, Mary dear.”

  They both loved having her, not only because they had known her all her life and were very fond of her, but also because she was an easy guest, always cheerful and amusing and no bother in the house . . . which in these days, as everybody knows, meant that Mary made her bed neatly every morning, dusted her room and was always ready to help with the washing up. It also meant that Mary could knock up a very appetising omelet on the cook’s night off and that she left the kitchen spotlessly clean and in excellent order for the cook’s return. In spite of these activities Mary found her visit to the Lamberts’ a pleasant rest-cure, for Merlewood was modern and labour-saving and, compared with Stark Place, it was small.

  Mr. Lambert was a cheerful hearty man, big and burly. Mrs. Lambert (who was known as Poppet to her friends) was a tiny fairylike creature with an amusing tongue. They were contemporaries of Mary’s parents, but seemed a good deal younger because they had had a much less wearing life. Even the war had not affected them much; for at the beginning of the war Gerald was already a useful member of his father’s ship-building firm and therefore exempt from military service.

  “That is kind of you,” said Mary. “The fact is Roger has asked me to keep an eye on Stark Place—and I think I’d like to. I went over there this afternoon and Roger showed me the plans for the alterations. It was horrid at first but afterwards I didn’t mind a bit.”

  “Roger is very attractive,” said Poppet nodding.

  “Roger won’t be there,” said Mary hastily. “He’s going to Italy tomorrow.”

  “What is
he going to Italy for?” asked Poppet who was always interested in the affairs of her fellow creatures.

  Mary told her.

  “Beatrice,” said Poppet thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen Beatrice for years; she must be about eighty.”

  At this stage in the conversation it occurred to Mrs. Lambert to sit down, so she perched herself on the end of the bed and arranged herself comfortably. She was wearing a pale pink peignoir and a pale pink boudoir cap trimmed with narrow lace. Thus arrayed for bed Poppet looked even more dainty and fascinating than in her usual clothes.

  “We must ask Roger to dinner when he comes back from Italy,” said Poppet. “I saw him in church this morning. He reminds me of his father.”

  “Of his father?” exclaimed Mary in surprise. “But Mr. Ayrton was——”

  “I mean long ago—before you were born,” said Poppet with a smile. “When Will Ayrton was young he was very attractive indeed; he was tall and fair and he had a sort of glow and he was full of vigour. Poor Will lost his glow when he married Marion—and no wonder! I’ll tell you a secret, Mary,” said Poppet lowering her voice. “I very nearly married him myself.”

  Mary was so astonished at this revelation that she was speechless.

  “It isn’t nice of you to be so surprised,” complained Poppet. “I daresay you won’t believe it, but I was very pretty when I was a girl.”

  “It isn’t that at all! You’re pretty now. Very pretty indeed.”

  “That’s better,” said Poppet approvingly.

  “It’s just that it seems—so queer——”

  “That’s not so good,” said Poppet shaking her head.

  Mary laughed and said no more.

  “I know what you mean of course,” continued Poppet reflectively. “You can’t imagine us young; but we were, you know. We were just like you. when we were young. We had hearts and legs — though we didn’t show them as conspicuously as you do. We had a lot more leisure of course because we didn’t need to wash the dishes or make the beds, but I’m not sure that it was good for us. We had too much time to think about ourselves, to be introspective. I know I had,” said Poppet with a sigh. “I was a silly little creature. I read novels by Edith Dell and Florence Barclay instead of washing the dishes and it wasn’t nearly so good for me.”