Mary was fascinated by this recital; she hoped more was coming.
“Will and I were engaged,” continued Poppet. “We kept it a secret; not because anybody would have objected—our parents would have been delighted—but because I was a romantic with my head in the clouds. I wore Will’s ring on a ribbon round my neck instead of on my finger and made elaborate plans so that we could meet without anybody knowing. It was thrilling—and utterly idiotic. Men are straight-forward creatures; they don’t like conspiracies; they don’t like holes and corners and pretendings. Will wanted to tell everybody and be properly engaged, but I wouldn’t. Of course it led to trouble.”
Poppet was silent for a few moments, gazing into the distance, and Mary began to think this was all she was to be told. She was very anxious to hear the end of the story.
“Of course it led to trouble,” repeated Poppet. “There’s was another girl, you see. She flirted with Will and I didn’t like it.”
“No wonder! It was horrid!” exclaimed Mary.
“Not really horrid. She wouldn’t have done it if she had known we were engaged.”
“But he knew. He should have——”
“Men are so helpless,” said Poppet. “And the nicer they are the more helpless they are—besides it was quite a mild sort of flirtation—but I was a fool in those days so I was angry with Will . . . and Will just laughed and said it was all my fault for not being properly engaged. Even then it wasn’t too late; I could have had him back quite easily, but I had no sense at all. So we quarrelled and it all fell through and I was so furious that I married Johnnie. It’s a silly story, isn’t it?” said Poppet. “I don’t know why I told you—except as a sort of Gypsy’s Warning—but you don’t read Ethel Dell, do you?”
“I never even heard of her,” said Mary, who had been trying to follow and was getting positively breathless in the attempt.
“You’d laugh at her,” said Poppet looking at Mary critically. “Yes I believe you’d laugh. We didn’t laugh. We were thrilled to bits at her stories—all about strong silent men with sadistic tendencies—so perhaps we weren’t very like you after all.”
Mary wondered if she were expected to show sympathy—it was a little difficult—but Poppet had an uncanny knack of reading one’s thoughts.
“You needn’t be the least bit sorry for me,” said Poppet. “I’ve been very happy with Johnnie for nearly forty years. He’s not a hero of romance but he’s a dear, nice, good, kind creature and we suit each other admirably.”
Mary nodded. She was aware of this.
“I wonder what started me off,” said Poppet with a thoughtful look. “I believe it was you saying Roger was so attractive.”
“I didn’t!” cried Mary indignantly.
“Didn’t you?” asked Poppet in surprise.
“No, I never said such a thing.”
“But you thought it, didn’t you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well then, you must be blind,” declared Poppet with a mischievous smile. “You must be absolutely stone blind. Roger is quite beautiful to look at and that slight air of sadness adds to his appeal. If I were a girl I should fall in love with Roger, head over heels.”
Mary had blushed like a rose. She said, “Oh but Roger doesn’t take any notice of girls. He’s still—sad—about Clare.”
“Yes, but he’s beginning to get over it and that’s the most dangerous time. You know, Mary,” said Poppet earnestly, “that girl with the long legs means to have Roger.”
“Oh no!” cried Mary in dismay. “Oh no, not her!”
“I don’t like her either,” agreed Poppet.
“She’s not nearly good enough for Roger.”
“Not nearly, but she means to have him if she can. It would be a thousand pities if she got him. I’d much rather have you as a next-door-neighbour,” added Poppet in confidential tones.
Mary had been pink before but now she was scarlet. “You’re—awful!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Poppet nodding. “I know I’m awful—everybody says I am—but it’s such fun to be awful, and sometimes it does people good to shake them up a bit.” And with that Poppet kissed her guest fondly and tripped away to bed.
Mary thought about the story of Poppet’s broken romance and wondered why it had been told to her; for Poppet was clever—not silly at all—and the story had been told with a purpose. Was it really a Gypsy’s Warning (as Poppet had said) and, if so, to warn Mary of what? There was no moral in the tale—none whatever—for Poppet’s foolish behaviour had not led to her downfall but to forty years of married bliss.
Poppet is awful, thought Mary, as she cuddled down into the comfortable bed provided for the Lamberts’ guests. I could call her Poppet quite easily. I very nearly did it tonight—by mistake. It would be rather cheek for me to call her Poppet, but I believe she’d like it . . . and I wonder why it is that she can say anything—be as awful as awful—and you don’t really mind. . . .
Chapter Ten
1.
Stephen sat upon Roger’s bed and watched him packing his suitcase. He had sat upon the same bed only a fortnight ago and watched his father unpack with very different feelings.
“Daddy, do you want to go and see Aunt Beatrice?” asked Stephen.
“No, of course not.”
“I thought grown-up people could always do what they wanted.”
Roger could not help smiling. “I thought the same when I was eight,” he said. “I thought that when there was nobody to tell you what to do, you could do whatever you liked . . . but you can’t. When you grow up you have responsibilities, especially when you’re the head of the family.”
“The head of the family?”
“Yes, that’s what I am. It means I’ve got to look after all the other people in the family—see?” He glanced at his little son’s face to be sure that he understood. You could never be sure with Stephen. Sometimes he seemed mature beyond his years and at other times quite babyish. It was being so much with grown-up people, Roger thought. It was being with Nell and chatting to her and trotting in and out of the kitchen, hobnobbing with dear old Mrs. Duff. He had Emmie to play with but Emmie was “old-fashioned” too. She had been her mother’s close friend and companion and still was. They had weathered hardships together. . . .
“It’s important being head of the family, isn’t it?” said Stephen, thoughtfully. “Like being a king, really.”
“Something like that,” agreed Roger, wondering whether he should take a dinner jacket and deciding he need not. “One of these days you’ll be the head of the family,” added Roger.
“Me!”
“Not until I’m dead, of course.”
“But you’ll live to be a hundred,” replied Stephen cheerfully.
“Who said so?”
“Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray said, ‘The major’s that strong and active I wouldn’t wonder but he’ll live to be a hundred.’”
Roger chuckled. Stephen had “got” Mr. Gray exactly, even to the slightly husky voice.
“Oh well,” said Roger. “In that case it will be a long time before you’re King of Amberwell.”
There was no reply for a few moments and Roger, glancing towards the bed, saw that his son was engaged in an arithmetical problem. He was muttering to himself and counting on his fingers. “Sixty-seven years,” he said at last with obvious satisfaction.
*
2.
This little talk remained in Roger’s memory very clearly; perhaps because the mixture of matter-of-fact sense and childish innocence was “so like Stephen.” It was comical and pathetic and this was “so like Stephen” too. Roger reflected that it was a pity children had to grow up; by this time next year Stephen would be a schoolboy and the childish innocence would have vanished . . . but one could not help it of course. One could only do one’s best to see that the child grew into a boy and the boy into a man smoothly, and with the least possible suffering . . . and that there were as few “nasty things” as
possible in his cupboard of memory to roll out unexpectedly and make him uncomfortable.
These thoughts and others like them passed through Roger’s mind as the plane in which he was travelling was flying over the Mediterranean Sea. He had left Amberwell that morning and now he was approaching Rome. Looking down from the little window, Roger saw the coast of the Italian Riviera, the long line of white towns and villas embowered in green, the small yachts with their white sails and the hazy mountains beyond. He knew the country, for he had been here during the war, but it looked different from the air; it looked unreal. Perhaps the air of unreality was partly due to Roger’s own feelings; for this trip (unlike his flight from Hamburg to Renfrew) had come upon him suddenly and unawares. Two days ago Roger had had no more idea that he would be flying to Rome to see Aunt Beatrice than that he would be flying to the moon. Even now Roger could hardly believe that he was flying to Rome to see Aunt Beatrice. . . .
The plane swayed and bumped and the old man who was sitting opposite to Roger looked about him anxiously.
“We’re crossing Sardinia,” his companion told him—and began to explain about warm air rising from the island and creating a disturbance in the atmosphere. The explanation was not scientifically correct (and the island happened to be Corsica), but it had the desired effect and the old man was pacified.
This little incident changed the tenure of Roger’s thoughts and he reflected with some amusement that it really was possible to be in two places at once. His room at Amberwell, untidy with packing (and his small son sitting upon the bed, counting on his fingers), was every bit as real to Roger as the interior of the plane. At the same moment he was there—and here!
The plane roared on and Roger began to think of Summerhills, for since he had begun work on the place it had never been far from his thoughts. He had gone at it tooth and nail. While he was on the job he had thought about the job and not about himself at all, but now that he was idle he had a rare moment of introspection. It’s done me good, he thought in surprise.
It was Roger’s mind that felt better. His health had never bothered him. Ever since Clare’s death Roger had felt only half alive. He had explained this feeling to Mary by saying that he had nothing left—nothing that mattered. It was as good an explanation as he could give. But now, quite suddenly, he realised that things had begun to give him pleasure: food tasted better, colours looked brighter and his spirit was lightened of its burden. Roger had never had a serious illness, but he had been wounded in the war and he had felt like this when recovering. Yes, it was like convalescence.
The thought worried him. He had been certain that he would walk in sackcloth all his life—invisible sackcloth, of course—but here he was enjoying things again. Was this uplift of spirit an infidelity to the memory of Clare?
But it isn’t a woman, thought Roger. It’s a job, and a worth-while job at that. So there’s no need to worry.
What a pity he could not be at Summerhills today! The builders were starting work. Mr. Strow would be there and Arnold; perhaps Mary would go over. Mary had been most useful—that hatch was a very good idea. He had asked Mary how long she was going to stay with the Lamberts, but she had not replied. He wondered if she would still be there when he got home.
The air-hostess came down the passage. “Fasten your safety belts,” she said. She smiled at all her charges, but the smile she gave Roger was a little more real and friendly for she liked the look of him. There was something about him . . . it was not only his broad shoulders and his fair hair and his sea-blue eyes . . . “And I’m afraid you must put out your cigarette,” she added in regretful tones.
“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Roger, stubbing it out hastily.
*
3.
Having booked a room at the hotel, Roger left his suitcase in charge of the hall-porter and set out on foot for the Pensione Valetta. Now that he had almost arrived at his destination his heart began to fail him and he wondered what he would find, for it was six days since Madame Le Brun had written that letter saying Miss Ayrton was ill, and quite a lot could happen in six days. Aunt Beatrice might be dead—one had to face it—or on the other hand she might be better. If she were better he would be allowed to see her.
The prospect of an interview with Aunt Beatrice was not very pleasant, for Roger had no idea what her feelings toward him might be. He felt somewhat guilty. Of course she had been very stupid about Anne—urging Anne to marry without her parents’ consent—but all that had happened long ago and should have been forgiven and forgotten. Roger had done nothing, he had just let matters drift; he was home so seldom and there was always so much to do that he had never got round to making up the feud. He remembered now that Tom had visited Aunt Beatrice when his ship was at Rosyth and had reported that the old lady was very friendly and had given him an excellent lunch . . . but even that was years ago, before Tom left the Navy.
Oh well, thought Roger, as he pushed his way through the crowded streets with an armful of flowers which he had bought as a peace offering. Oh well, if she doesn’t want to see me that’s her look-out. I’ve done the right thing to come.
The Pensione Valetta was not easy to find, for Roger could not speak Italian and the people he asked seemed unable to direct him. He knew it was near “The Spanish Steps,” and he expected it to be a large flourishing establishment in the wide square, so when at last he was shown a narrow alley in a side street, with several extremely dirty children playing about the entrance, he could hardly believe he had come to the right place. The children stopped playing and gazed at him with large soft brown eyes—although dirty they were beautiful—and Roger was prompted to give them each a flower from Aunt Beatrice’s bouquet. This gesture was a tremendous success and he was pursued by cries of pleasure and gratitude as he went on down the alley and emerged into a little courtyard. One small girl followed him and when he said “Pensione Valetta?” in an enquiring tone of voice she pointed to an archway and a flight of steps and held out her hand for another flower as payment. It was greedy of course, thought Roger as he gave it to her—children in his own country would not have asked—but when he saw the dimpling smile on her grubby little face he forgave her. Children in his own country would not have smiled so sweetly for the gift of a flower.
Roger went on, up the narrow unprepossessing stairs, and presently arrived upon a broad landing bathed in sunshine. It was a surprisingly pleasant place compared with its approach. The child, who had followed him up the stairs, pointed to a door with a brass plate inscribed “Pensione Valetta” and held out her hand for another flower.
This time Roger refused the request, shaking his head and saying, “No, you greedy little creature”; but he said it with a smile.
He rang the bell, which jangled loudly, and waited for some time; he was about to ring again when the door was opened by a short stout woman dressed in black satin with a mass of gold chains round her neck. She looked him up and down and burst into a flood of Italian.
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Italian,” Roger said. He added a trifle diffidently, “Parlez-vous Française?”
“Je suis Française, moi,” replied the woman. “But I spik Ingleese or Gairmain—or wot you plees. Eet ees all one to me.”
It was not all one to Roger so he chose to make his business known in his native tongue. (Afterwards he discovered that it was not all one to her either, for her command of the English language was extremely limited.)
“Oh good,” said Roger. “Well the fact is I’m Miss Ayrton’s nephew. I think you wrote to me—if you’re Madame Le Brun.”
She did not welcome him with the enthusiasm he had expected, but she opened the door a little wider and allowed him to come in. He found himself in a very large hall paved with parquet and furnished with small tables and easy chairs. At the far end of the hall there were double doors which opened onto a roof garden. The hall itself was dim and cool but the garden was bright with masses of flowers, lighted by the afternoon sunshine.
“I hope my aunt is better,” said Roger a trifle diffidently for his cool reception had daunted him.
“Mees Ayrton ees seek—but today a leetle better,” replied Madame Le Brun. “You ’ave taken a long time. I am worried a lot.”
Roger began to explain that he had thought it better to come than to write and that as he lived in Scotland the letter had taken several days to reach him, but he soon realised that Madame Le Brun did not understand a word. She still continued to look at him crossly out of her black beady eyes.
“For Miss Ayrton,” said Roger, handing her the flowers in the hope that they would pacify her.
“But wot to do?” she said, frowning. “I do not tell ’er I write. See? I write because ze docteur say write—and she look vairy seek and I sink it good that peoples of ’er own are ’ere.”
“Yes, of course,” said Roger.
“Now she ees better you go away,” added Madame Le Brun, waving towards the door.
“Go away!” exclaimed Roger. “Do you mean without seeing her?”
“Ze docteur says quiet ees best.”
Roger hesitated. He did not particularly want to see Aunt Beatrice, but after coming all this way it seemed ridiculous to be turned away at her door. Besides he did not like this woman at all; he did not trust her, and he was very much annoyed with her. She had written to him because she was afraid Aunt Beatrice was dying, and he had come at her behest—now all she wanted was to get rid of him. She was completely selfish, thought Roger, looking at her in distaste.
Perhaps she sensed his feelings. “Look you,” she said in a more conciliatory tone. “Mees Ayrton ees vairy deeficult, n’est-ce pas? I ask me will she be glad you come or will she be vairy angree. Angree is bad for ’er—see?”
Roger realised that there was some truth in this. He had no idea whether Aunt Beatrice would be glad to see him or very angry indeed.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 9
