Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Before Roger could think of a reply the argument terminated. Madame Le Brun raised her hands palm upwards in a gesture of despair and giving one last shriek of rage and disapproval she swung round and clattered off down the hall leaving the little doctor victor of the field.

  “Come,” said the little doctor smiling agreeably. “I vill tak you—to see—ze aunt.”

  “Go on,” said Dennis encouragingly. “I’ll wait.”

  Roger had no option but to follow the doctor’s lead.

  *

  3.

  It was a small room and rather dark. Aunt Beatrice was lying propped up in bed. Roger’s first impression was that she had not changed a bit since the last time he had seen her—and that was over ten years ago. Her hair was no whiter; it was still the same ugly iron-grey, and her strongly marked, bony features were the type that seldom change much with the passing years. He would have known Aunt Beatrice anywhere.

  “Hullo, Aunt Beatrice,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve been ill. I happened to be in Rome so I looked in to see you. I’m Roger,” he added.

  “Of course you’re Roger,” said Aunt Beatrice crossly. “I may be old—and ill—but I’m not gaga yet. Pull up the blind so that I can see you properly.”

  He did as he was told and sat down on the chair beside the bed. “I’m glad you’re better,” he told her.

  “A lot of fuss about nothing, but that’s just like these foreigners. They didn’t send for you, did they?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied . . . but Roger wasn’t a good liar at the best of times and with those sharp brown eyes fixed upon his face he made a poor job of it.

  “Oh, they did, did they? They thought I was going to die. I don’t intend to die in a foreign country.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You’re older,” said Aunt Beatrice. “Older and better-looking. In fact you’re very like William.”

  “William?”

  “Your father of course. He was extremely handsome when he was young.”

  It was difficult to know how to reply to this so Roger remained silent.

  “How is your mother—I mean your stepmother?”

  “She’s—fairly well. She gets rather muddled sometimes.”

  “Muddled!” exclaimed Aunt Beatrice scornfully. “She has no right to get muddled at her age. Marion is younger than I am and I’m not muddled, am I?”

  “No, you’re not,” replied Roger smiling.

  “I hear Anne has turned up,” continued Aunt Beatrice. “Anne treated me abominably. She hasn’t written to me for years. All your family have treated me in the most extraordinary way—all except Tom. He comes to visit me sometimes when he happens to be near Edinburgh.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Roger uncomfortably. He would have liked to stand up for his family—in his opinion it was Aunt Beatrice who had behaved badly—but it would be the height of folly to start an argument with her.

  “I shall leave all my money to Tom,” declared Aunt Beatrice.

  Roger said nothing. He thought it an excellent plan but it was not for him to say so.

  “There was no need for you to come,” she continued, “but perhaps it is just as well. I don’t feel up to travelling home alone.”

  “Travelling home!”

  “Yes, we had better go by aeroplane. I have never been in one but I am told they’re extremely comfortable.”

  “But we can’t——”

  “Why not? I shall pay the fares. You needn’t worry about that.”

  Roger was not worrying about that. “I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t hear of it,” he declared. “You’re not fit to travel.”

  “Not tomorrow, perhaps, but I shall be perfectly able for it the next day.”

  “But Aunt Beatrice——”

  “Don’t argue,” said Aunt Beatrice irritably. “I can’t stay here. Madame Le Brun has been exceedingly rude to me.”

  “We could move you into a hospital.”

  “A hospital! No thank you.”

  “You would be more comfortable——”

  “I don’t intend to go to a hospital and I can’t stay here. As I said Madame Le Brun has been rude, unbearably rude. I have been coming here for years but I shall never come back, that’s very certain. Her behaviour has been most extraordinary. Surely after all these years I had a right to complain about the food. It was for her own good that I told her the food was uneatable and the place was going downhill! There was no need to be rude about it.” Aunt Beatrice paused and looked at Roger defiantly.

  “No,” said Roger in doubtful tones. “No, perhaps not. I suppose you had a row.”

  “You can call it that if you like,” she retorted.

  It must have been the grandfather of all rows, thought Roger, but he said nothing.

  “Perhaps I said rather more than I intended,” admitted Aunt Beatrice. “I certainly was somewhat annoyed, but she was so impertinent that I came straight into my bedroom and started to pack. Then suddenly I felt a little queer and my arm went numb.”

  “Yes, I see. It’s very unfortunate.”

  “Most unfortunate—and most uncomfortable. I have been lying here for nearly a week, waited upon by Her. I have asked her repeatedly to allow the girl to bring me my food but she takes no notice. She brings the trays herself and bangs them down on the table and stumps out of the room without a word. It’s like being in prison. I won’t stay here a moment longer than is absolutely necessary.” She was working herself up (as Nannie would have said) and Roger was very much alarmed, for he had been warned not to excite her.

  “It’s all right,” he said hastily. “I’ll take you home the moment you’re fit to travel—I promise faithfully I will—but you mustn’t get excited or you won’t be fit to travel for ages. The doctor said so.”

  “I’m not in the least excited and I shall be fit to travel the day after tomorrow,” said Aunt Beatrice firmly.

  Roger did not know what to do. The matter was beyond him. . . . But anyhow it was time to go so he rose and said goodbye.

  “Goodbye, Roger,” said Aunt Beatrice smiling quite pleasantly. “It was nice of you to come. You’ll come and see me tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “And don’t forget to reserve seats in the aeroplane. I prefer to sit with my back to the engine,” added Aunt Beatrice.

  *

  4.

  Dennis was waiting in the hall as he had promised. “I say, you’ve been ages!” he exclaimed.

  “I know. It was frightful. Let’s get out of this quickly.”

  “Don’t you want to speak to the pincushion?”

  “There’s nothing I want less.”

  They let themselves out of the front door as quietly as possible and ran down the stairs . . . and, as they went, Roger gave a brief and somewhat incoherent account of his interview with his aunt.

  “Of course the obvious thing to do is to move her into a hospital,” said Roger when he had finished the recital.

  “But she won’t go?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t move her by force.”

  Roger was aware of this. “What the dickens am I to do!” he exclaimed in despair.

  “You had better book the seats,” Dennis told him. “If she can’t travel they’ll have to be cancelled, but from all accounts I should think your aunt must be a very determined old lady.”

  “Obstinate as a mule. In fact a mule is tractable compared with Aunt Beatrice.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Dennis.

  The conversation lapsed for a few minutes while the two young men crossed the street. Crossing the street in Rome during the rush hour is not an easy matter and requires agility and concentration. When they had reached the opposite pavement, having dodged several large cars—apparently driven by homicidal maniacs—and a dozen or so motor scooters, Dennis resumed their talk.

  “I wish I could help you,” he said. “I mean I’d come with you in the pla
ne if I could, but I shall have to fly home tonight. There’s a man coming tomorrow to look at Weatherby Manor, and it sounds fairly hopeful. He’s the representative of a syndicate that intends to start a country club. My mother wants me to see him.”

  “Of course,” agreed Roger. “You can’t miss the chance. You must certainly see him. You’ve been a tremendous help. Goodness knows what I should have done without you.”

  “It was nothing. I enjoyed it.”

  “You must come and stay with us for a bit,” suggested Roger. “I mean when you’ve finished all the business with your house and got your mother settled. Just ring up and say when you can come.”

  “Yes, I should like to,” replied Dennis without hesitation. “It may take some time to arrange everything but after that——”

  A man bore down upon them carrying an enormous crate and Roger, in trying to avoid him, was pushed off the pavement. Fortunately Dennis was able to seize his arm and drag him to safety from the path of a motor lorry filled with wine barrels.

  “I say, look out!” cried Dennis. “You’ve got to be careful of the traffic.”

  “I noticed that,” returned Roger with mild sarcasm.

  “I mean you’ve got to look out for yourself in Rome. Nobody else bothers about you . . . and for goodness’ sake remember that it all goes like mad in the wrong direction.”

  Roger did not reply to this typically British statement, though as a matter of fact he agreed with it profoundly. “It all goes like mad in the wrong direction” seemed to him a perfectly fair description of the Roman traffic. The noise was appalling and the crowds, pushing and jostling along the pavement, made further conversation impossible so it was not until they had reached the hotel and had seated themselves in the lounge and ordered apertifs that anything more was said.

  “What if she dies on the plane?” said Roger.

  “She won’t,” replied Dennis confidently. “Old ladies with obstinate natures are pretty tough—and she’s made up her mind to go. If you ask me she’s much more likely to die if she’s thwarted.”

  “You really think I should take her?”

  “What else can you do? You can’t move her to a hospital by brute force and if you leave her where she is she’ll probably have another row with the pincushion and die of rage—I say, am I being rude?”

  “Frightfully rude,” replied Roger smiling. “But you’re absolutely right. I believe the aeroplane is the best chance of survival. I’ll have to try and get her a seat with her back to the engine.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next day was wet and miserable and Roger’s mood matched the weather. He had visited Aunt Beatrice in the morning, and in the afternoon he went to the Vatican and spent some hours looking at the treasures of the Popes. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed it but the thought of the journey lay heavily on his mind. That night he slept badly, pursued by nightmares, and he arose the next morning with a headache which was an unusual ailment for Roger and annoyed him the more on that account. Everything seemed to go wrong that morning; he lost his collar-stud, his shoes were not cleaned and the key of his suitcase broke when he tried to lock it; the coffee at breakfast was luke-warm and there was difficulty in getting a taxi.

  Even when he had got the taxi and had put his suitcase into it and was on his way to the Pensione Valetta to fetch Aunt Beatrice, his troubles were not over for he was still doubtful whether or not she would be fit to travel. She had said she would be well enough—but what if she were not? Roger had burnt his boats, he had given up his room and paid his bill and what with one thing and another he had not much money left—so if Aunt Beatrice could not go today it would be a bit awkward. Fortunately Dennis with commendable foresight had given Roger a card with his cousin’s name and telephone number. “Don’t hesitate to ring them up if you want any help,” Dennis had said. “I’ve told them all about you.” If it had not been for that card, which was safely lodged in his pocketbook, Roger would have been even more worried and apprehensive.

  Leaving the taxi at the entrance to the alley, Roger ran up the stairs and for the fourth time he rang the jangling bell. He hoped fervently it would be the last and that he would never see the place again.

  Madame Le Brun opened the door before the bell ceased to jangle. “Eet ees madness!” she cried. “Mees Ayrton ees seek—she ees not well to travel—ze docteur sayd eet ees madness.”

  “He said no such thing,” declared Miss Ayrton appearing in the doorway, fully clad, with a small suitcase in her hand.

  “Did he say you could go?” asked Roger.

  “No!” shrieked Madame Le Brun. “No, no, no!”

  “Did he come this morning?” asked Roger trying to get to the bottom of the matter.

  “Yes,” replied Aunt Beatrice. “And he said I was better.”

  “’E was ’ere, yes. ’E see Mees Ayrton in bed.”

  “Did he say you were unfit to travel, Aunt Beatrice?”

  “No,” said Aunt Beatrice firmly.

  “’E nevaire sought to say!” screamed Madame Le Brun. “Why should ’e sink to say? ’E see Mees Ayrton in bed. Zere ees talk that she will get up. Zere ees not any talk that she will go out. Zere ees not any talk that she mount in a plane and fly to England. Eef you ask ’im ’e would say: No, eet ees madness.”

  “Possibly,” admitted Aunt Beatrice. “The man is a fool and——”

  “Eet is you is ze fool—and you also,” added Madame Le Brun turning to Roger.

  Roger had a feeling this was true. “Perhaps we’d better wait a day or two longer . . .” he began.

  Aunt Beatrice did not listen; she handed Roger the suitcase and her umbrella and led the way downstairs. Madame Le Brun rushed onto the landing and leaning over the banister screamed at her in Italian, and Aunt Beatrice halted and replied in the same language. Roger was struck anew by the conviction that Italian was a wonderful language if you happened to be in a rage . . . but rage was the worst thing for Aunt Beatrice and he wanted her to conserve her strength for the journey.

  “Go on, Aunt Beatrice,” he said. “We’ll need all our time; the plane won’t wait for us.”

  Thus adjured, Aunt Beatrice went on down the stairs and Roger followed with the umbrella and suitcase. He was somewhat reassured by his aunt’s upright carriage and determined manner. They were pursued by shrieks but not by Madame Le Brun in person.

  “Such nonsense,” muttered Aunt Beatrice crossly as she got into the taxi. “All this fuss about nothing . . .”

  She continued to grumble all the way to the airfield, and then quite suddenly her ill-humour vanished. Quite suddenly she became an old lady, bewildered by the noise and the crowd, and grateful for a strong arm to lean on.

  “It’s all right,” said Roger encouragingly. “We haven’t far to walk. Once we get out of the crowd it will be easier.”

  Once he had got her out of the crowd and into the plane and had settled her comfortably in the seat “with her back to the engine” it was a great deal easier; Aunt Beatrice was interested in all she saw. She was interested in the plane and in her fellow passengers—so naively interested that if Roger had not been anxious about her he would have been amused. He was anxious about her because, now that he saw her sitting opposite to him in the plane, he realised that she looked very ill indeed. Her face was the colour of old parchment and there were dark shadows round her eyes. If Roger could have seen her properly before starting this crazy journey he would not have started at all. But it was too late to think of that, for already the plane had taxied to the end of the airfield and the four engines were roaring, impatient to be off.

  Although he had flown so often, Roger still suffered moments of terror in air travel (there was the horrible moment on leaving the ground—when one wondered whether the plane would rise—and the equally terrifying moment of landing). He fully expected Aunt Beatrice to suffer in the same way, but it was not so. Aunt Beatrice looked out of the window and seeing the ground recede, remarked, “Dear me,
we are in the air already.”

  “We are airborne,” said Roger trying to smile.

  “Airborne,” repeated Aunt Beatrice, savouring the word. “It is a very pleasant sensation. When I get home I shall write to Elsie Cannan and tell her about it. She has never been airborne.”

  It was encouraging to discover that although she looked like death his charge had plenty of spirit. There was nothing yellow about Aunt Beatrice except her face.

  When they had chatted for a little, Roger persuaded her to rest so she lay back and closed her eyes and soon was fast asleep. Roger himself had intended to stay awake and watch her carefully but, having had a very bad night, sleep overcame him and the next thing he knew was the arrival of the luncheon trays.

  His companion seemed a lot better for her nap. “What a very appetising little meal,” she exclaimed, taking up her spoon and starting upon her soup forthwith. “This really is a pleasant way of travelling, so clean and comfortable and so fast. That attractive young woman told me we shall be in London in half-an-hour. Quite incredible! Next year when I take my holiday I shall certainly fly——”

  “But not to Rome,” said Roger hastily.

  “No, not to Rome,” agreed Aunt Beatrice. “I have a feeling I should like to visit Copenhagen. It is a very beautiful city I am told.”

  Roger could not help smiling. He wondered whether he should begin to study Danish—just in case. . . .

  “You have been very kind to me,” continued Aunt Beatrice. “Oh yes, you have indeed. There are not many young men who would have given up part of their holiday to come and rescue a disagreeable old aunt.”

  “You’re not disagreeable,” declared Roger—nor was she at the moment.

  Unfortunately for herself Aunt Beatrice was one of those people who have little or no control of their tempers. When things went well nobody could be nicer, when things went ill few people could be nastier.

  They were obliged to change planes at London Airport; the plane which carried them to Turnhouse was smaller and less comfortable and Roger was unable to get his companion the seat she wanted.

  Aunt Beatrice was furious. “Ask those two men to change with us,” she said.