Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh Den, what is she like?” asked Mrs. Weatherby.

  “But that’s just it! I never saw the old lady. I heard plenty about her from Roger and the doctor and the black satin pincushion—and they all told me something different. The only thing they had in common was terror; they were all scared to death of Aunt Beatrice.”

  After this it was easy enough to explain that Roger had asked him to visit Amberwell, and it was quite unnecessary to mention that by this time Roger’s leave was over and he had returned to his regiment in Germany.

  “You must go,” said Mrs. Weatherby. “You deserve a holiday after all your hard work. Why not ring up your friend tonight and arrange it?”

  Dennis rang up his friend—it was Nell not Roger of course—and the visit was arranged.

  *

  2.

  Amberwell had been so much in his thoughts that when Dennis saw it again it seemed well-known and friendly. The old grey house, so strongly built and beautifully proportioned, was not large and grand and proud like Weatherby Manor; it was a comfortable building which had been erected by an Ayrton and had sheltered the Ayrton family for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Amberwell was a family house—no more and no less—thought Dennis as he drove up to the door. There was a kindness about it, an air of benevolence which embraced not only its own family but the stranger within its gates.

  He had been longing to see Nell, but now that he was so near his desire Dennis felt anxious; Nell was shy and there might be some awkwardness at first. He must be careful to assume the right manner and neither frighten her with too much friendliness nor chill her with too little . . . but he soon found that these fears were groundless and he had been reckoning without his hosts. Amberwell welcomed its visitors with benevolence and the people who lived in Amberwell did the same. Perhaps if Nell had met Dennis elsewhere she might have been shy and awkward, but here she was on her own ground and her instinct of hopsitality was supreme. It was not only Nell who welcomed him warmly; Mrs. Ayrton remembered him quite well and enquired after his mother, and Stephen received him with joyful exuberance as if he had been a long lost uncle.

  “D’you remember him?” cried Stephen, flourishing an extremely dilapidated teddy bear. “You brought him to me last time you came, when I was a little boy. I wonder what you——”

  “Be quiet, Stephen!” exclaimed Nell.

  “It’s all right,” declared Stephen unsubdued. “I wasn’t going to say that; I was just going to say I wonder what — what you would like to do tomorrow. We might have a picnic at the Smugglers’ Cave or — or something.”

  Fortunately Dennis had brought a gift for Stephen so he opened his suitcase and produced a large, oddly shaped, flabby sort of parcel and handed it to him then and there.

  “You shouldn’t,” said Nell smiling. “He’s a greedy little monster, but it isn’t his fault really. It’s because Roger and Tom always bring him parcels when they come home. I’ve told him he shouldn’t expect it.”

  “I don’t expect it,” declared Stephen, not quite truthfully. “But it’s nice when it comes. I wonder what it can be. It feels like a bath-mat.”

  But it was not a bath-mat; it was a rubber goose which was intended to float in a swimming-pool, and when inflated was large enough for a small boy to ride on. Naturally Stephen wished to blow it up at once, and refusing all offers of help, proceeded to do it himself and became very flushed and breathless in the process.

  Thanks to Stephen there was no awkwardness at all and Dennis stepped straight into the middle of the Amberwell household as if he had known its members all his life. He had arrived just before tea-time, which is the best time for a guest to arrive, and as they sat on the terrace in the mellow glow of the summer sunshine he began to feel happy and relaxed. He was here at last . . . and there was Nell sitting behind the silver teapot pouring out his tea. For the moment he wanted no more, it was all exactly as he remembered it: the peace and quietness, the mellow sunshine, the shadows of the trees upon the lawn. Best of all Nell was the same sweet, gentle creature who had lived in his heart for three years.

  Now that Dennis was here it seemed impossible that he had been so far away and had seen so much. The glaring eastern sun, the bustling cities, the brown men and women in their gaily coloured garments might have been a dream he had dreamed one night.

  At first they had talked about Stephen and his goose (it was a large ungainly bird ashore, but no doubt it would assume a more graceful appearance in the water), and then Dennis was asked for an account of his mother’s new house and described it in detail.

  “It sounds lovely,” said Nell.

  “It isn’t lovely,” replied Dennis. “But it’s very comfortable and easily run and I’m sure my mother will be happy there. The garden is just the right size to give her plenty of scope without being a burden. When I came away she was planning to reorganise it completely. She likes that,” added Dennis with a smile. “She likes doing things with her own hands and seeing the results of her labours. That’s why I had to get her out of the Manor; she was killing herself trying to keep the place in order.”

  There was a little silence after that, a peaceful companionable silence.

  “You’re like Roger,” said Nell at last. “Tom is your friend, I know, but you’re much more like Roger . . . and I don’t mean only to look at, I mean in yourself.”

  “How?” asked Dennis with interest.

  “You’re peaceful for one thing,” replied Nell thoughtfully. “When Tom comes home he stirs us all up, but Roger seems to adapt himself to our slow-moving lives. Another thing is you don’t change. Tom has a dozen different personalities, but Roger is always the same.”

  Dennis was satisfied with this, and so he should have been, for it was something to build on. He had known from the beginning he would have to go slowly with Nell; he would have to make friends with her before he could make love to her—that was how he put it to himself—and as there had not been time to make friends with Nell before he went to Burma he had left without saying a word and had contented himself with writing her long friendly letters. He wondered now, as he looked at her and met the friendly glance of her cornflower-blue eyes, how long it would be before he could move on to the second part of his programme with safety.

  Several days passed and Dennis established himself as one of the household; they had a picnic on the shore and the goose was taken to bathe and proved itself an excellent swimmer. He walked on the moor, visited the Rectory and was taken to see Summerhills. In addition to these social pleasures Dennis made himself useful, he oiled the garage doors and mended a faulty catch on the bathroom window.

  Mrs. Duff wanted a shelf put up in the kitchen and had been waiting for weeks for the joiner to come from Westkirk, so when Dennis offered to put it up for her she accepted the offer with delight. All the necessary tools and impedimenta were assembled; Dennis got onto the job with workmanlike precision while Mrs. Duff looked on and admired his skill. Nannie who was ironing on the kitchen table joined in the chat.

  Dennis had been surprised to find that Mrs. Duff and Nannie remembered him—in three years they might easily have forgotten his existence—and he was surprised to find them so interesting and so well-informed. It was a new experience to talk to people like Mrs. Duff and Nannie and he found great difficulty in “placing” them. For instance it was a little startling to be asked by Mrs. Duff whether he had been to Rangoon while he was in Burma and to be told quite casually that her nephew was the manager of a large and flourishing shipping-firm in that city.

  “Mr. William Duff?” exclaimed Dennis, pausing in his work.

  “That’s him,” agreed Mrs. Duff calmly. “Willie has done quite well for himself—I will say that. He’s got a nice house and a lot of black servants. I’ve not seen Willie for years, but we write at Christmas and he tells me what he’s doing. He was wanting me to go out and visit him last winter but I’m too old for junketing about the world in aeroplanes.”

  Dennis had met
Mr. Duff and remembered him as an important person with a fine figure and a noble head and a slight Scots accent . . . and now that he looked at Mrs. Duff he could see a very faint but unmistakable family resemblance.

  “You were a fool not to have gone,” said Nannie thumping away with her iron. “I told you so at the time.”

  “It was too far. Amberwell’s good enough for me. I was born at Amberwell and I’ll die at Amberwell,” said Mrs. Duff firmly.

  “You were born here?” asked Dennis with interest.

  “I was indeed. Father was old Mr. Ayrton’s coachman.”

  “There’s no place like Amberwell to be born in,” declared Nannie in a sarcastic tone of voice.

  “To my way of thinking there’s not,” retorted Mrs. Duff. “I’d a deal rather be born in Amberwell than in—some other places I could name.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause punctuated by the thumps of Nannie’s iron. Dennis had a feeling that they were approaching unknown shoals and although it would have been interesting to know the nature of the shoals he decided it was time to change course and steer for calm water.

  “Was your nephew born here?” he enquired.

  “Born and reared at Amberwell,” said Mrs. Duff proudly. “My brother had a big family. He was glad enough to get rid of Willie and we were glad enough to have him, so he stayed with us and got his schooling at Westkirk. Willie was a nice wee boy with a taking manner and very keen on his books.”

  “It’s a small world,” declared Nannie.

  Dennis had been thinking the same. It was almost incredible that Mr. William Duff whom he had met in Rangoon should have been born and brought up at Amberwell.

  “It’s a big enough world to my mind,” declared Mrs. Duff. “And what’s more there’s far too many folks in it. Give me Amberwell where there’s room to turn——”

  “And room to think,” put in Dennis.

  Mrs. Duff nodded. “There’s a deal of truth in that.”

  For a few moments there was silence and then Mrs. Duff continued. “Maybe you’re wondering why I’m Mrs. Duff and Willie’s my nephew. I married my cousin, you see. He was a steward on the Lusitania and went down with the ship. That was in May 1915, you’ll remember.”

  “Kate, you never told me that,” Nannie exclaimed in surprise.

  “Maybe not,” replied Mrs. Duff calmly. “It’s not a thing I care to speak about, but I just thought I’d like Commander Weatherby to know.”

  Dennis was touched. He said, “Thank you, Mrs. Duff. I’m sorry. It must have been dreadful for you.” But he said no more, for Mrs. Duff had made it clear, not only by her words but by her manner, that she preferred not to speak about the tragedy.

  When the shelf was finished Dennis stood back and surveyed his work with satisfaction. “It’s solid, anyhow,” he said.

  “It’s a fine solid job,” agreed Mrs. Duff. “Sailors are neat with their hands, I always say. Mr. Tom would have done it for me if he’d been here, but he’d have done it no better.”

  This, from Mrs. Duff, was the highest possible praise for “Mr. Tom” was her favourite. She would have died for “Mr. Tom” joyfully.

  “Tom!” exclaimed Nannie, laying down her iron. “Tom would have begun it and left it half finished . . . and you know that as well as I do, Kate Duff. If you go into the back kitchen this minute you’ll see the vegetable rack Tom started last time he was here—and if you’re not careful you’ll fall over it.”

  “He was busy——” began Tom’s champion.

  “He was busy,” agreed Nannie with scorn.

  Dennis felt it was time to go, so he gathered up his tools and left them arguing.

  *

  3.

  Dennis had been dreaming about Nell—which was not unusual—and when he was awakened by a slight noise and on opening his eyes saw her standing beside his bed he imagined he was still dreaming. Nell was clad in a blue-silk dressing-gown, her fair curls were slightly disordered and there was a flush upon her lovely face. It was a marvellous dream and Dennis had no desire to wake from it, so he did not try to speak but merely gazed at the apparition in silence.

  “Oh Dennis, I don’t know what to do! Can you help me?”

  This too was part of the dream. Dennis had imagined it often. “Can you help me, Dennis?” No other words could have sounded more sweetly in his ears.

  “Dennis! Please! I’m awfully sorry to waken you so early but I don’t know what to do——”

  “It’s real!” cried Dennis, sitting up suddenly in full possession of his senses, for his training had accustomed him to sudden awakenings.

  “Yes, it’s real. Did you think you were dreaming? Oh Dennis, it’s Mrs. Duff. She’s fallen downstairs and I’m afraid she’s hurt herself badly. I’ve telephoned for the doctor but he’s out. I left a message——”

  Dennis had already leapt out of bed and seized his dressing-gown. “I’ll come,” he said. “Where is she? Don’t move her whatever you do.”

  “I thought you could help us to carry her upstairs.”

  “Better not.”

  “She always gets up early,” said Nell in a shaky voice as they went downstairs together. “Fortunately I was awake and I heard—I don’t know what I heard—but I thought I’d better go and see—and I found her——”

  “It’s a good thing you went to see.”

  “I very nearly didn’t,” said Nell with a sob. “I very nearly—turned over—and went to sleep. Oh Dennis, it was dreadful to see her lying there. Oh Dennis!”

  “Don’t worry too much,” began Dennis and then he stopped, for this was something to worry about. His heart sank when he saw the crumpled little figure lying at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Oh Duffy darling,” cried Nell, kneeling down and seizing a limp hand. “Oh Duffy, speak to me! Oh Duffy, you’re not dead. I can’t bear it.”

  “She isn’t dead,” said Dennis. “Nell, listen! You must pull yourself together. Go and get two blankets. Waken Nannie. Tell her to fill hot-water bottles. We’ve got to keep her warm.”

  “Couldn’t you—carry her up to bed?”

  “Not till the doctor comes. Honestly Nell, it’s much better not to move her. Hurry up and do as I say.”

  When Nell had gone to do his bidding, Dennis knelt down and tried to discover the extent of the damage—like most sailors he had some knowledge of first aid. Mrs. Duff was unconscious and breathing heavily but her pulse was fairly good; there was a gash on her forehead and one arm was twisted beneath her. Quite definitely the arm was broken and possibly the collar-bone as well. Dennis straightened her out very carefully and slipped a cushion under her head.

  She did not look so bad when he had got that done; he began to feel more hopeful and the sick feeling in his stomach disappeared. Dennis had been all through the war; his ship had been blown up by a mine and he had seen men killed before his eyes, but somehow this accident affected him more strongly and in a different way. You expected casualties in action, and there was a queer sort of excitement which buoyed you up and kept you at concert pitch. There was no fear of losing your head, so Dennis had found. But the sight of dear old Mrs. Duff lying in a disordered heap at the bottom of the stairs had upset him so horribly that it had taken him all his time to keep his wits about him.

  Nannie appeared in a few minutes; she was fully dressed but her hair was in curlers and her face was white and pinched. Dennis did not allow her time to “flap,” he sent her off to fill hot-water bottles. Nell and the blankets arrived soon after and between them they tucked up their patient securely. There was nothing more to be done until the doctor came.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1.

  “Dearest mother,” wrote Dennis—and then he paused. Usually he could write to his mother as easily as he could talk, his pen flying over the paper at a tremendous speed; but this letter was difficult, this letter was very important, there could be no rushing along like an express train.

  Dennis was alone in the morning room sit
ting by the fire with a block of writing-paper on his knee. It was nearly midnight and everybody else had gone to bed. Dennis would have liked to go to bed himself, but this letter must be written and since Mrs. Duff’s accident there had been no time to get down to a letter which required concentration. Mrs. Duff’s accident had disrupted Amberwell household, not only because her work remained undone but also because everybody—and especially Nell—was so worried and anxious.

  Dennis sighed and continued his letter:

  Sorry not to have written before but I have been very busy. As you know I intended to come home on Friday but I am afraid I shall have to put it off. I hope you will not be too disappointed that I shall not be there to go with you to the Newtons’ dinner-party. You must make my excuses and explain that I am “unavoidably detained.” The fact is there is serious trouble here. Old Mrs. Duff, the cook-housekeeper, fell downstairs and was very badly injured. At first we could not get the doctor, he had been out all night at a confinement, but after a bit he came and sent straight off for an ambulance to take her to the hospital in Ayr. Nell and I followed in the car and waited to hear the results of the X-ray.

  Dennis paused again and looked at the last sentence he had written . . . just a few words to describe hours of anxiety. He thought of the long drive with Nell sitting beside him, white-faced and miserable, and of the interminable wait in the hospital lounge. He had tried to make Nell talk, for her frozen silence seemed unnatural, and after a little he had succeeded.

  “She’s so good,” Nell had said. “She’s so kind and understanding. I wish I had appreciated her more . . . at least I don’t mean appreciated because I did appreciate her, but I could have—have shown her more of what I felt.”

  “I’m sure she knows.”

  “She doesn’t know how much I love her. Oh dear, why didn’t I—show her . . .”

  “You’ll be able to show her later—when she’s better.”