Fantails (20 page)

“Yes. All very tricky. So I said that as the misunderstanding was my fault (it wasn’t, as a matter of fact. I only asked her to take John to Southwold while I moved in here, and then to come here for a week or two) I’d gladly pay for her to stay in a hotel in London until she can get back into her flat. After a good many evasions on her part I got her to admit she’d only let it for a month. However, she made short work of the idea by saying she’d rather stay on here at the Painted Anchor. She went off there and then to see Mrs. Tebbitts, and most unfortunately a room was vacant. So she’s moving there this morning.”

“M’m. That means she’ll be dropping in to see John. I suppose she’ll want to take him out. It will undo so much of the good of what we’ve planned for him. Oh,
what
a pity!”

“No. There I put my foot down well and truly. Talked a lot of nonsense about infection, said I wanted him to avoid the slightest contact with herself or the MacNeishes, and absolutely forbade her to come here on any pretext whatsoever. Scared her with her own notions about germs, in fact! She took it a lot better than one might have expected. But she’s sure to keep a sharp look-out for you if you go shopping, so I thought I’d better let you know how the land lies.”

“I’m afraid it’s all very unpleasant and worrying for you,” Alison said sympathetically.

“I brought it on my own head. Not that I ever think that’s any consolation.”

“None at all. I think it makes it worse.”

“I was a fool to ask her to look after John, even for a short time, knowing, as I did, what she was like with Melanie. But one was so desperately sorry for her and Melanie would have wanted me to be kind to her, and so I risked it. She was so upset that we were leaving London. She was perpetually dropping in in Harley Street, but Miss Heald, John’s nurse, was a most efficient barrier in those days.”

“At John’s age, things don’t last long. He’ll very soon get back his confidence and forget all about germs and ‘carollies,’ ” she comforted him.

“I hope you’re right. I’m sure you are.” Hugh sighed. “Poor scrap—he’s so heartbreakingly like Melanie. I must be off. Oh, by the way, if I can get finished in good time, shall we go up the river in a motor-boat about five?”

“John would be thrilled!”

“John would like it a great deal better, and so would I, if you’d come with us. Will you? Or would you rather have him taken off your hands?”

“I’d love to come. How nice of you!”

“I’ll arrange it, then, with Bumpus.”

Soon after he had gone a friend of Jane’s came in, not knowing she was away. Her name was Barbara Randolph; she was a pleasant sturdy child of twelve, with a round freckled face and fair bobbed hair. She looked so disappointed on being told that Jane was away that Alison, having made sure she had had the measles, suggested she should stay and help to make a sponge sandwich. Barbara sat down companionably and presently was set to beating eggs, while John, who had reluctantly abandoned the kittens as both had gone to sleep, was put to greasing the sandwich tins, which he did with earnest satisfaction and infinite care. Barbara had brought a jam-jar. Presently Alison asked what it was for?

“Well, you see, Frankie’s going to be three tomorrow—”

“Who’s Frankie?” John demanded.

“He’s my little brother. And Jane was going to show me where to get some minnows for him. It sounds a mean sort of a present, but it’s the only thing that Frankie says he wants!”

“John knows where the minnow pool is. He would take you—wouldn’t you, John?” Alison suggested, thinking that it would be good for him to go off on his own with Barbara unaccompanied by any grown-up, and that he would enjoy the responsibility of being guide. So when the sandwich was safely in the oven the two went off together happily, each with a hot curranty scone. Barbara, used to the care of several small brothers and sisters, had no need of any warning to look after him. She was a sensible, matter-of-fact creature, the best companion possible for a nervous little boy.

Barely had their cheerful voices died away when once more steps came up the stairs, and to Alison’s dismay and annoyance Lucia appeared, carrying a small suitcase and wearing an ingratiating smile. “I hear John’s going to pay you quite a visitation, so I brought along some things he’ll need. Clean underwear and so on.” She pushed past Alison, looking about her, evidently expecting to see John. “Johnny boy!” she called, “Aunt Lucia’s come to see you!”

“John has gone out,” said Alison, hoping she would go soon.

“Out?"
This was evidently unexpected. She must have been counting on finding John here. “Who has he gone with?”

“With a friend of Jane’s. Thank you so much for bringing the things. If he needs anything more, I can ask Hugh to bring it over.”

“No need to bother him, poor man! I shall be popping in here every day to see how things are going.”

“But I thought—I gathered,” Alison stammered, “that is Hugh told me he was anxious that John shouldn’t see anyone from Swan House at the moment?”

“Oh, Hugh! My dear, if you knew as much about doctors as I do, you’d realise that they’re the biggest fusspots in creation. I had measles years ago. No chance of getting it again. And, anyhow, as Hugh comes here from Swan House, why shouldn’t I come from the Painted Anchor?”

It was unanswerable. Not knowing what to say, Alison decided that she had better drop the subject until she had consulted Hugh. Lucia was unfastening the suitcase. She laid a heap of little shirts and vests and socks on the table, then from the folds of a pyjama jacket took out a small flat parcel. Unwrapping it she held the photograph it contained at arm’s length for a moment, gazing at it, then held it out to Alison. “I don’t believe you’ve seen a photograph of Melanie, have you? Hugh put away the ones we have about in Swan House when I told him you were coming. I don’t think he likes strangers to see them ... He feels her loss so terribly. It was a ghastly tragedy that she died so young. A tragedy for all of us.”

A young, fair face smiled up at Alison, triangular in shape, like John’s, with fragile, faintly shadowed cheekbones and a questioning expression in the wide eyes. She knew now what Hugh had meant when he had said that John was heartbreakingly like Melanie. Every time he looked at his small son he must be poignantly reminded of his wife.

Gently she said, “A charming face. How you must miss her ... I suppose this wasn’t a very recent photograph? She looks so young!”

“It’s the last photograph I have of her, taken six months before she died. She was just thirty.”

Alison thought she looked more like a girl in her early teens, untouched by trouble or responsibility. “She looks as though she had never known anything but happiness.”

“She never did. I saw to that until she married. And after that there’s no denying that Hugh did his best for her. Though sometimes when I think that if she hadn’t married him she would have been alive now ...” Her dark face worked convulsively. “I did my best to stop it, heaven knows! ‘If you will only have the sense to stay with me’, I told her, ‘I’ll go on giving up my life to shielding you from every trouble, every responsibility, every worry that may come along.’ But Hugh persuaded her, and for once she wouldn’t do as I advised. And so she paid for it.”

Alison cried pitifully, “Oh, but you mustn’t feel like that! Anything might have happened to her. She might have been run over, or killed in a railway accident, or—or died of infantile paralysis, without even knowing the happiness of loving and being loved and looking forward to her baby!”

“I loved her. She was happy with me. No one could have protected her and sheltered her as I did.”

Alison made no reply, unable to think of anything comforting to say to this unhappy woman who had such distorted views of life and human nature. Silently she laid the photograph of Melanie on the table by John’s clothes.

“Put it beside John’s bed,” said Lucia. “I’ll come this afternoon when he’s had his rest and take him to have tea at the Copper Kettle.”

Though her heart ached for Lucia, John’s welfare must come first. Alison said, “I’m sorry—I’ve arranged with Hugh to take John out this afternoon.” She looked away from Lucia as she spoke; already she had unwillingly intruded farther than she cared for into the older woman’s feelings. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. When at last she spoke, Lucia’s voice was no more than a hoarse, shaken whisper. “So you think you’re going to take Melanie’s place! Arranging this and that with Hugh. Taking possession of John—”

Involuntarily Alison threw out her hand as though to shield herself. “Oh,
please!”

Lucia went on as though she had not heard her. “Let me tell you this. If Hugh asks you to marry him it won’t be because he wants you for yourself. It’ll be because he wants a housekeeper, someone to look after John. He won’t have me to live with them because he’s always hated me, always been jealous of the influence I had with Melanie. Now he’s beginning to be jealous over John, and so he’s driving me away. But though you may share his bed and board, there’s no room for you in his heart. There’s no room there for anyone but Melanie. Remember
that!”

“I—don’t want to talk to you. Will you please go?” said Alison quietly. Thrusting her hands deep in the pockets of her overall, so that Lucia should not see how they were trembling, she turned away and stood looking out of the window, while Lucia, after a moment’s indecision, went heavily away, down the stairs and out into the lane, banging the door in the wall behind her.

When she was alone, she sank down on the window-seat, covering her face with her hands, sick and shaken by the ugly little scene. Lost in her dream of happiness she had failed to face reality, failed to realise that Melanie, who had shared his youth, who had been his love, his wife, the mother of his son, inevitably must come first in Hugh’s heart, now and always. It was impossible that he should feel more for herself than liking and affection and companionship. She had been crazy to imagine all that she had imagined last night!

It seemed to her a lifetime later that she rose and went on with the business of preparing lunch, although the clock said it was no more than ten minutes. Yet in those ten minutes she had resolved to make the best of what might come her way and Hugh’s, unhampered by false pride, putting the ugly scene with Lucia behind her. And since it seemed the second best must be her lot in life she would accept it thankfully, grateful and happy that she had Hugh’s trust and confidence and affection.

CHAPTER T
HIRTEEN

Logie
had been at Crail for nearly a week when, on their way home one evening from a cocktail party, Vee suggested going the next day to Harrawick Races. “I’d forgotten they were on,” said Sherry. Over his shoulder he called to Logie, who was in the back of the car, “Like to go racing to-morrow, darling?”

Logie had never gone to a race meeting, but anything that came her way was fun these radiant days. She called back, “Love it!” Over dinner it was arranged that they should take a picnic lunch and start about eleven the next morning.

But at breakfast Mary brought a message from Vee. “The mistress bade me tell you that she’ll not be going to the races. She has one of her bad heads, and when she gets like that there’s nothing for it but to stay in bed, as you know, Mr. Sherry.”

“Oh, bad luck!” said Sherry. “She hasn’t had one for a long time, has she?”

“Not since April,” Mary answered. When she had gone Sherry told Logie that his mother got occasional bad attacks of migraine, which as a rule lasted for a couple of days.

As they left the dining-room a boy came from the village with the papers. They took them to the library and sat there on the sofa, side by side, Sherry’s arm round Logie, paying considerably more attention to each other than to the news. Presently he said, “An hour before we need to start. How would you like to have a look at the top floor?”

Logie said that she would love it. She had been shown all the rest of the house in her first day at Crail. Mrs. Macintosh, a bustling, pleasant woman in a crisp white overall, had made her welcome in the kitchen, with its scrubbed tables and gleaming Aga cooker. Mary had taken out the family silver for her benefit—“Although we have to keep the most of it locked away, now we’re so short of staff to keep it clean!” Elsie had shown her cedar-scented linen cupboards, well supplied with linen of every sort, since though Crail possessed fourteen bedrooms, during the war it had been occupied only by Vee and Mrs. Macintosh and Mary, so that wear and tear on everything in the house had been of the lightest, which accounted for its immaculate condition. And Vee, one morning when Sherry was busy with the agent, had shown her round, the bedrooms on the first floor. The one that would be hers when they were married was a corner room, one window looking on to lawns and rosebeds and beyond that a copse of larches, two others at the front of the house. Adjoining it was her bathroom and beyond that Sherry’s dressing-room. Walls and paint were ivory; it had a carpet of powder blue. The curtains and chair-covers were of chintz, whose ivory ground was scattered with rose and blue-and-yellow flowers. So were the curtains and vallance of the four-poster bed. Its quilted eiderdown and bedspread were of plain rose-coloured satin. Logie had schooled her face to show no more than pleased interest as Vee showed her the little suite, although her heart was singing as she thought that soon she would be sharing it with Sherry.

The servants’ rooms were in the kitchen wing; before the war the top floor had been used only for visitors’ quarters “and my nurseries, when I was small,” said Sherry. He took her to the guest rooms, each as charming in its own way as the one she was at present occupying. The last door opened on a large, square, cheerful room with white enamelled furniture, a brass fireguard, and wall-paper patterned with characters from Beatrix Potter’s books—Peter Rabbit, Squirrel Nutkin, Mrs. Tiggy Winkle, Benjamin Bunny, Jemina Puddleduck, and many another. Sherry flung the windows wide; all three were barred for fear of accidents. They had window-seats with fitting cushions, covered in blue, and hinged lids. Sherry opened one. Inside were boxes of soldiers, a tin trumpet, toy cannon, part of a meccano set. “Lord! I’d forgotten all these treasures!” Logie set some of the soldiers out on the floor. “These would cost a fortune nowadays—if one could get them! How lucky they’ve been kept.”