Bother, now I’ve offended him, she thought, but she was too concerned about Meg (who was now stirring restlessly and making little sounds of distress) to give the matter a second
thought
, and devoted herself to rocking and soothing her. She was bending over her, trying to see in the dim light how to loosen the strings of her hood, when Mr. Waite exclaimed, “Hullo, now what’s the matter?” and put the brakes on hard. When she had recovered her balance from the jerk, she looked out of the window into the darkness and saw a figure standing in the glare of the headlights; a soldier in a greatcoat, laden with bundles. At the same instant the children began to dance up and down with delight and she saw that it was Ronald.
“He wants a lift, I suppose,” Mr. Waite grumbled, “a silly thing to do, stopping me like that, I nearly went over him,” leaning forward to open the door, “can you make room there, Mrs.—er—? (not so much
noise
, kiddies,
please
!).”
“It’s my husband!” Alda said joyfully. “What a lovely ‘Christmas present for the March family’!”
By this time Mr. Waite (muttering that how they would fit him in he did not know) had got the door open, and was calling:
“Can we give you a lift?”
“Thanks very much; awfully good of you. Are you going anywhere near Naylor’s Farm?” answered Ronald, stepping forward, and then Alda, shielding Meg from the inrush of cold air, called out:
“Hullo, darling! It’s us.”
Louise and Jenny were leaning as far across the luckless Mr. Waite as they could get in order to greet their father and the former, having grasped the situation, was fussily moving tins and the folding pram and sacks about in order to make some room. Ronald’s exclamation of surprised pleasure was drowned in introductions, apologies, explanations and thanks, and some minutes elapsed while he was climbing into the car and crushing himself and his bundles down beside Alda, bringing the scent of snow and night freshness upon his rough coat.
“However did you manage it, lovey? We’d given up hope,” she said, clasping his hand as the car started again.
“I hadn’t, Father. I still thought you’d come,” said Louise.
“I’ve got something lovely for you, Father,” said Jenny.
“Good. So have I for you. From Belgium.”
“Oh Father! For us both?”
“One for each of you! Is that Meg in there?” peering at the bundle in Alda’s coat. “What’s the matter?” and his voice changed. “Isn’t she well?”
Alda explained, already feeling less anxious because of the comfort of his presence, and his daughters knelt on the seat with their backs to Mr. Waite in order to join in the conversation, while the latter morosely drove on, wondering how long the springs would stand the weight of six people, a folding perambulator, eight sacks of balancer meal, four large tins of cod liver oil and luggage crammed with rubbish from Belgium.
Presently he stopped the car, and roused them with slightly sarcastic politeness from their family conversation by announcing that they had arrived at the gap in the hedge leading to Pine Cottage.
“Oh, thank you so much,” said Alda, hastily preparing to climb out, “I hope we haven’t brought you out of your way? (Come along children, hurry up.)” Ronald was taking out his luggage and putting it down in the snowy road.
“I shall have to turn her round and go back, my turning is just down the road, but it isn’t far,” said Mr. Waite. “Glad I could be of any assistance. I hope the little kiddy will be better to-morrow. Good night. Good night, kiddies—a Merry Christmas,” and he disappeared into the darkness, which was less than total because of the widespread gleam from the snow and (for the clouds had now rolled eastwards and away) the brilliant starlight.
“Kiddies are baby goats. We aren’t,” said Jenny in a quiet, impertinent undertone to her sister.
“Kind hearts are more than coronets
And simple faith than Norman blood,”
quoted her father, pulling her hair. “Can you manage Meg,
darling?
” (to Alda) “I must have both hands for these cases and the pram.”
“Let me help, Father.”
“No, let go, Weez—I mean it—they’re very heavy. You can walk with me and tell me all the news.”
Faint unearthly light and a deep hush lay over the fields; when a star glided out now and then from behind the scudding brown clouds its bright eye entered the scene as if alive and watching them, and the snow sparkling and crinching underfoot in the torch-rays seemed protesting as if aroused from cold, light sleep. Suddenly bells began to peal, faintly and far away; another tower in the night took up the sound; then Saint Wilfred’s three miles off, and soon the air was filled with it. Strange, wild, rejoicing sound! untamed yet familiar, having nothing to do with any peace except that peace which comes after unimaginable struggle and
passeth understanding
, clanging and ringing out over the darkened earth to remind it of the unbelievable truth.
“How lovely,” said Alda, pausing for a moment and clasping Meg closer as she lifted her face to the starlit sky. “Of course—I’d forgotten—it’s Christmas Eve.”
Then, as the cottage came in sight, she exclaimed in astonishment: “Oh—look, the lights are on! Someone’s there!”
“It must be Jean, Mother,” said Louise, dismayed. “Oh dear, and now father’s here and we
did
want him to ourselves, what a nuisance.”
“She
is
tiresome,” said Alda, tired, worried about Meg, and now really annoyed at the prospect of a spoiled Christmas. “I suppose she thought from my letter that there wasn’t the faintest chance of your coming,” to Ronald. “I’ve a good mind to send her packing off home again.”
Before he could answer, the front door opened and Jean, her fur coat swinging from her shoulders and her gilt hair swaying, hurried down the path crying eagerly:
“There you are, darlings! Come along in, you must be frozen. I’ve got a blazing fire for you and the kettle’s boiling.”
Then, as she saw that there were five dark figures instead of the expected four approaching her across the snow, her voice trailed off in dismay:
“Oh…oh dear. Is that Ronald?” peering into the dimness as she leant over the gate. “I thought you weren’t coming; Alda’s letter seemed so sure. Oh, I
am
sorry—butting in like this—such a bore for you.”
“Don’t be a goat, my dear girl, we’re very pleased to have you, but Meg was taken ill in church,” said Ronald, “and Alda’s rather fussed.”
“I am not,” said Alda, between her teeth. “Hullo, J. What a surprise. What time did you get here?”
“About half-past three. I’m awfully sorry, truly, Alda.”
“Can’t be helped. Actually, I shall be glad you’re here, when I’ve got Meg into bed and had some tea. Give me a hand with her, will you? the hot-water bottle’s in the dresser drawer in the kitchen.”
“O.K.” and Jean hurried back into the cottage while the others slowly climbed the steep little path to the porch, the children pulling off their hoods as they came.
“Oh, what a
damned
nuisance,” said Alda very softly to Ronald as he shut the front door.
ABOUT HALF-PAST SEVEN
that same night a train, glowing with light and crowded with Christmas Eve passengers bound for the coastal towns and inland hamlets of Sussex, drew slowly out of Sillingham station, leaving a few people on the platform.
Most of these hurried away immediately as if on familiar ground and anxious to get home but one, who was tall and young and wore the Ayr green jersey and brief overcoat of the Women’s
Land
Army, walked slowly and wearily out of the station and, having given up her ticket to the porter, stood gazing uncertainly about her as if looking for somebody.
The road and the few houses with snow-covered roofs bowered in leafless trees were dark and silent. The noise of the train could be heard diminishing steadily into the distance and overhead the red and green lights on the signal by the bridge shone amidst clouds and stars. After a moment or two, she changed her shabby, bulging suitcase over to her other hand and set off slowly up the long road leading to the village, keeping her small head bent before the rising wind; the Land Army’s round hat was set well back to display a full pompadour of dyed golden hair and afforded her no protection.
When at last she reached the village and saw its one long street, slumbering beneath the snow but flashing and gleaming with Christmas lights from every curtained or shuttered cottage, she paused, and gazed again about her. As she did so, eight o’clock chimed from the church tower.
Sweet notes from the three old bells fell down through the dark air and spread away in ringing waves, and a few flakes of snow blew against her lifted face. This is the first snow I’ve tasted this year, she thought, as a crystal drifted between her lips, so I ought to wish, and then she shut her eyes.
Let me get a job on the stage very soon
, she wished, and walked slowly on.
The place certainly did look pretty; but corny, of course, like an old-fashioned Christmas card, she thought, and even the pub’s shut—anyway, I’m not going to try muscling in there—and I suppose you could die in the street before anyone’d take you in and give you a cup of tea; gosh, a cup of tea’d be marvellous. Then, on the opposite side of the street, she caught sight of the Linga-Longa Café.
As usual, its windows were so steamy that it was impossible to see what was going on inside, but there were people, and they were moving about; and there was a notice hanging in the
window
that said
OPEN
. Hardly believing in her luck, she crossed the road and opened the door.
Immediately she encountered a stifling odour of stale frying that at any other time would have sent her straight out again, but she was so tired and hungry that desire for food and rest was stronger than disgust. She shut the door behind her and made her way between three or four tables crowded with raffish girls and loutish youths to a seat at the only empty one.
Resting her elbows among the stains and crumbs, she sighed and took off her hat, and a mane of rich healthy hair of a deep brown, contrasting with the dyed pompadour, tumbled in natural curls down her back, while she shook her head as if glad to be free of its weight.
“Yes?” inquired a slatternly girl a little older than herself, pausing at the table, and letting her spiteful, pretty eyes dwell upon the pompadour and the curls.
“A pot of tea and baked beans on toast, please.”
“No beans.”
“Bread and butter then—anything—I don’t care.”
“Bread and butter’s off. We got cakes.”
“Oo, yes. That’ll do.”
“Tea and cakes for one. Right,” and the waitress made her way towards the reeking kitchen visible through a half-open door at the end of the room, but paused to exchange jokes with a tableful of young men. Once she tried to get away, but they detained her, and minutes passed while she lingered there, jeering at them. Sylvia Scorby sighed angrily, then took a book from her overcoat pocket and set it in front of her on the table, bending over it with her fingers in her ears as if she were learning. It was
Major Barbara
.
In a minute, however, she had let the book drop and was staring about her. What a dirty place, she thought, but it must have been quite nice once.
That was exactly what the poor Linga-Longa Café had been: with its white shelves adorned by blue Japanese pottery, its
branches
of palm in the spring and of beech in the autumn, its two lady proprietresses and its former title of The Blue Plate. In those days, nearly seven years ago, it had been frequented by nice people living in nice houses in the neighbouring villages and on the local bus routes; it had been
the
place at which to meet for a cup of tea while waiting for your particular bus to arrive; it had been as clean, as pleasant, as respectable as The Myrtle Bough in Horsham itself, but first the evacuees had come, and then the war had come, and then the Bomb, and the two ladies who managed The Blue Plate had been so much shaken, both literally and metaphorically, that they had sold the lease, fittings and goodwill of their business for less than it was worth; and then the Battle of Britain had come, and then the Canadians and then the Americans, and then the Italian prisoners, and then the flying bombs and—last of all, dirtiest of all, most familiar to the eyes of the Sillingham people and yet most exotic of all—the gipsies themselves had come; and they had all, every one of them, patronised The Blue Plate, renamed the Linga-Longa, and every year it had grown steadily dirtier, noisier and less nice, until only the large old settees covered with filthy ragged chintz, where gardening gentlewomen and golfing colonels had once chatted and drunk tea, and the white brackets and shelves where the Japanese vases had once stood, remained of the former elegance. Gipsies sucked up their tea at the tables with baskets of stolen kingcups resting at their feet, lorry drivers wrangled over their change on the settees, and that was the story of the Linga-Longa Café.
As Sylvia’s eyes (beautiful eyes of a cloudy blue-grey, with heavy lids) moved slowly about the room, the door of the café opened and two Italian prisoners came in. The first swaggered forward with a knowing glance towards some girls at a table near the door, and Sylvia barely noticed the second one, because at that moment the waitress came up with her order, and she did not look up from arranging the teapot and her cup until a voice asked politely: