Young Mrs. Savage, page 16
The sun was setting in a clear sky, a sky of turquoise-blue which blended into palest lemon and orange. The great rocky island towards which they had been sailing was dark with shadows, its reflection stretching out towards them and turning the green water to deep and inky black. Ben pointed to a seal, basking upon a flat rock at the water’s edge. He clapped his horny hands with a noise like a pistol shot and it slipped off the rocks into the sea and a cloud of sea-birds rose shrieking from the ledges and swooped about in circles above their heads.
It was getting dark quite quickly now and Malcolm made a sign to Ben. He brought the boat round in a wide sweep and they headed back for the mainland.
As they neared the shore Dinah noticed that they were not making for the harbour where they had embarked, but for the East Bay. There was a natural jetty in the rocks to the westward of Craigie Lodge, and they were landing their passenger there.
“At your door,” said Malcolm, smiling. “It will save you walking from the harbour. You’ll come to-morrow night, won’t you?”
“Not to-morrow, I’m afraid,” replied Dinah.
“Thursday, then?”
Somehow it seemed natural to say yes.
Dinah was handed on to the rocks from one fisherman to another and Ben escorted her over the rocks with his hand beneath her elbow as if she were old and frail.
“Ye’ll be safe enough noo,” declared Ben, as they stepped on to the sand. “We’ll see ye on Thursday nicht for sure.”
Dinah agreed that they would. She waved to Malcolm and went up to the house. When she had got to the gate she turned and waved again. The boat was pushing off; they had got the oars out; Malcolm was waving his handkerchief to her.
20
A letter from Dan was lying upon the breakfast-table next morning, and one from Irene Barnard, bulky with news. Dinah got the children started with their porridge and took up Dan’s letter first.
Darling Di,
You can imagine my delight—or can’t you?—when I got your letter to say you had definitely decided to take the plunge. I’m sure it is the wise thing to do, besides being the most pleasant. Of course the first thing I did was to dash off hot-foot to a house agent. He was not very helpful nor hopeful. Several large ruins are in the market, but as we should be allowed to spend only ten pounds on repairs I was obliged to turn them down. Umbrellas are all very well, but Nannie always says it is unlucky to open an umbrella in the house, so a watertight roof is essential. I suppose you would be able to come up to Edinburgh and see a house if I could find a possible one? Nannie and Mrs. Turtle’s Flo could look after the brats for one day, couldn’t they? The second thing I did was to beetle along and see Malcolm at his office (I shall have to call him Mr. Armstrong, of course). He introduced me to some of the staff and explained who I was and what I was going to do. He called it confidential secretary, which sounded very grand, and said I was a very old friend of the family—altogether made everything smooth and easy. It is a good thing I can do typewriting—I shall brush it up a bit—pity I can’t do shorthand but Malcolm says it doesn’t matter; what he really wants is someone who will use his brains and take responsibility if necessary. I shall have to spend some time going through all the departments and learning the whole business from A to Z. I’m longing to get started. Malcolm gave me some books and papers to study so I’m getting down to it. Before you know where you are your brother will be a “King of Industry.” Doubtful if I shall be able to get down to Seatown on Friday because I can’t very well ask Cray for week-ends when I’m leaving so soon, but I’ll be down on Saturday if I can manage it . . .
Oh, Dinah, you faithless creature! [wrote Irene], To think I have cherished you all these years! How could you be so cruel as to desert me! Honestly, my dear, I feel absolutely shattered at the prospect of no Dinah-next-door to rush in and disturb at any hour of the day, to ask advice about jam or hats or Christine’s tummy or discuss the affairs of the universe with. What a sentence! You can see how shattered I am. Christine wept at the news and then recovered and became fairly cheerful. Heartless creatures children are! Of course she will miss Polly frightfully—probably more in the winter when there isn’t so much going on. Henry is sorry, too, but he says I am to tell you that you are doing the right thing. He says Dan is sound—which, as you know, is the highest praise Henry can give—and you will be able to educate the children well and cheaply in Edinburgh. I wish it were not quite so far away. We shall come and stay with you of course and you must come to us. Dora likes Oakfield immensely and actually is toying with the idea of buying it (I suppose you will want to sell it), but I’m not encouraging her at all. I don’t want to accept any responsibility in the matter. If she buys it and regrets it the mistake won’t be mine. Dora is a bit trying in some ways, but I might have a worse neighbour and Christine likes the boys. So there you are! Of course you made my mouth water by your description of the food. How does Mrs. Anderson manage to provide such excellent fare? The queues in Nettleham are longer than ever and supplies shorter. Wilfred Harrington came in to drinks last night and was quite crushed by the news that you are leaving Nettleham . . .
Dinah smiled to herself. Irene’s matchmaking propensities used to annoy her considerably, but now, for some reason, she was only amused. Crushed, thought Dinah, looking at the heavy underlining of the word in Irene’s letter! Wilfred was no more crushed by the news that he was unlikely to see me again than I am by the thought that I shall never see him.
There was great bustle and excitement at Craigie Lodge that afternoon, for the children were going to tea with the Monks, and Dinah and Nannie were determined that they should arrive at the tea-party in a spotless condition. They certainly looked very clean and neat as they started out and their mother had cause to feel proud of them.
“Umph’m, they pay for dressing,” remarked Nannie. “It’s a pity they don’t look like that more often; but you and Dan were just the same—always tearing your clothes and wearing out your shoes at the toes, and usually as dirty as tinkers into the bargain. The doctor never minded; he used to say: ‘Better to wear out leather than sheets.’”
It was extraordinarily quiet in the house when they had gone. Dinah and Margy had tea together in the drawing-room. Flo brought it up to them on a tray and lingered to chat with them. She was not shy now, and was very good and helpful with the children; Nannie had suggested tentatively that when Dinah was settled in Edinburgh, she might take Flo as a permanency, but nothing had been said to Flo about the idea. It would be very pleasant to have Flo, thought Dinah, and she would come (if her mother would let her) for she thought Mrs. Savage was the most wonderful person in the world. Dinah was fully aware of Flo’s devotion and very touched; few people are too high and mighty to enjoy hero-worship and Dinah was not one of these. In fact, it seemed incredible to the humble-hearted Dinah that she should have won Flo’s heart with so little effort and in so short a time.
The children arrived home about six o’clock full of excitement and the old house which had seemed so quiet came alive again. They arrived home laden with presents and with paper hats and trinkets which had come out of crackers. Mr. Monk had managed to buy a large box of crackers in Edinburgh.
“Look at my gold-fish!” cried Nigel. “It’s to swim in the bath—and Mark has a frog. Look at this sailing-boat! I can sail it in the sea to-morrow morning. Polly got a doll. Show Mummy your doll!”
“Her clothes take off and on,” said Polly, excitedly. “Look Mummy! Look at her dear little vest. Mrs. Monk made it herself. Mrs. Monk made all her clothes, Mummy!”
Dinah was quite overwhelmed by the generosity showered upon her offspring. “Goodness, how kind of them!” she exclaimed. “I hope you all said thank-you?”
“Of course we did!” Polly assured her. “We felt thankish, so it was easy. We said it again and again, didn’t we, Mark?”
“Two or three times at least,” agreed Mark, gravely. He was already sitting upon the floor, turning over the pages of a book which had been given to him. It was a beautifully illustrated copy of Treasure Island.
“You needn’t worry. We were very good,” declared Polly. “They both said so when we came away, so we must have been.”
“Mark upset his milk,” Nigel reminded her.
“That was an accident—not naughty,” said Mark, quickly. “And Mrs. Monk didn’t mind a bit. She said accidents happen in the best related families.”
“We had plums with sugar,” said Polly. “They were great big white plums with red cheeks and flannel skins.”
“Peaches?” suggested Dinah.
“And so juicy,” said Mark, with a faraway look. “So juicy. The juice ran up my sleeve. Mr. Monk said we could lick our plates, so we did. We couldn’t waste all that sugar.”
“I hope you didn’t call him Mr. Monk,” said Dinah, anxiously; but the children were far too excited to reply.
“We played a game with little balls,” said Polly. “You pulled a sort of loop and the ball popped up and ran down a slope into a hole.”
“Sometimes it didn’t,” put in Nigel.
“Mr. Monk was terribly good at it,” added Polly. “It nearly always ran into a hole when he was playing.”
“And he is deaf,” declared Mark. “Just a little bit deaf, like Old Monk. You don’t notice it when you’re talking to him, but he can’t hear what everybody is saying. He thinks you’re saying something when really you’re saying something else. Did you notice, Polly?”
“Mrs. Monk told him things once or twice,” said Polly, nodding.
“Told him the jokes,” agreed Nigel.
“So that he wouldn’t miss the fun,” explained Mark, in case his mother had not understood.
“And then Patrick came in,” said Polly, giggling at the recollection. “Oh, dear, he was funny! He put on my hat and crawled about on his hands and knees.”
“I jumped on to his back,” declared Nigel. “He bucked and bucked, but he couldn’t get me off . . .”
Dinah listened and smiled. It was obvious that the party had been an enormous success; she only hoped the host and hostess were not worn out by the hospitality they had given.
21
It was now time for bed. Dinah and Nannie had evolved a most satisfactory arrangement for putting the children to bed. Margy was bathed first and, while she was having her supper, Nannie dealt faithfully with the twins. By the time Margy was safely tucked up the twins were supping and Dinah was free to supervise Polly’s ablutions. It all fitted in very neatly and everybody was pleased with the scheme.
Having played her part and said good-night to her family Dinah went downstairs and was surprised to find Pat Yoker sitting at ease in the drawing-room and reading Treasure Island.
“Goodness! They never said you were here!” exclaimed Dinah.
“I told them not to bother you,” he replied. “That’s a jolly nice book, you know. I wouldn’t mind reading it all through.”
“Quite a lot of people have,” said Dinah, innocently.
“Well, I don’t wonder . . . nice pictures,” declared Pat. “I mean pictures make a lot of difference. Look at that one of the old pirate with the wooden leg.”
“It’s Silver!” exclaimed Dinah, with interest.
“No, it’s wooden,” said Pat. “I know it looks silver in the picture, but it’s made of wood all right. You see I know, because there was an old pensioner I used to talk to sometimes. He had a peg leg—and was he nippy on it! You should have seen him scooting about!”
“I dare say Mark would lend you the book,” suggested Dinah.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Pat doubtfully. “Fact is, I’m not much of a reader. I like to have a snoop at The Times, just to see who’s got married and who’s got promoted and so on, and I usually have a glance at the news—though it’s a bit depressing. I mean there’s nothing except strikes and accidents and some Russian chap saying No to something—depressing, that’s what I think.”
Dinah said she couldn’t agree more, which was one of Dan’s sayings and expressed her feelings perfectly.
“But I didn’t come to talk about that,” said Pat. “I don’t know how on earth we got on to the subject . . . Oh, yes, that book! Well, I really just looked in to tell you the party was a terrific success and the aunt and uncle are still alive.”
“That’s relieved my mind a lot!” said Dinah laughing.
“And to bring you a bottle of gin,” added Pat, producing it from behind his back with the air of a conjurer.
“Gin!” exclaimed Dinah, in surprise.
“Real gin,” said Pat, nodding. “Pretty rare, isn’t it? Anyhow, there it is, and I thought we might have a snifter if you’re feeling like it—if you’ve any lime juice, or—or even if you haven’t—” said Pat hopefully.
Dinah laughed again, Tapioca amused her a good deal. She was able to produce a bottle of orange squash and a couple of glasses, so they had a snifter. Tapioca had more than one.
“Good gin that,” he declared. “Don’t drown it with that yellow stuff. Yes, the party was an absolute wow. I arrived just at the end and had a game with them, and then the presents were given out . . . awfully appreciative little beggars, your children are!”
Dinah said she was glad.
“Oh yes, the uncle and aunt were as pleased as Punch—and Judy!” He chuckled. “Quite a good joke that! You see,” he continued, pouring out a liberal helping of gin and waving away Dinah’s offer of yellow stuff. “You see, my father and mother were killed in an air raid, so the uncle and aunt are all I’ve got . . . yes,” added Pat when Dinah had endeavoured to commiserate with him. “Yes, it was pretty awful. Seemed wrong, somehow. I went off to do a bit of battling and they stayed at home and got killed! Pretty awful, wasn’t it? So the uncle and aunt are all I’ve got left and they haven’t any one except me.”
“I thought they had a son.”
“Killed,” said Pat. “They had a daughter, too, but she died when she was a child. Pretty awful for them, really—not having anybody.”
“Frightfully sad!”
“So you see they’re very alone,” explained Pat. “And that’s why I feel sort of responsible for them—because they’ve had such a mouldy time.”
Dinah saw. She thought it was nice of Pat. “Was their son married?” she inquired.
“No; that was another blow to them,” replied Pat, looking regretfully at his empty glass. “He was engaged to a very nice girl, and had been for ages. The uncle and aunt liked her immensely and were awfully pleased about it. The date of the wedding was fixed and everything laid on and then at the last minute he changed his mind and threw her over. Pretty awful, wasn’t it?”
“Frightful!” agreed Dinah.
“It wasn’t so much the doing of it as the way he did it . . . Yes, I will have just a suspicion more if you can spare it. He didn’t give any reason, you see. The uncle tried to argue with him, but he wasn’t having any—just walked out and left them sitting. The uncle had to tell the girl it was all off, and cancel everything. Pretty awful, wasn’t it?”
“Frightful!” exclaimed Dinah, in horrified tones.
“The uncle has got a bit of a temper, you know. He was simply livid—I don’t blame him really—I mean it was pretty awful to have his son behaving like that. It let him down, if you see what I mean. He was so fed up that he just left it alone for a bit, thinking that time would put things right—but it didn’t. If I’d been here I might have done something, but I was in Australia—and then in Colombo. I wasn’t home at all for years, so I couldn’t do anything.”
“They never made it up?” asked Dinah incredulously.
“No,” said Pat, shaking his head. “The uncle left it for a bit, as I told you, and then wrote and said let bygones be bygones—you know the sort of thing—but there was no answer. It worried them no end, especially the uncle because he felt he ought to have been more patient. He blamed himself frightfully, poor old boy; but honestly it wasn’t his fault. I mean he’s told me about it several times and I don’t see what else he could have said or done.”
“It’s dreadful for him!”
“Yes, and he still worries about it, still goes on wishing he had written again and climbed down even more and got things squared up. Fortunately the aunt seems to have forgotten all about the row. I dare say you’ve noticed she’s a bit forgetful.”
“What an extraordinary creature your cousin must have been!”
“You’ve said it,” agreed Pat. “The cousin was a curious bloke. I never had much use for him. He was spoilt, really. They gave in to him too much when he was a kid—gave him everything he wanted. They’re so kind, you see, and of course they were oldish—I mean the aunt was about forty when he was born—and their daughter had died. Well, I mean you can see why they spoilt him, can’t you? But it wasn’t a good thing. He didn’t appreciate it.”
“It’s a lesson,” said Dinah, thoughtfully.
“You shouldn’t be too unselfish with kids,” agreed Pat.
“I try not to be,” Dinah told him, taking the point. “It’s difficult sometimes. I mean sometimes it’s more unselfish to be selfish; you want to give in, you want to make them happy, you want to give them the earth. You have to remind yourself it’s kinder to be selfish.”
“I’ll have to think that out,” said Pat. “The old brain’s a bit slow on the uptake.” He rose as he spoke. “You couldn’t come and dance,” he added, not as if he were tendering an invitation, but merely as if he were stating a regrettable fact.
