Young Mrs. Savage, page 23
I’m being horrid, thought Dinah. I feel horrid. Why does this woman have such a queer effect upon me? Is it my fault? If I were nice to her would she be nice to me? We’re told to love our neighbours but I can’t love her—it’s impossible. I can’t tolerate the woman, she rubs me the wrong way.
“I’ve been having tea with Mrs. Murray—along the terrace,” said Miss Grover at last. “So I thought I would look in on the way home and bring your handkerchief.”
“Good of you,” said Dinah.
“Mrs. Murray’s husband was a General,” continued Miss Grover. “He had a most distinguished career. You don’t know Mrs. Murray, do you?”
“No,” said Dinah. She smiled mischievously and added “I don’t know anybody at all. We discovered that on Sunday night, didn’t we?”
“Mrs. Murray knows you—by sight. She says you have several children.”
“Four,” said Dinah nodding. “Two girls and two boys. Perhaps you’d like to see them.”
“My aunt had no idea of it.” declared Miss Grover.
“She didn’t ask me,” Dinah pointed out. “If she had asked me I would have told her. It’s quite usual for people to have children. Would you like to see them so that you can tell your aunt all about them?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t time,” said Miss Grover rising.
Dinah rose too and accompanied her guest to the door.
“It’s a pity about the handkerchief,” said Miss Grover.
“Not really,” replied Dinah. “You should keep it yourself.”
“I must try to find the real owner,” said Miss Grover self-righteously.
“I think you should keep it—yes, really—it goes so beautifully with that green tweed suit you’re wearing. In fact it looks as if it had been bought on purpose.”
Miss Grover looked at Dinah and Dinah looked back, smiling.
They were on the doorstep by this time but Miss Grover still lingered. “You like sailing, Mrs. Savage,” she said.
“Yes, very much. It’s so kind of Malcolm to take me,” replied Dinah promptly.
“He offered to take me, of course, but I don’t care for it.”
“Some people are bad sailors—”
“It isn’t that,” said Miss Grover hastily. “It’s because I have so much to do—so I’m very glad he’s found someone with plenty of leisure to go with him.”
Dinah nodded. “It is lucky, isn’t it?” she said.
“Are you going to-morrow?” asked Miss Grover.
“No, on Friday,” replied Dinah.
Miss Grover took her bicycle, which was leaning against the wall, and after the usual valedictory remarks she mounted and rode off. Dinah watched her. Miss Grover had come to spy out the land, but Dinah had nothing to hide so it didn’t matter.
30
Dinah had received a little note from Miss Steven asking her to come to tea and bring the children. She and Nannie had decided that two children would be enough; Polly must go, of course, and one of the boys.
“You can go, Mark,” said Nigel with a self-sacrificing air.
“But you’re the eldest so it ought to be you,” Mark pointed out.
Dinah was not deceived by this show of altruism, she realised at once that neither of her sons wished to accompany her to Miss Steven’s tea-party. “You can toss for it,” she said.
“Honestly, Mummy,” objected Nigel. “Honestly it isn’t a good plan to toss, because I don’t mind a bit and Mark would enjoy it awfully. It will be nice for Mark, won’t it? You’d like it, wouldn’t you, Mark?”
“We’d better toss,” said Mark with a sigh.
They tossed and Nigel won. “I shall stay at home,” he said quickly.
“But you’ve won,” objected Mark.
“Yes, so I choose what I want to do.”
“But Nigel, we tossed to see who was to go!”
“Of course you did,” said Nannie firmly. “Nigel is to go with his mother.”
Dinah would not have arranged it thus. It seemed to her that Nigel having won the toss had the right of choice, but she was obliged to support Nannie’s authority. “Yes,” said Dinah nodding. “Yes, Nigel, you had better come in from the sands at three o’clock so that there will be plenty of time to change.” There was some doubt in Dinah’s mind as to whether Nigel would manage to evade his obligation. Just lately she had noticed an increasing tendency in Nigel to evade duties which did not appeal to him and evade them so gracefully and skilfully that it was difficult to tackle him about it. Dinah was all the more worried because this had been one of Gilbert’s habits, Gilbert had always managed to wangle himself out of uncongenial tasks. Thinking about this as she sat at the drawing-room window with a basket of mending beside her on the sofa, Dinah tried to foresee what Nigel would do—or could do—to escape the tea-party. He must come, of course. Much as she regretted the necessity of taking a reluctant child to tea with her old friends the order could not be cancelled or discipline would suffer. Perhaps Nigel would simply vanish . . . but if so Dinah would have to go out and look for him. What a bore it was!
It was nearly three o’clock and Dinah was about to put away her darning when she saw the two boys coming in at the gate.
“Is it three yet, Mummy?” called Nigel, standing on the path and looking up.
“Five minutes to,” replied Dinah, leaning out of the window and smiling her relief. “You’re in plenty of time. I’ve put out a clean shirt for you.”
“We’re both going,” said Mark.
“Both going!”
“Yes,” said Nigel. “That’ll be all right, won’t it? Philip Barrington said it would.”
“Yes,” explained Mark. “Philip says you get an absolutely scrumptious tea at Miss Steven’s house and he says she’d like us both to go. He’s sure it’ll be all right.”
Dinah hesitated and then agreed. She laughed to herself as she went into the bathroom and found her sons scrubbing themselves vigorously—this was an eventuality she had not foreseen.
Polly was ready first. There had never been any doubt in Polly’s mind about going or not going to the tea-party, for social occasions were meat and drink to her. She awaited the others, sitting upon the seat in the front garden with her hair neatly brushed and her nice, clean hands folded in her lap. I’m good, thought Polly. It was a delightful sensation.
Miss Steven’s house was west of the harbour; it was even nearer the sea than Craigie Lodge for the wall of the house arose from the shore. The house was one of the oldest in Seatown, quite small and compact but extremely solid. In fact it was a miniature fortress, built to withstand the onslaught of the sea. The Dees had often wondered how it withstood this onslaught for wasn’t it built on sand? And didn’t it say in the Bible that it was the foolish man who built his house upon sand “and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house: and it fell: and great, was the fall of it”? But Miss Steven, on being questioned had assured them that, although most assuredly it had an appearance of being built on sand, the foundation of her house had been welded into the solid rock which lay beneath the sand, and Miss Clara had taken them down to the cellar and showed them the rocky floor. The house had been a drinking den for the fishermen in the old days (many a keg of contraband spirit had found its way into the capacious cellar) but later it had been superseded by more comfortable inns and had fallen into disrepair. Miss Steven had bought the place for a song and had spent a good deal of money upon it so that now it was a comfortable home for herself and her sister. The front door was in a lane which led from the High Street but the Dees had always used the back entrance when they visited their two old friends, climbing the old worn steps which led up from the beach, and it never occurred to Dinah to approach the house from any other direction.
Dinah and the children climbed the steps and knocked on the oaken door which was stained and weathered by the salt spray.
Miss Clara opened it immediately. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “We’re so delighted to have you. Jean won’t be a minute—we saw you coming along the shore so she ran to make the tea.”
“You haven’t got Phyllis now?” asked Dinah.
“Phyllis left us,” replied Miss Clara. “She left us to go into the Wrens—and then she got married—but we manage quite nicely ourselves with a woman coming in two mornings a week. In fact Jean and I were just saying the other day we’re really more comfortable than we were before. Phyllis was a little difficult sometimes—just a wee bit touchy, you know. Jean and I divide the work between us and really it’s very pleasant indeed. I enjoy housework and Jean is an excellent cook—and so economical—our rations go twice as far and we always seem to have enough for baking—”
“You don’t get too tired?” asked Dinah who felt it was about time for her to get a word in.
“Tired? Dear me, no,” said Miss Clara shaking her head. “I’ll tell you a little secret, Dinah. We have breakfast in bed every morning. Isn’t it lazy? We take it in turns, week about, to get up and make the tea and carry up the tray; and then we settle down comfortably in bed and have our breakfast together, and chat and open our letters and have a look at the papers. So pleasant,” declared Miss Clara nodding. “Quite delightful, really. Phyllis would never have allowed us to do that, of course—never. One couldn’t have asked her.”
They were in the parlour by this time and Dinah, looking round, was relieved to find it hadn’t changed at all. It was a long-shaped room, large for the size of the house, and had three windows looking seawards. She remembered that sometimes in winter, when the wind was high and the sea was rough, spray came battering against the windows, battering so fiercely that the two Miss Stevens were obliged to retire to a small sitting-room facing the other way.
“Sit down, dear,” said Miss Clara. “Jean won’t be a minute. You’d like to sit near the window, I expect.”
Dinah sat down in an arm-chair with a straight back. The children were seated in a row upon the sofa, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Tea was already laid upon a round table in the middle of the room—and what a tea! There were plates of thinly-cut bread and butter, and plates of scones and cakes of every size and description, there was jam and honey and chocolate biscuits. Dinah wondered how they had managed it. Had they denied themselves food for a week to provide this sumptuous feast? She hoped not, most sincerely, but even if they had there was nothing she could do about it.
Miss Jean came in with the tea-pot (while her sister was still talking) and welcomed the guests with cordiality.
“Jean!” exclaimed Miss Clara, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. “Jean, aren’t they perfectly sweet? So good and quiet. Dinah has brought them up beautifully. The little girl is like Dinah, isn’t she? It’s her eyes, I think. Her eyes are exactly like Dinah’s—and her brow.”
Miss Jean agreed and added that Mark was like the doctor.
“I know,” said Mark.
“I’m like Daddy,” declared Nigel.
“How nice!” declared Miss Clara. “We didn’t know your father, of course.”
“He was very good-looking,” Nigel told her with complacency.
There was a moment of slight embarrassment, but only a moment, for the two Miss Stevens were full of social aplomb. They began to inquire after Mrs. Anderson’s rheumatism.
Polly was gazing round the room; it was full of interesting things, full of curious old-fashioned furniture . . . and it was all little, thought Polly, so it suited the two little old ladies to whom it belonged. There were little chairs with short legs and padded backs, and little tables with boxes and shells and photographs displayed upon them, and there were two little desks and two little cabinets full of fascinating old china. Polly could see figures of shepherds, playing on pipes and shepherdesses with lambs in their arms, and there were dear little china baskets decorated with china flowers and a whole set of strangely-shaped cups and saucers.
The boys were more interested in the tea and when Miss Jean invited them to come and sit at the table “so that they could eat more” they rose with alacrity and took their places.
“Where is Trot?” asked Miss Clara, looking at her sister.
“I shut him up in the dining-room,” replied Miss Jean. “I thought the children might be frightened of him.”
“Is he a dog?” asked Nigel.
“We aren’t afraid of dogs,” added Mark.
“Well, if you’re quite sure . . .” said Miss Jean and she rose and went to fetch him.
Polly said nothing. She was a trifle nervous, for of course big dogs were apt to be alarming (there had been an Alsatian in the house opposite to them at Nettleham and Polly had not liked him at all) but she need not have worried for there was nothing the least alarming about Trot. Nobody could have been frightened of him. He was a brown and white spaniel, fat and comfortable, with long silky ears and large soft brown eyes and a tail which wagged without ceasing.
“Trot is much too fat, of course,” declared Miss Jean, looking at him fondly. “But we can’t do anything about it.”
“Because he’s so greedy,” Miss Clara explained. “He’s the greediest dog in Seatown. We take him for walks every day but it makes no difference.”
Trot had taken up his position between Mark and Nigel, and was watching every mouthful they ate and looking from one to the other with imploring eyes. Every now and then he sat up and begged, waving his front paws in the air. “I’m starving,” he assured them. “Don’t listen to Miss Clara. I’ve had no food for a month, for pity’s sake have mercy on me and give me something to eat.”
“Are you sure he isn’t really hungry?” asked Mark anxiously.
“Quite certain,” replied Miss Jean. “I gave him his dinner half-an-hour ago, and a very good dinner it was.”
“You gave him his dinner!” exclaimed Miss Clara. “But Jean, I gave him his dinner . . .”
They looked at one another in amazement.
“So he’s had two dinners,” said Miss Jean with a sigh of despair.
Everybody laughed—except Trot of course. Trot went on assuring his new friends that he was in the last stages of death from starvation.
“You can give him a tiny wee piece of scone if you like,” said Miss Jean. “It’s no use bothering about his figure. If we try to cut down his food he just goes down to the harbour and tells the fishermen that he hasn’t had a bite for a month and they feed him until he almost bursts.”
Dinah was beginning to be afraid that the same fate would overtake her sons. Bread and butter and jam, scones and honey, cakes and biscuits were all disappearing rapidly. The two Miss Stevens kept on filling their plates and urging them, quite unnecessarily, to make a good tea. Polly had done pretty well but her capacity was limited and she knew it. She refused the offer of a second slice of Miss Jean’s almond slab-cake.
“No more!” exclaimed Miss Jean in dismay. “Don’t you like it. dear? Try one of these gingerbread cookies . . . or a piece of sponge sandwich.”
“I wish I could but I haven’t any room,” said Polly regretfully.
When tea was over and nobody could eat another crumb Miss Clara produced some picture-books and the children sat down to look at them. It was the best kind of entertainment when you were full to the brim with cake; nobody wanted to run about. The picture-books were fascinating, there was Shock-headed Peter and Kate Greenaway and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland with Tenniel’s quaint illustrations. Dinah remembered that she and Dan had loved these books, but they had not appreciated their value.
“They’re first editions!” exclaimed Dinah.
“Yes,” nodded Miss Jean. “Yes, we know that.”
“But they’re valuable! You shouldn’t let the children have them!”
“Yes, we know they’re valuable,” nodded Miss Clara. “But the children will do them no harm—no harm at all.”
“You must be careful of them, Mark,” said Dinah anxiously. “Nigel, put the book on the table. Polly be careful—”
“Don’t worry, Dinah,” said Miss Jean, smiling. “Books are meant for reading. They like to be read. It’s dull for them to lie in a cupboard from year’s end to year’s end.”
Having settled the children comfortably the two old ladies were ready for a good chat with Dinah. They talked about old times and reminded her of a dozen small incidents which she had forgotten (they seemed to remember everything the Dees had said and done). They showed Dinah a plate which she and Dan had bought and presented to them one Christmas, a hideous plate made of cheap pottery with roses and forget-me-nots painted on it.
“How frightful!” Dinah exclaimed. “Yes, I can remember buying it. We thought it would look well in your china cabinet—little idiots that we were!”
“It isn’t frightful to us,” said Miss Clara as she put it away carefully amongst the Dresden china.
“And you weren’t idiots,” added Miss Jean. “You bought it to give us pleasure and it gave us pleasure.”
“It still gives us pleasure,” said Miss Clara, smiling at Dinah affectionately.
It was now nearly six o’clock and nearly bedtime, it was also the hour when Trot had his evening walk, so Miss Jean put on her hat and accompanied her guests as far as the harbour rocks. The children had recovered from their meal and ran about poking their noses into this and that and asking questions about the fishermen’s nets and lobster pots. Miss Jean seemed a mine of information and, being unused to children’s questions, was delighted to answer them and answer them at length.
“Such bright minds,” she whispered to Dinah. “So intelligent and interesting!”
She was so busy answering questions that she failed to keep an eye on Trot and did not discover his absence until they were saying good-bye, but she was in no doubts at all as to where she would find him.
“In one of the cottages, of course,” said Miss Jean shaking her head. “This is the hour the fishermen have their tea. Trot knows that as well as I do . . .”
