Listening Valley (12 page)

The Garlands stayed on and made no mention of future plans. They were comfortable and happy and were living at Tonia's expense. She did not know how to get rid of them…but they would have to leave when she gave up the flat; that was something to look forward to. There was a good deal to do before giving up the flat—china and linen and silver to be packed up and sent home to the house in Edinburgh, and, to give Janet her due, she was helpful in these necessary preparations for removal, and was able to make sensible suggestions as to how things should be done. They worked together—she and Tonia—and once or twice Tonia tried to sound her about her plans, but Janet was evasive about the matter and would not be drawn.

One morning Tonia was obliged to attend a meeting of trustees to settle some business affairs, so she took a tube to the city and found her way, with some little difficulty, to the lawyer's office, and here she found three elderly gentlemen awaiting her arrival. They were Robert's friends, of course, and she had met them before: Mr. Macdonald, Mr. Phillips, and Mr. Wisdon. Mr. Phillips had come from Edinburgh to attend the meeting, which made it seem very important. After some preliminary conversation about the condition of the weather, they began to talk business and Tonia was informed that practically the whole of Robert's estate was left to her in trust without any conditions whatever.

“Whatever does that mean?” asked Tonia patiently.

“It means that you will derive the income from the estate but you cannot touch the capital,” replied Mr. Macdonald, who seemed to be the spokesman. “The capital is to be held in trust for your children—if any.”

“My children!”

“You may marry again,” Mr. Macdonald pointed out. “The trust provides for that eventuality.”

“What does that mean?” asked Tonia.

“It means,” said Mr. Macdonald in patient tones. “It means that you forfeit nothing if you marry again. You continue to receive the same income. It is an unusual provision but Mr. Norman was determined upon it.”

“I shall never marry again,” declared Tonia.

There was a short silence and then Mr. Macdonald cleared his throat and continued. “The income is large. I can give you the figures, of course. Let me see now. Where did I put that paper…”

Tonia did not listen. She knew Robert was rich, and the figures, which Mr. Macdonald was reading out, did not seem to matter. She was wondering how long she would have to sit there in that dull, dusty room. She watched a bluebottle buzzing feebly on the windowpane.

“…she would share expenses, of course,” said Mr. Macdonald and his voice ceased. They were all looking at Tonia expectantly.

“I'm sorry,” said Tonia, blushing furiously. “I'm afraid—I'm afraid I wasn't listening.”

Mr. Macdonald looked surprised and a trifle pained. He was not used to dealing with clients who did not listen to him. He cleared his throat again. “It was about Mrs. Garland,” he said in reproachful tones. “Mrs. Garland made the suggestion that you should combine your households.”

“You mean—you mean Janet wants to come and live with me!” exclaimed Tonia in dismay.

“And her daughter, of course.”

“Oh no!” cried Tonia. “No, I couldn't possibly…”

There was a short silence. Mr. Macdonald glanced at Mr. Wisdon and gave an almost imperceptible shrug; Mr. Wisdon nodded, pursing his mouth; Mr. Phillips was looking at Tonia doubtfully.

“We think you should consider it,” said Mr. Macdonald at last. “The arrangement seems sensible and beneficial to both parties. Mrs. Garland is not very well off. Your husband helped her a good deal. In fact, she spent a great part of her time beneath his roof.”

“I know, but that was before Robert and I were married.”

“She is a very charming lady,” put in Mr. Wisdon.

“Oh yes,” agreed Tonia. “Yes, of course, but—”

“And you would have the benefit of her experience.”

“I know, but—”

“You don't propose to live alone, do you?”

“Of course I do,” said Tonia firmly.

The trustees looked at her in dismay. There she sat, looking about seventeen years old and talking like it, too, Robert's widow, and so appallingly wealthy…a prey to fortune hunters, thought Robert's friends, remembering the unconventional conditions of the trust.

Mr. Macdonald drew a long breath. “My dear Mrs. Norman,” he said. “You are so young and—and attractive (if you will allow me to say so), it would be so very much better if you would accept Mrs. Garland's suggestion and share your home with her and her daughter—at least for the duration of the war. We are all agreed that it would be best for all parties. Mrs. Garland would be able to act as chaperon, you would find her experience helpful, and the arrangement would solve her problems, which are largely financial.”

“I could give her the house,” suggested Tonia with sudden inspiration. “Yes, of course I could. The house in Belgrave Crescent is much too big for me…and it would remind me of Robert all the time. That's a splendid idea, isn't it?”

Apparently it was not. The idea Tonia hailed as an inspiration met with the unqualified disapproval of her trustees. She discovered that, for some reason or other, you could not give away houses even if you did not want to live in them yourself. It was all very difficult indeed.

It was so difficult that nothing was settled except that Mrs. Norman was to think about it and talk it over with her sister-in-law. The three elderly gentlemen put their faith in Mrs. Garland. They had done their best to prepare the way and they could do no more.

The remainder of their business was easily accomplished, papers were signed and witnessed—Mrs. Norman wrote her name, most obediently, exactly where she was told—and then they said good-bye and Mr. Macdonald showed her out.

Tonia found the sun shining; the street was very bright after the dimness of the lawyer's room. She hesitated on the doorstep and looked up and down. People were passing, hurrying off to lunch. They were free people; they could do what they liked; they wouldn't have to live with Janet, and Nita. Somehow or other Tonia felt like a mouse in a trap, the horrible sort of trap that doesn't hurt the mouse but just confines it so that it can't run away. But I'm
not
a mouse, thought Tonia.

It was a very dark evening about the beginning of September. The London train drew into Ryddelton Station and one passenger alighted. She stood there, looking around in a dazed manner, for the sudden transition from the lighted compartment to the gloomy platform was blinding, and before she had time to recover her powers of vision a porter, carrying an oil lantern, loomed out of the darkness and began to collect her luggage and stack it on a handbarrow.

“Is there a taxi?” inquired the passenger anxiously.

“Are they not meeting you?” asked the porter, answering the question with another question, which happened to be his way.

“Who?” inquired the passenger, adding immediately, “No, nobody is meeting me. I want a taxi, please.”

“But you'll be staying at one of the big houses—Dunnian, maybe.”

“No,” said the lady firmly.

The porter looked at her in perplexity. “You'll not get a taxi tonight,” he told her.

“Then I suppose I shall have to walk.”

“Are you going far?”

“I'm going to Melville House. I don't know how far it is, but—”

“But it's shut!” exclaimed the porter. “It's been shut since Miss Dalrymple died!”

“I can open it, I suppose,” returned the lady a trifle impatiently, for she was finding the porter's interest in her affairs rather overwhelming.

“You can open it!”

“Yes, the people who live next door have charge of the key.”

“Well now, who'd have thought it? You'll be Miss Antonia Melville, I shouldn't wonder?”

“Yes—at least I was.”

“Mr. Henry's daughter!” exclaimed the man, and he held up his lantern and took a good look at her. “Aye, you're a Melville,” he added in a satisfied tone of voice.

The light had revealed his face as well as Antonia's. He was a round, ruddy old man with snow-white hair and dimpled cheeks, a benevolent-looking old man who might easily have taken the part of Father Christmas at a children's party. She discovered a little later that his name was Mr. Smilie, and it certainly suited him.

“I mind Mr. Henry well,” continued Mr. Smilie. “He was a likely young fellow—a bit younger than me, but not much. Is he well enough now?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

It was very dark, and a chill wind was whistling through the station, a remarkably chill wind considering the time of year, and Tonia, who had come straight from London, where it had been warm and stuffy, was not very warmly clad. She was cold and tired and she did not know what to do—she could scarcely stand here all night listening to reminiscences of her father's boyhood.

“I think I had better go,” she said at last. “It's very dark and I don't know the way. Could you tell me which way to go?”

“Why not? Our house is next door.”

“Next door?” asked Tonia.

“Next door to Melville House. Mother has the key of it, you see. She's looked after the place since Miss Dalrymple died, like the lawyer asked her.”

“How kind of her!”

“Na, na, it's a pleasure to her. It's no bother at all…but what will we do? You'd have a job finding the way in the dark.”

“It would be rather difficult, but I dare say—”

“See here now, can you not wait a few minutes? I'll need to be here when the Edinburgh train comes in and then I'll be away home myself, so it'll be easy enough to show you the way and take your things along on the barra. Will that do now?”

“It would be splendid!”

“Come away, then,” said Mr. Smilie, and without more ado he took Tonia by the arm in a friendly manner and led her into the lamp room.

It was warm in here, for a tremendous fire was burning in the high old-fashioned grate, and Tonia was extremely glad to see it, for her hands were numb with cold.

“There now,” said Mr. Smilie. “You can sit doon here for a wee while and get warmed through. The train'll no be long now. Did you come from London? What like's London these days? It's difficult to think of London without lights…and the White Horse Whisky in Piccadilly Circus, they'll not have that on now?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“And yon bottle that kept on pouring out. It was a neat thing. Many's the time I've stood and looked at yon bottle…”

Tonia felt as if she were dreaming. Only a bit of her was here, sitting on the wooden bench, inhaling the strong smell of lamp oil and listening to the stream of conversation with which Mr. Smilie was whiling away the period of waiting for the Edinburgh train. She was tired—perhaps that was the reason she felt so bewildered, or perhaps it was because everything was so different. Mr. Smilie himself was absolutely different from anyone she had ever met before.

“We went to London most time for our holidays,” continued Mr. Smilie. “That was before the war of course. You see, it's cheap fares if you work on the railway and Mother likes London. I like it fine myself for a wee while, but it's just awful the way the money goes. We'd put aside as much as we could spare and when it was spent we'd come home—that was the way we did. Mother was all for London this year, but I got her off it and we went to Portobello instead.”

“It would have been a long journey for an old lady,” remarked Tonia, who felt some sort of remark was expected.

“Och, Mother's younger than me,” said Mr. Smilie, smiling. “Maybe she's not as young as she was but she's very active on her pins—and she's all for adventure. Adventure's the breath of life to Mother. You'll not believe it but she had me over to France one year—baloney,” said Mr. Smilie, nodding portentously. “Baloney it was. I tell you it made me open my eyes when I heard those Johnnies jabbering together. It's a queer thing. I knew they would talk French before I went, but it was not till I got there I really believed it…”

“It does seem…odd,” agreed Tonia faintly.

“Maybe you can talk French?”

“A little,” admitted Tonia.

“Mother can talk it like a Frenchie,” declared Mr. Smilie, nodding. “I tell you it made me proud to hear the way Mother ordered yon fellows about—and they did what she said, too. Mind you, she had the opportunity. She was with a French lady before she married me. She was with her for five years as housemaid and looked after her when she was ill, and the lady would talk away to her and that, but it's not everybody would take the opportunity like Mother did.”

“She must be very clever,” said Tonia.

“She is that,” agreed Mr. Smilie. “Now I'll tell you…Och, there's the train!”

Mr. Smilie hastened away, and when he had dealt kindly and competently with the small group of arrivals he pronounced himself ready to start.

“They were all just strangers,” he declared in derogatory accents as he took up the handles of the barrow.

Tonia got the inference. They were all strangers and therefore to be pitied, almost to be despised, but she was a Melville. She had never set foot in Ryddelton before, but for all that she belonged here. She had come home. It gave her a curious feeling, a nice warm comforting sort of feeling to know that Mr. Smilie regarded her as a friend.

They set off together—Mr. Smilie still talking—though his conversation was difficult to follow owing to the rattle of the barrow on the cobblestones. It was not so dark now, or perhaps Tonia's eyes had adjusted themselves to the gloom. She could see the dark bulk of houses on either side and the pattern of their chimneys outlined against the sky. She could see trees with wildly waving branches, and here and there a tiny chink of light from some carelessly blacked-out window. The town was very quiet, the streets empty; there was not a creature to be seen. They passed up a very narrow street with little shops (shops with closed doors and shuttered windows), and here the rattle of the barrow sounded louder than ever, echoing from side to side. It was a relief when they left this street and debouched into a very wide one with trees down the middle and a war memorial among the trees.

“This is the High Street,” said Mr. Smilie, raising his voice. “They used to have a market here on Wednesdays. We've not far to go now—a hundred yards or so. The house is just beyond the post office.”

Tonia was quite exhausted by this time, and she was thankful when Mr. Smilie stopped and put down the barrow and intimated that this was Melville House.

“I'll need to get the key from Mother,” he explained and left her standing there.

Tonia looked at her house. It was lighter here in the broad, open street so she could see the house fairly clearly. She could see that it was very old and solidly built of gray stone. On one side of it was a smaller house that seemed to be huddling against it in a friendly sort of way; on the other side was a dairy. The door of Melville House was on a level with the street. It was simply a door in the wall, and on each side of the door there were windows protected by iron railings. Above, there were three windows, each with a small iron balcony. The whole house was slightly uneven, slightly off the straight. It reminded Tonia of the bottles Robert had collected with so much enthusiasm. Yes, it was a handmade house, thought Tonia with satisfaction.

“Here's the key!” said Mr. Smilie. “I'll open the door for you,” and slipping an enormous key into the lock, he turned it and threw the door open.

It was very dark inside, but Mr. Smilie led the way in with a confidence born of familiarity. “Bide here,” he said. “There's electricity, but it's turned off at the main and I'll need to find the switch before we can see what's what.”

“It's awfully good of you,” said Tonia feebly.

He did not reply to this but disappeared into the back premises. She could hear him moving about, his heavy boots clumping on the stone floor. How kind he is! thought Tonia as she waited, leaning against a big oak chest that stood at one side of the hall. How lucky I was to meet him! What on earth should I have done if he hadn't been there!

She had no time to answer her own questions, for suddenly the electricity went on in a blinding dazzle and lit up the hall, showing it to be three-cornered in shape with a low oak-beamed ceiling and paneled walls and paved with large gray flagstones. The stairs went up very steeply from the corner farthest from the door. She saw all this in a flash, and she also saw that the front door was standing wide open (it had been an oblong of faint light but had now become an oblong of complete blackness), and she shut it hastily for she was “blackout conscious” to a marked degree.

“That's right,” said Mr. Smilie, emerging from the kitchen. “We'll not need to let Hitler see us. I wonder what Mother was thinking of to leave the switch on. I'll get on to her about it, you'll see,” added Mr. Smilie with a chuckle. “Now, I'll just carry up the luggage and then you'll get tidied. Supper will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Supper.”

“Next door,” said Mr. Smilie, pointing sideways with his thumb. “I told you our house was next door.

“Oh!” exclaimed Tonia in dismay. “Oh, but I don't think…you see, I'm so tired…I think I shall just go straight to bed. It's most awfully kind of you but you do understand, don't you?”

“I might, but Mother won't,” replied Mr. Smilie, getting even redder in the face than he was before. “It's no good me saying she will. Mother will be in here before you can blink twice and you'll be brought around to our house for your supper. It would save a deal of trouble if you'd come quiet,” added Mr. Smilie persuasively. “It would, really. Mother and me have been married for forty years, as near as makes no odds.”

Tonia realized that the last sentence clinched the matter, betraying as it did a lifelong experience of Mrs. Smilie's forcefulness and strength of purpose, so after a few more feeble expostulations and expressions of gratitude she went upstairs to wash. It was quite a small house—or rather it gave the impression of being small. Tonia opened several of the doors on the upper landing and peeped into the rooms. They were small rooms with low ceilings and floors of dark wood that sloped a little from the windows toward the doors. The walls were uneven too; they bulged slightly here and there. The shutters were all tightly shut, but the house smelled quite fresh and there was very little dust upon the furniture. The bathroom was painted green and white. It boasted a silver towel rail that reminded Tonia that she wanted a towel, so she looked about and found the linen cupboard with neatly stacked piles of linen upon the shelves. It was all just as Nannie had left it. Dear Nannie, thought Tonia, as she took a towel from the cupboard (it had a crochet border, of course, and a big red D in the corner) and went into the bathroom to wash.

“There's no hot water,” said a voice from the door—quite a soft, pleasant voice but for all that it made Tonia jump. She looked around and saw a small thin woman with red cheeks, like apples, and high cheekbones and gray smooth hair.

“If I'd known,” declared the woman, standing in the doorway with her hands upon her hips. “If I'd known you were coming, if you'd postcarded me, I'd have had the fire on and a nice cup of tea waiting. It's not very nice to arrive at night in a cold empty house.”

“But I didn't know—”

“I'll need to take the sheets and air them. They'll get the chill off while we're at our supper.”

“Please don't bother—” began Tonia. “I mean, I can easily sleep in blankets tonight—”

“Miss Dalrymple would turn in her grave!” exclaimed the woman with such emphasis and such a horrified expression that the trite words seemed to reassume their original grisly meaning.

“Oh!” said Tonia in dismay.

“We'll go when you're ready,” continued the woman, who had suddenly dived into the linen cupboard and now emerged with an armful of snow-white linen. “It's sausages, that's all, but they're better eaten hot. I'd have killed a fowl if you'd postcarded me,” she added, shaking her head reproachfully.