Listening Valley (16 page)

“I'd love to,” replied Miss Dunne. “I'm often in Ryddelton, shopping and that sort of thing. Are you strong?”

“Strong!” echoed Tonia in surprise.

Miss Dunne chuckled. “Yes, it
does
sound mad, but I was just wondering if I could rope you in for war work. We need people very badly for gathering sphagnum moss.”

Tonia had heard of sphagnum moss but she had never seen it.

“Wonderful stuff,” said Miss Dunne. “They use it for front-line dressings because it's so absorbent—sixteen times more absorbent than cotton wool—and because it's full of iodine. They can't get enough of it, really; they're always shrieking for more. We get as much as we can, of course, but I could do with a lot more helpers. We go up the hill to the moor and wade about in bogs and gather great sacks of it. Some people like doing it and some don't,” added Miss Dunne with a mischievous grin.

“I could try,” said Tonia a little doubtfully.

“You need Wellington boots and a thermos,” said Miss Dunne. “I'll let you know…”

She moved away before Tonia could answer. She was a very capable young woman, Tonia decided.

“This is Jim Mannering,” said Bay, appearing with a young man in tow—a young man with very fair hair and a pink-and-white complexion. “Mannering is my navigator. He takes me by the hand and leads me there and back, don't you, Manners?”

“Usually,” replied Mannering without turning a hair.

“Usually,” agreed Bay. “There have been occasions when…but never mind. Mannering will get you another drink and talk to you nicely while I go and make myself pleasant to some of the bores.”

“Do you always fly with Bay?” asked Tonia.

“Practically always,” replied Mannering. “It's better to stick together because you get to know what the other fellow can do. You get the best results. I'm lucky, of course. I'd rather fly with Socks than anyone. He's so safe.”

Safe seemed an odd word to use.

“He's brilliant, of course,” said Mannering in a casual sort of voice. “He's brilliant and he's cautious. You don't often get the two together, but, when you do, you've got something pretty good.”

“The American boy told me about his flight with you. He was tremendously impressed.”

“Enthusiastic, aren't they?” said Mannering. “We rather distrusted that enthusiasm at first—seemed a bit odd, if you know what I mean—but they're all right. They take a bit of knowing, that's all.”

“They said that about you,” said Tonia, smiling.

“About us!” exclaimed Mannering in surprise. “But we're quite ordinary blokes.” He looked thoughtful for a few moments, as if he were considering the matter carefully, and then continued, “They're all right, the Americans. Those daylight offensives of theirs are absolutely top-notch.”

“Precision bombing,” put in Tonia, who had begun to know quite a lot about the matter and made a point of reading all she could get hold of.

“That's the stuff. The RAF by night and the USA by day. That's what's going to bust the Hun,” said Mannering in his quiet, casual sort of voice.

“Is it really worthwhile—I mean, we seem to lose so many—”

“Oh, rather,” he replied. “It's worthwhile all right. Of course it's frightful when we lose a lot—too horrible for words—but even
then
it's worthwhile. We bust up their factories—everyone knows that—but there's another thing about it that everyone doesn't seem to realize. You see, the Hun keeps thousands of fighters specially for our benefit. These fighters ought to be providing air cover for the German armies in Russia and Italy, but they can't be in two places at once. So the German armies have to do the best they can without adequate protection. The troops don't enjoy getting bombed; it's bad for morale to say the least of it, and the staff doesn't enjoy it when the bridges and railways and ammo dumps go up sky high. Makes it pretty difficult. So, actually, we are helping our fellows directly as well as indirectly, if you see what I mean.”

Tonia was about to reply in the affirmative and to ask for more information when Bay came back, remarking that he had polished off the bores and was ready to enjoy himself. Mannering took the hint and faded away.

Tonia was in bed when the planes began to thunder overhead, one after another at regular intervals. She counted them carefully…there were nine. Nine bombers on their way to Germany, and in one of those planes was Bay. Yes, Bay was sure to be there with Jim Mannering and Willard and the rest of the splendid men who made up the crew of seven that was the complement of the big Halifax. She would have liked to know which of the planes was G for George. This one perhaps, thought Tonia, as she heard the roar of engines passing overhead. The sound faded away in the distance as the plane flew over the hills. It would have reached the coast by this time, would be thundering along above the dark rolling sea, speeding east to the appointed place with its load of death, taking death to thousands of people in some German city. Ghastly thought! But that was war. We had to do it. We had to crush our enemies in every way we could. She reminded herself of London and Liverpool and Coventry; she thought of Warsaw and Rotterdam and Belgrade. The tables had been turned now, not in a spirit of revenge but merely as a wartime necessity. She thought of all that Jim Mannering had told her…

The hours crawled on. Would they have reached their target now? She tried to imagine what it would be like—the searchlights, the shells bursting all around the plane, the bombs falling, the colored lights Bob had said were so pretty—“just like rockets at a kid's party.” And now the planes would be turning and making for home, and among them would be the nine that had gone out from Ryddelton—but would there be nine?

She slept a little, very lightly, and awoke to hear them coming back. Not at regular intervals but two or three together and then a long space and another single plane. It was difficult to count them when they came like this…there were seven, she thought, or perhaps eight…

Dawn was breaking now and Tonia rose, for she could stay in bed no longer. She dressed and leaned out of the window…how peaceful it was! The sun had not come up, but the sky was red; it looked as though it were on fire. There were clouds above the dark hills, fiery clouds with bright red fringes hanging above the hills. Above them were more layers of cloud, gray and golden, touched with fire; they floated peacefully in the pale blue sky. Gradually the red faded. The high ridge of hills was dark against the brightness of the sky, dark and smooth and rounded in outline. There was no red at all in the sky, only blue and gold when at last the sun looked over the top. The bright beams of light seemed to spill over the crest of the ridge; it was like molten gold spilling out of a cup. The gold spilled over and ran down the gray gloomy hillside, lighting first the little knolls and then the whole hillside. Tonia's room was flooded with golden light.

“Did you hear the planes?” asked Mrs. Smilie when Tonia went downstairs to have her breakfast. “One of them didn't come back.”

“I thought…not,” said Tonia faintly.

“It was not Mr. Coates's plane,” declared Mrs. Smilie (who never bothered herself with ranks and titles but used plain mister for every man). “Mr. Coates is back all right, the postman says.”

“How does the postman know?”

“Mr. Murray knows everything that goes on,” declared Mrs. Smilie. “He knows about the airfield because there's an aircraftsman billeted on them. A wise-like lad, and no trouble in the house, Mrs. Murray says.”

“Oh!” said Tonia.

Mrs. Smilie gave her a quick glance. “You're up early,” she remarked. “Maybe the planes woke you, coming home.”

“Yes,” said Tonia.

The day passed slowly. It was wet and windy; the weather seemed to have broken, and Tonia employed herself doing things in the house. She was washing up the supper dishes when she heard Bay come in. He was now so much at home that he did not ring the bell—it was a loud jangling bell of the old-fashioned type and Tonia had told him that it startled her. Tonia dried her hands and went through to the drawing room. She knew at once that there was something wrong. Bay looked old—quite old and haggard. There was no light in him.

“What is it?” she asked. “What's the matter, Bay?”

“Only another one gone. That's all,” he replied, lighting a cigarette with hands that trembled a little. “I ought to have gotten used to it by this time but it seems to get worse. Funny, isn't it?”

Tonia said nothing. She knelt down and began to blow up the fire with a pair of bellows.

“Damned funny, really,” continued Bay in a grim sort of voice. “Damned war…they all go…one after another.”

“Who?” asked Tonia.

“Wingford—a frightfully good fellow, one of my best pilots—and the crew, of course. You wouldn't know them. One of them was an American, who was attached to us for training—”

“Not Bob!” exclaimed Tonia.

“No, Wood. We called him Teak. Did you know him?”

“Yes,” said Tonia. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Bay.

“It's—hellish, really,” Bay said. “They were all tremendously good chaps but somehow I feel…I feel responsible for Teak. He wasn't actually one of our crowd but just attached to us. Of course it can't be helped. I mean, it isn't anyone's fault.”

“No, of course not. What happened, Bay?”

“It was a crash. We were on the way home, and O for Orange was just ahead of us. I thought they were in difficulties, but of course one can't do anything—that's the worst of it—except just hang about in case somebody bales out and one can wireless his position…and then quite suddenly the starboard wing dropped off and the plane fell like a stone. That's all, really.”

“Yes,” said Tonia.

Bay sat down and leaned his head on his hand. “I've been trying to write to Teak's mother,” he said. “It seems—I mean, she's such a long way off, isn't she?”

“Do you think she'd like me to write?” asked Tonia.

“Yes,” said Bay. “Yes, do write. Of course she would like it. I'll give you her address.”

They were silent for a long time after that. The fire was going well now; little tongues of flame, yellow and red and blue, were licking around the log Tonia had put on. A sudden squall sent rain, blattering against the window.

“Play something,” said Bay at last.

“Play the piano, do you mean?” asked Tonia in surprise. “But I can't play, Bay.”

“Of course you can,” declared Bay, smiling down at her. “I remember you learning to play at school, and, as a matter of fact, I heard you playing the other night when I passed.”

“But I only play to myself. Just to—to amuse myself.”

“Play to yourself, then.”

She saw that he did not want to talk, so she gave him the evening paper and sat down at the piano, but she was shy of playing when anyone was in the room. And for a little while she could not make up her mind to begin—there was no music in listening valley tonight. And then, quite suddenly, the music came; her hands strayed about the old yellowed keys, which had become so familiar and friendly, and she forgot Bay was there…

“What's that, Butterfingers?” said Bay suddenly.

“What's what?”

“That thing you were playing just now,” he replied, putting down his paper and coming over to the piano. “I don't seem to know it and I thought I knew all the latest hums.”

Tonia looked up. “It isn't anything…I mean, I just heard it.”

“On the radio?”

“No, I heard it in a place—a place I go to—sometimes—”

“A place in Ryddelton?” asked Bay in amazement, for to him the word called up the vision of some pleasant little restaurant with an orchestra and shaded lights and soft-footed waiters appearing with succulent food. He gazed at Tonia (she did not reply) and saw that she was suddenly rosy with blushes and she was looking down so that her dark lashes were spread upon her cheeks like two small fans. “A place in Ryddelton,” repeated Bay incredulously.

“A place—inside,” she replied, laying her hand on her bosom.

“You don't mean you made it up!”

“Oh no…at least…it isn't like that at all,” said Tonia in a very low voice. “I just…listen.”

There was silence for a few moments and then Bay said, “I see. It's rather wonderful, isn't it? I mean, it must be wonderful.”

She looked up and smiled, for he had understood and said exactly the right thing. “Of course it is,” she said happily.

“Play it again,” commanded Bay, leaning his elbows on the piano.

She played it softly, with variations. It was a haunting melody, and Bay, who had an extremely good ear, got the hang of it and began to hum it in a pleasant baritone.

“Lovely,” he declared when they had finished.

Tonia thought so too. The voice had made all the difference, had made the little wandering melody into something more substantial.

“Could you write it down?” asked Bay. “I mean, write it out properly with the accompaniment and all the variations.”

Tonia said she could.

“There's a fellow in the mess called Harrison,” explained Bay. “I'd like to show it to him.”

She had the manuscript ready next time he came. It had taken her quite a long time to do but was delightful work, absorbing and satisfying. She handed it to him when he came in and he saw that she had called it “Listening Valley.”

“That's from Keats, isn't it?” he asked.

“Blake,” replied Tonia.

“It's a lovely name—and a lovely tune. Let's play it again, shall we? I wish we could find words for it, don't you?”

They played it (and sang it) again, and it was quite as pleasant as before. Then they went on to other things, for there was a cabinet full of songs that had belonged to Great-Aunt Antonia. Bay sang “There Is a Tavern in the Town” and others of the same ilk and they finished up with “I'll Walk Beside Thee.”

“That's all,” said Bay, whose voice had suddenly become a little husky. “I mean, we can't have anything else after that.”

He went away quite suddenly and hurriedly, glancing at the clock and murmuring that he didn't know it was so late. And it was still quite early; it was early enough for there to be a possibility of a raid on Germany tonight, and the moon was full…

She sat down at the piano and played “Abide with Me” very, very softly, whispering the words:

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.

The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O, abide with me.”

Tonia went to bed, feeling comforted. She lay awake listening, but no planes went over that night.

***

“Hi!” cried Bay, striding into the hall and throwing his cap down on the oak chest. “Hi there! Where are you, Butterfingers?”

She was upstairs making her bed, and she came running down the stairs in her pink overall with her hair all over the place.

“He says it's marvelous,” cried Bay excitedly. “He says it's the goods—
absolutely.
I can't stay a moment but I had to rush in and tell you—”

“Who? What?”

“The song, of course. ‘Listening Valley.' Harrison is sending it up to his firm. I told you he was a music publisher before the war.”

“You didn't tell me anything.”

“Didn't I? No, perhaps I didn't. I wanted to be sure, first. I was afraid you might be disappointed if it didn't come off. The money will be useful, won't it?”

“The money?” asked Tonia in perplexity.

“Gosh, yes! There's money in songs, you know. Especially if you make a hit, and Harrison says everyone will be singing ‘Listening Valley.' As a matter of fact, the whole mess is humming it already, more or less in tune.”

“No!”

“Yes, honestly. I knew you'd be pleased about the money.”

“Oh, I am,” declared Tonia, smiling at him. “It's most awfully good of you to have bothered, and the money will be very helpful. It isn't that I'm badly off, exactly,” continued Tonia, trying to explain. “I mean, Robert left me plenty of money but I had a lot of bother with the trustees.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Bay sympathetically. It was natural that Bay should misunderstand this statement, for Tonia was looking extremely wistful now, and “a lot of bother” sounded pretty serious. Bay imagined Robert Norman's trustees as blackguards of the deepest dye and visualized them absconding to Uruguay (or somewhere) with small black briefcase full of Bearer Bonds. He could not know—how could he—that the wistful expression on Tonia's face was due to the recollection of her interview with the three kind and eminently respectable, if somewhat misguided, gentlemen chosen by Robert Norman as trustees for his fortune. She was thinking of the lawyer's office, of the fly buzzing feebly on the dirty windowpane, and remembering her own feeling of horror and dismay at the prospect of living with the Garlands.

“Good Lord, how frightful!” repeated Bay, gazing at her.

“It was, rather,” said Tonia. “There was a meeting, you see. They all talked about things I couldn't understand, except one who didn't talk at all. I think he was sorry for me.”

“They made you sign papers, I suppose?” asked Bay anxiously.

“Oh yes,” said Tonia. “Lots of papers. I just signed where they told me.”

“Frightful!” said Bay. He was more than ever glad that the song was going to be a success. If by any chance it wasn't a success, thought Bay, one might be able to arrange something with Harrison (she would never suspect anything, for she was an absolute infant in money matters, one could see
that
). The only bother was that although one's pay seemed pretty good on paper it melted away in the most astounding manner…and there was Retta, of course.

“Oh, look here,” he said. “I've found rooms for Retta. It's just across the street—quite decent, really. The woman seems a nice kindly sort of creature and she said she would do her best to make Retta comfortable. I've wired Retta to come next week—rather exciting, isn't it?”