Listening Valley (18 page)

Tonia had asked some of the young officers to come in after dinner. She had asked them in a tentative manner, for she had very little to offer them in the way of entertainment, but far from refusing her invitation they had accepted with alacrity and asked if they might bring some friends. Five of them came. Jim Mannering and Bob were the only two she knew. The other three were introduced to her in rather an airy fashion as George, Edward, and Douglas-Begge. (She had asked Bay too, of course, but he refused, saying that he would rather come when she was alone.) There was another who should have been there—Teak, of course. She had asked him that very first day when they met in the woods. Tonia was very conscious of Teak's absence when she shook hands with Bob, for in her mind, the two were linked together. She gave Bob a very special smile and Bob smiled back bravely, but there was a shadow in his eyes that had not been there before.

“Thank you for writing to Mrs. Wood,” said Bob in a low voice as he followed her into the drawing room.

Nothing more was said—nothing
could
be said in a crowd like this—but Tonia knew that Bob had felt her sympathy.

The fire was bright and the chairs were comfortable and there was coffee and cigarettes. Tonia's guests sat down and began to talk, at first a trifle shyly, but soon with greater freedom. Tonia did not say very much herself, once she had started the ball rolling; she plied them with coffee and cigarettes and listened with all her ears. Unfortunately they had all begun to talk at once so it was impossible to follow the conversation, and this was a pity because it was “shop” and therefore intensely interesting.

“You were at Fornebu, weren't you? Frightfully difficult target to find…”

“I like marshaling yards. Such fun to upset Jerry's traffic schedules!”

“Marvelous fellow; he managed the whole trip without a wireless fix.”

“Two holes appeared suddenly in the tailplane…”

“Four bandits appeared right out of the sun, and…”

“…that new American plane-mounted seventy-five cannon sounds pretty useful…sink a warship, can't it?”

“And then we went down to rooftop level and gunned the barrack square. You should have seen…”

Tonia listened and watched and tried to remember the names that had been mentioned to her when they arrived. She was almost sure that the tall, forceful-looking group captain had been introduced as George, but everyone seemed to be calling him Jeefer—it sounded like that. The small, dapper flight lieutenant was Douglas-Begge. Bob was addressed as “Carolina” more often than not and Mannering as “Manners.” Her fifth guest was neither tall nor short and had mouse-colored hair; he was the sort of person you don't notice and cannot describe. She could not remember his name.

After a bit someone suggested a game and, as Great-Aunt Antonia had been fond of whist, there was no difficulty in producing cards and a table.

“What's it to be?” inquired Jeefer, sitting down and beginning to shuffle the cards, shooting them from one hand to the other in an exceedingly expert manner.

“Poker,” suggested Douglas-Begge.

“I don't suppose Tony knows Poker,” objected Jim Mannering.

Tonia realized that he was referring to her and replied that she would be perfectly happy looking on, but her guests declared unanimously that it would be no fun unless she played.

“I don't know anything—except Old Maid,” said Tonia laughing.

“In that case we'll play Old Maid,” declared Jeefer with perfect gravity. “Take your seats, gentlemen—Old Maid it is.”

“Can you play for money?” inquired Douglas-Begge as he maneuvered dexterously for the chair next to his hostess.

“My dear Double Bed you can play anything for money,” retorted Jeefer. “You can play kiss-in-the-ring for money if you put your mind to it.”

“
Let's
play kiss-in-the-ring,” Mannering said.

Jeefer took no notice of this frivolous suggestion. He asked for chips, adding that Tony probably called them counters, and when some had been found he divided them evenly into six heaps.

“I'll stand Tony her chips,” said Bob.

There was a chorus of disapproval. Everybody wanted to stand Tony her chips and the argument became quite heated until Mannering made the suggestion that Tony should get her chips free, which would mean that everybody would be paying for them.

“Nobody,” said Douglas-Begge.

“Everybody,” declared Mannering firmly. “If nobody pays for them everybody pays—it's as clear as crystal.”

“All set?” asked Jeefer. “Now then, pin back your ears. We deal the cards first and you look at your hand and make your bet—something like blackjack. You throw out your pairs on the rubbish heap and then each bloke in turn draws a card from his right-hand neighbor. The first to get rid of all his cards gets paid double his stake by the bank. The bloke who is left with the Old Maid—namely the Queen of Spades—pays double his stake to the bank. I'm the bank to start with. Got that, everybody?”

They argued a little about the finer points but Jeefer had his way. “We can alter the rules a bit as we go along,” said Jeefer firmly.

“Why Jeefer?” asked Tonia as she took up her cards and began to pair them.

“G for George, of course. His name is George,” said Mannering. “Go on, Double Bed, you start by drawing from Tony.”

They played. It was quite a good game, really, but it became more and more complicated with each round because everybody suggested modifications. At last Jeefer put his foot down.

“No more mods,” said Jeefer. “Mods retard production.”

It was fun because everybody was keen. Tonia realized that it was a “very gambling” game, for dozens of chips changed hands after every round. She hoped sincerely that the chips did not represent large sums of money, but obviously there was nothing she could do about it. The fun grew fast and furious. Shouts of derision rent the air when Douglas-Begge was left with the Queen of Spades three times in succession, and the fifth guest, who had been extraordinarily silent, remarked
sotto
voce
that Double Bed had better change his name.

“She isn't an Old Maid, she's an old—er—witch,” declared Douglas-Begge, throwing the offending card upon the table with an air of disgust.

Tonia had beer and sandwiches ready on a tray in the kitchen; she went to fetch the tray, but her intention was foiled by her guests, who pursued in a body, offering assistance, and since they were all there and the kitchen was warm and comfortable it seemed more sensible to remain.

“Gosh, it
is
nice!” said Jeefer, looking around. “I like a kitchen, don't you? Seems so matey.”

They agreed that it did, and perching themselves upon the table and the dresser they consumed the refreshments with apparent satisfaction.

“Did you ever meet Phelps?” inquired Jeefer.

“He was a prune,” declared Mannering in a judicial voice.

“A waffling prune,” agreed Jeefer solemnly.

“What became of him? Was he pranged?”

“He was not. Prunes are scarcely ever pranged. Waffling prunes never. Waffling prunes get lovely cushy jobs in nice safe places where the nasty Germans never come…”

“Tony!” said Bob, holding up his glass and smiling at his hostess.

The others immediately followed his example, saying, “Chin-chin, Tony!” or “Here's how!” and Tonia returned the compliment, saying, “All the best, Jeefer!” and “Happy landings, Bob!” as if she had known them all her life.

It was midnight when they left. Tonia saw them off at the door.

“Come back soon,” she told them.

“You bet!”

“It's been a tremendous party.”

“Absolutely wizard.”

“We must have another go at Old Witch.”

“The only thing is we never quite know…”

She watched them down the street. They were still talking and laughing, pranking like schoolboys, jockeying each other. Bob turned and waved, calling out, “So long, Tony!” and Tonia waved back.

“The only thing is we never quite know…”
said Tonia to herself as she turned back into the house. They never quite knew whether they would be able to come and play foolish games with her, or whether they would be spending the hours flying over enemy territory. They never quite knew whether, the next time she asked them, they would still be alive. And they were so friendly and natural; they were just boys.

As she straightened the furniture and made the drawing room tidy, she found to her surprise that her eyes were full of tears.

***

“You had a fine party last night,” said Mrs. Smilie.

“I hope the noise didn't disturb you,” Tonia replied.

“It takes more than that to disturb
me
; I like fine to hear folks enjoying themselves. To tell the truth I'm sorry for the officers, here. The men have plenty of friends in the town and dances every Friday, but there's not much for the officers to do. I'm going to clean the windows this morning, Miss Tonia.”

Tonia started off to do the shopping with the big basket on her arm, and Mrs. Smilie carried out the steps and two pails of water and various cloths and “shammies” that she needed for the job. She was looking forward to a pleasant hour, for, although she liked all sorts of cleaning, she liked cleaning windows best. You saw your work—as Mrs. Smilie put it, you saw the results of your labors—when the crystal clear windowpanes winked and blinked and shone in the sunshine; and the front windows were by far the most amusing, for you were actually in the street—without any of the bother of dressing to go out—and you could see the world go by and glean the latest gossip from your friends.

The postman was the first to pass. He commented upon the weather, which was mild and pleasant for the end of October if somewhat damp. He also remarked that the war would be over by Christmas, which Mrs. Smilie considered superoptimistic.

“It'll be June before we're through with them,” declared Mrs. Smilie, looking down at him and nodding. “You mark my words, Willie. It'll be June.”

Mrs. MacBean was the next. “Och, you're cleaning windows!” she exclaimed. “It's wasted wurrk in saft weather like this. You'd be as well to leave it alone.”

“Some folks likes to see out of their windows,” replied Mrs. Smilie ironically.

“John does mine,” continued Mrs. MacBean. “John says it's man's wurrk, cleaning windows.”

“Alec has enough to do at the station,” retorted Mrs. Smilie.

Mrs. Wilson's Annie had her baby in a baby carriage. She stopped beneath the ladder and Mrs. Smilie came down to admire him properly, for she adored babies. Annie had several tidbits of news about the girls who were working with her at the aircraft factory; she detailed these to Mrs. Smilie before she moved on. After this, quite a number of people passed and they all stopped for a wee chat. Some of them had interesting information and Mrs. Smilie paid them the honor of descending from her perch; others were not worth bothering about and were sent about their business.

In spite of the interruptions the work progressed fairly rapidly and Mrs. Smilie had finished with Melville House and started upon her own front windows when a stranger came up the street. A stranger was always an interesting sight in Ryddelton. This particular stranger was tall and thin and very smartly dressed in a blue cloth coat and expensive-looking furs and a hat with a feather in it. The stranger paused and inquired if this was Melville House, and Mrs. Smilie, looking down at her, saw that she was quite young but rather plain. It's her nose, thought Mrs. Smilie, gazing at her and forgetting to reply.

“Is this Melville House?” repeated the young lady.

“You'll be from London?” said Mrs. Smilie. “You'll be staying at the Arms, I shouldn't wonder.”

“The Arms?”

“The Rydd Arms,” explained Mrs. Smilie, pointing to the hotel that flaunted its sign several hundred yards down the street.

The young lady was about to reply that she had just that moment arrived from Edinburgh by train, but she thought better of it. Surely it was nobody's business but her own (it was certainly no business of this extraordinary-looking woman with the yellow duster tied around her head), so she ignored the question, and seeing that “Melville House” was engraved upon a brass plate on the door, she pulled the bell and waited for the door to open.

Mrs. Smilie smiled at the arrogant-looking back and continued her task; the bell jangled forlornly in the distance—it jangled several times before the young lady gave up the struggle in disgust. When she was tired of ringing the bell she returned to Mrs. Smilie and asked in haughty accents if Mrs. Norman were at home.

“Mrs. Norman is out,” replied Mrs. Smilie, polishing industriously.

“Why doesn't somebody answer the door?”

“Maybe the butler is sleeping,” suggested Mrs. Smilie gravely.

The young lady did not smile. She said crossly, “Surely there's someone whose duty it is to answer the door. I can't stand here all morning. I've come from Edinburgh to see Mrs. Norman on business.”

The joke had gone far enough (perhaps a little too far, thought Mrs. Smilie remorsefully; she was aware that her sense of humor was liable to run away with her), so she climbed down the ladder, opened the door of Melville House, and showed the young lady into the drawing room.

“What name shall I say?” she inquired, turning most unexpectedly into a well-trained housemaid.

“Miss Garland,” was the reply.

Nita Garland sat down in the drawing room and waited. She was surprised at the room. The house was a common sort of house in the High Street with no garden—just the sort of house she had expected—but the room was quite lovely and full of valuable things. The cabinet was a gem, and so was the bureau…really old and beautifully preserved. Everything in the room was of the same period, Nita decided, and everything blended harmoniously.