Listening Valley (24 page)

“It isn't raining,” said Bay, who seemed annoyed at the change of plan.

“But it will rain,” replied Retta with a shudder. “Me, I know when the rain is coming, and I like to stay inside.”

Tonia did not take long to array herself. She came downstairs to find Bay and Retta in the hall. “I wish you were coming, Retta,” she said.

“That is nice,” declared Retta with a slightly sarcastic inflection in her voice. “It pleases me that you wish I was coming—”

“We'll be late if we don't start,” interrupted Bay. “Come along, Mrs. Dundas.”

“Mrs. Dundas!” echoed Tonia in surprise.

Bay smiled at her. “I've been reading
The
Life
of
Piny
,” explained Bay. “Dundas was a friend of Pitt's and this is what Pitt said about him: ‘Dundas is not an orator…but he will go out with you in any weather.'”

They laughed at that—Retta a little less heartily than usual—and Tonia chose an ash stick from the stand and announced that Mrs. Dundas was ready.

Retta watched the two figures walk away down the street and then she went in and shut the door.

About four o'clock the rain started. Mrs. Smilie was pressing the navy-blue slacks, bumping and thumping with her iron and muttering to herself—but making a very good job of them nevertheless. When she had finished she slipped her hand into the pocket and discovered a small piece of paper. She smoothed it out and looked at it with knitted brows, for she could not think what it was. It seemed to be some sort of map, roughly sketched in pencil, with a small red cross in one of the corners. Mrs. Smilie was not versed in map reading so she could not make much of it. For all she knew it might be important. She folded it again and put it in the pocket of her apron; and taking the trousers, which were now neatly pressed, she went in next door. The kitchen fire was pretty low, so Mrs. Smilie attended to it. They were all out, she knew, for she had heard them discussing the expedition to Dunnian House.

By this time it was raining pretty hard, and the rain was beating against the kitchen window. It would be beating in at the bedroom window, too, decided Mrs. Smilie, who knew and disapproved of her neighbor's passion for fresh air. She went upstairs, taking a towel with her to mop up the mess.

The house was very quiet and Mrs. Smilie paused for a moment on the upper landing; she always paused at the bedroom door because there was an odd sort of feeling about old Miss Antonia's bedroom. Mrs. Smilie was not an imaginative person, but she could not overcome the conviction that someday when she opened the door she would see old Miss Antonia sitting up in bed with her fleecy bed jacket around her shoulders and her lace cap framing her kind old face. Mrs. Smilie did not have this feeling when Miss Tonia was here, but today Miss Tonia was out.

She paused and looked at the door, which was slightly ajar, and then she heard a noise, a rustle of paper and the scrape of a drawer being shut.
There
was
somebody
in
the
room.
Yes, somebody was there, and it could not be Miss Tonia because they were all out. Mrs. Smilie turned to go home, and then she stopped. If she went home now, without seeing who was there, she would never be able to look herself in the face again—never as long as she lived. It couldn't be old Miss Antonia because there were no such things as ghosts. Besides, ghosts did not rustle paper and open drawers…

Mrs. Smilie looked in very quietly through the half-open door. It was no ghost, no burglar either. At least it was not an ordinary burglar.

“Miss Delarge,” said Mrs. Smilie in honeyed tones. “I'll trouble you to leave Mrs. Norman's things alone.”

Miss Delarge sprang to her feet with a gasp of dismay…and then she laughed. “O, it is you!” she exclaimed. “What a fright you gave me!”

“Is that so?” said Mrs. Smilie sarcastically.

“Such a fright,” declared Retta, holding her hand to her heart. “But it is all right now, and no harm done. I was just looking in Mrs. Norman's drawer for a pair of gloves I lent her, because they have a little hole and need mending.” She pushed in the drawer as she spoke and walked toward the door.

“It's time you and me had a wee talk together,” said Mrs. Smilie, blocking the way.

“But no. Not just now,” returned Retta. “There is a letter I must write for the post. Some other time we will talk.”

“We'll talk now.”

“I do not want any impertinence, Mrs. Smilee. You will move away from the door and let me pass.”

“Not till I've done…and as for impertinence I've had enough of that from you. But this is the end of it. I know all about you and your carryings on,
Miss
Delarge
.”

“That is my name—” began Retta.

“It's not. You're a married woman. It was your husband that had supper with you last night…”

“You are mad!”

“…and spent the night with you,” added Mrs. Smilie.

They looked at each other. There was a strange gleam in Retta's eyes. “And how is that your business, Mrs. Smilee?” she inquired in dangerously smooth tones.

“It's not,” replied Mrs. Smilie promptly. “It's none of my business who you sleep with, but maybe Mr. Coates would think it was
his
.”

Retta laughed. She said, “You have been dreaming. My brother was here last night; he had his supper with me. We talk together about when we were little children. We talk about our home.”

“You talked about your marriage,” replied Mrs. Smilie. “You talked about your life together; you talked about—”

“
Mon
Dieu!
You were listening at the door—but how—”

“But how did I understand?” said Mrs. Smilie, raising her voice. “It's queer, isn't it? A woman in my position was not worth your notice, no more than a bit of dust on the carpet, but it just so happens that I was with a French lady before I was married, and it amused her to talk to me and teach me. I thought I'd forgotten it,” said Mrs. Smilie, nodding. “But I found I remembered a good deal.”

“You listened—at the door,” repeated Retta in choking tones. “I did think I heard someone—”

“It was me,” said Mrs. Smilie.

Retta was shaking with rage. She burst out into rapid French with a short but vitriolic exposition of Mrs. Smilie's character and the nature of her immediate forebears. Most of the words used were strange to Mrs. Smilie, for her former mistress had omitted them from her instruction, but the drift of Retta's remarks was fairly clear.

“Umphm,” said Mrs. Smilie thoughtfully when Retta paused for breath. “Maybe you're right. It's not a very nice thing to listen at doors but I'd do the same again if I had the chance, for I never would have known you were married if I'd not listened…and there's more to it than that. You're up to no good, you and that man of yours.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Why were you masquerading as an unmarried woman? Answer me that.”

“I do not choose to answer.”

“I thought as much. Here's another question, then. Does this wee piece of paper belong to you?” Mrs. Smilie produced the little sketch from the pocket of her apron as she spoke.

“That!” cried Retta. “But yes, it is mine. Give it to me, please.”

“I was wondering what it was.”

“It is nothing. Just a little picture of my home; a little plan of the country roundabout—”

“To keep you in mind of it?”

“But yes, of course. My memory is so bad—”

“So bad that you need to make a map of your home?”

“You will give it back to me, please,” said Retta; holding out her hand and speaking in authoritative tones.

“You can have it back later on. I'll just let Mr. Coates have a wee look at it first. You'll not object to that.”

“He would not be interested.”

“Are you sure of it?” asked Mrs. Smilie, folding the paper and putting it inside her blouse. “I'm not so sure. We'll see which of us is right.”

Retta hesitated, biting her lip. Then she said in quite a different tone. “Come then, Mrs. Smilee, you have won. I will give you ten pounds for that silly bit of paper.”

“Ten pounds!” cried Mrs. Smilie. “What sort of person do you take me for—”

“Twenty pounds, then,” said Retta persuasively. “I do not want Squadron Leader Coates to see that paper. He would think I was so foolish, and I do not like him to think me foolish. Look, Mrs. Smilee, you will burn that little bit of paper and I will give you twenty pounds.”

“Not for a hundred pounds,” replied Mrs. Smilie forcefully.

Retta saw her mistake, but it was too late now. The words had been said, and she could not unsay them. She saw that the game was up. She was angry but she was not frightened, not yet. “What will you do, Mrs. Smilee?” she inquired sweetly.

There was no answer. As a matter of fact Mrs. Smilie had been wondering for the last five minutes what she had better do. She had not planned this interview; it had come upon her suddenly and taken her unawares. She was alone in the house with Retta. Mrs. Smilie considered several plans and rejected them.

“You do not speak,” said Retta at last. “You can think of nothing, eh? You would like to shut me in the coal cellar but you are not strong enough. It is a pittee, yes? I would like to have that piece of paper. I wonder if I am strong enough to get it…?”

Retta was much younger than Mrs. Smilie, and although thin and willowy she looked wiry. She advanced upon Mrs. Smilie, her mouth smiling a little, her eyes glittering dangerously…and quite suddenly Mrs. Smilie's nerve failed her. A moment ago she had been perfectly calm—somewhat puzzled as to what she had better do, but without any apprehensions as to her personal safety—but now she was suddenly panic-stricken. Before she knew what she was doing she had taken to her heels and was out of the door and running down the stairs like a rabbit. Her fear and haste were justified, for, as she ran, the big Chinese jar that stood upon the upper landing came hurtling over the banisters and crashed into a thousand pieces behind her on the stairs. Mrs. Smilie was out of the back door, through the hedge, and into her own house with the door barred behind her in a matter of seconds; she was panting and puffing, and her heart was thumping like a steam engine as she sank into the comfortable chair in her own comfortable kitchen and looked about her with a dazed stare.
There
were the onions, boiling away in the pot—the onions for Alec's supper—and
there
was the kettle, singing on the hob, and all her pots and pans and lids were gleaming and winking and twinkling in the firelight…

“In the name of goodness!” whispered Mrs. Smilie to herself.

***

Tonia opened her front door and entered her house, thinking of something else—thinking vaguely of the party at Dunnian and her walk with Bay—and the first thing she saw was the Chinese jar in pieces, scattered all over the stairs.

“Oh!” cried Tonia in distress and dismay, for this jar was one of her most treasured possessions, not on account of its intrinsic value but because of its sentimental associations.

She was standing in the hall, looking at the pieces and wondering how on earth the disaster could have occurred, when Retta came downstairs, dressed in her hat and coat and carrying her suitcase in her hand.

Retta picked her way carefully among the fragments and arrived in the hall. “I am going away,” she said in a casual voice.

“Going away!” echoed Tonia in amazement. She had been about to ask Retta about the jar, but Retta's extraordinary statement put the jar into second place.

“I am going,” said Retta, pushing past her hostess without ceremony. “I am so very tired of here, so very tired of you and of Bay and of this so dull town. That is why I am going,” declared Retta, struggling to open the door.

“But, Retta—”

“But, Retta,” said Retta, mimicking Tonia's voice. “But, Retta, you are mad to say such things. But, Retta, do you not love me and Bay and this so lovely Ryddelton? But, Retta—”

“What on earth is the matter with you?” asked Tonia, loudly.

“There is nothing the matter except I am bored—bored to tears. I have borne it a long time, but now I bear it no more; so you will open the door and let me out.”

“Retta, listen,” said Tonia earnestly. “You can't go tonight. Wait till the morning. What will Bay think if you go off like this without saying good-bye to him?”

“It matters not what Bay thinks,” declared Retta, wrenching the door open and pushing Tonia aside.

“I am done with Bay…so you can tell Bay I am going to my husband and I do not want another husband because one is enough. It will be nice for Bay to hear these things from you,” added Retta as she seized her suitcase and ran out into the street.

Tonia started after her, but it was too dark to see. Retta had vanished completely in the gloom. And what was the use, thought Tonia, turning back into the house. What was the use of pursuing Retta? Retta was quite capable of looking after herself.

Tonia shut the door and stood quite still, utterly bewildered. It had all happened so suddenly that she could hardly believe her eyes and ears. It can't be true, thought Tonia, it
isn't
true. How can Retta have a husband, already—she's going to marry Bay. Retta was angry and just said the first thing that came into her head. But after a few moments' reflection Tonia began to think it might be true, and the more she thought about it the more she became convinced that it
was
true. She remembered several odd things about Retta, things Retta had said and done…

Goodness, how awful! said Tonia to herself. What will Bay feel when he hears about it? Why on earth did she deceive Bay?

All sorts of thoughts whirled through Tonia's brain, mixed up together like the colors in a kaleidoscope. Retta had vanished. She had been angry, of course, furiously angry, and she
had
said the first thing that came into her head, but the thing happened to be true. Why had she suddenly decided to go? She had been perfectly friendly when they left her to walk over to Dunnian, so something must have happened. What
could
have happened to enrage her and send her tearing off into the darkness like a madwoman? Could she have had a row with Mrs. Smilie? That was quite likely, of course, but even that would not account for her sudden departure. No, thought Tonia, Retta was not that sort. If she and Mrs. Smilie had had words Retta would stay and brave it out. She would never let Mrs. Smilie get the better of her. And the jar, thought Tonia (looking sorrowfully at the remains of her treasured possession). How could the jar have gotten broken?

It was not much use asking all these questions, for she could find no answers to them, so she fetched a pail and began to collect the fragments of the jar, though without much idea of what she was doing. The task took some time and helped her to recover from the shock. She began to wonder what she had better do next. Should she get hold of Mrs. Smilie and see if she could help to clear up the mystery, or should she get hold of Bay?