Fantails (16 page)

As she was putting on the kettle for tea the postman came. “Two letters from Mr. Andrew. One for yourself, the other for Miss Logie. About time he was coming home on leave, isn’t it?”

“Oh, thank you, Hurrell! Yes, we’re hoping he’ll be with us for Miss Logie’s wedding in October.”

It was the first time they had heard from Andrew since he had had the news of Logie’s engagement. She had told Alison to open any letter that might come for her from him before sending it on. Alison opened it before her own, for it was fatter and looked more interesting. Apparently the news had taken longer than they had expected to reach him, as the wire had had to follow him to Cairo, where he had been sent at a moment’s notice on a new appointment, and an unintelligent clerk had forwarded it by post.

He wrote enthusiastically of the engagement,
"though it seems extraordinary to think of you being married, or Sherry either, for that matter!”
and said he could imagine no news that would have pleased him better than the engagement of his twin and his best friend. He hoped to manage to be back in time for the wedding, unless this new appointment delayed his leave. Then he went on to give particulars of his transfer. He had been appointed to the headquarters staff of a division.
“Considering my age, it’s something of a plum. I’m lucky to get it—only hope I’ll hold it down. Anyhow, I’ll have a good shot at it!
”
He added, without comment, that he had been made a captain. Alison’s heart swelled with pride.
Darling
Andrew—a captain already, and he was barely twenty-one! Sherry had said he had a reputation for steadiness and reliability, and had prophesied that he would go far. Evidently he was right.

She opened her own letter. With it was a cheque for ten pounds, made out to herself. Probably he had asked her to choose a present for Logie.
“A
licey dear,”
she read,
“I’m sending you a present to celebrate my promotion. I’d have bought you something, but I don’t know what you’d like, and probably I’d get some awful piece of junk you’d simply hate. And so I’m sending you a cheque so that you can choose something for yourself. And when I say yourself I
MEAN
yourself—no frittering it on family treats or something for Fantails! Don’t let me come home and find you’ve squandered it on saucepans or bath towels or a bicycle for Jane!
...”

Knowing Andrew as she did, Alison could read between the lines. This was his way of saying he was fond of her, thanking her for making a home for him and Logie and Jane. Her heart was warm with pleasure. First thing she would tackle to-morrow morning should be Andrew’s cupboards—a gesture he would never know, but it would please herself to make it.

A voice called from below as she was putting away the tea things. “Alison! Are you there?” It was Mrs. Dawson, Mary’s mother. Alison put her head out. “Yes. Do come up! How nice to see you!”

“Well—just for a minute. I’m on my way to a committee meeting, but I have a few moments in hand.”

“Have some tea?” Alison suggested when the vicar’s wife was settled in an armchair, a sturdy figure in a shabby flannel suit and round navy felt hat, with wispy hair, round rosy face, and kind, wise eyes.

“No, thanks, my dear. I had it with the Women’s Institute. I came to ask you if you’d like to sleep at the Vicarage till Jane comes back? It’s lonely for you here all by yourself.”

“How sweet of you! But I’ll be all right, honestly.”

“Won’t you be nervous?”

“Not a bit! My nervousness doesn’t take the form of minding being by myself. And with the hens and Miniver and her kittens it’s really easier for me to be on the spot. But I do appreciate your asking me ... I’m specially glad you came just now, I’ve had good news from Andrew and was bursting to tell it to somebody! He’s got a staff job in Cairo, and has been made a captain!”

“A captain at his age! Bless the boy. The Vicar
will
be pleased! It never rains but it pours, as they say. You’ve certainly had your share of events at Fantails lately, what with Logie’s engagement, and Jane going off on her first visit to a hotel, and now this. It’ll be your turn next, Alison! And high time, too. You’ve been an angel to those children all these years.”

Alison laughed. “I don’t think anything very thrilling is likely to come my way. And as for being an angel, anybody would have done what I did. How could I have done anything else, when the poor lambs were left all on their own?”

“It wasn’t so much what you did as the way you did it—do it!—that we all admire, my dear. Never a grumble—always cheerful!”

“Don’t you believe it. Many a time I’ve snapped their heads off. And as for being cheerful, often I plunge down into the depths of gloom, all about nothing.”

“All the more credit to you, then, for making the effort to keep your feelings to yourself instead of exhibiting them to depress everybody else! Time I was going. Care to come to tea to-morrow?”

“I’d love it. I’d been meaning to drop in.”

“Good. Four o’clock.”

Alison fed the hens, spent a few minutes playing with the kittens, then went to her room. In about half an hour it would be time for her to go to Swan House. Meanwhile, she would manicure her hands. She had been neglecting them for weeks, with all the extra work that summer made —of bottling fruit, and tomato puree for soup in winter, making fruit syrups of raspberries and currants for winter treats, salting french and runner beans in crocks.

Busy with fie and orange stick, she thought of Mrs. Dawson’s remark that “It’ll be your turn next, Alison.” Funny that only this morning Jane had said something of the same sort. “It’ll be your turn next. Or maybe Andrew’s.” And Andrew’s turn had come. Was it too much to hope that hers would follow?

Was it ridiculous to feel that all the best of life lay in the past, that she had nothing to look forward to but happenings in the lives of those she loved: Logie’s babies, Jane’s marriage, milestones in Andrew’s career? For the last year or two she had unconsciously begun to regard herself in the light of an old maid. Not the modern type of unmarried woman, who remains single from choice, either because she prefers a career to marriage or for some other reason of her own; but a real, old-fashioned old maid, who, knowing herself born for marriage, homemaking, and motherhood, remains a spinster simply for the lack of opportunity to meet the man she might have loved ... Now, reviewing the situation, she asked herself whether, at the age of thirty-five, it was not perhaps a trifle foolish to have allowed this attitude to take possession of her?

Abandoning her manicure for the moment, she took her hand mirror to the window. Lately she had got into a habit of looking at herself mechanically, without perception. Now she would look at herself in a good light. Critically she studied every detail of her appearance: soft dark hair combed neatly close to her head; pale, clear skin; kind brown eyes, each with a tiny crease, set there by laughter, at its outer corner; wide mouth whose curves were generous and sweet. “You’re no beauty, certainly,” she told herself. “Still, I think it’s a nice friendly sort of face!”

The red rose powder Sherry had given her, used now for the first time, flattered her skin. In time, growing accustomed to the scent, she would cease to notice it, but for the present it made her feel deliciously luxurious. She decided to complete her manicure, for once, by varnishing her nails. It wasn’t worth while, as a rule, as constant housework caused the varnish to need continual renewing, for which she could not spare the time. But just this once ... ! She had no varnish of her own, but Logie wouldn’t mind hers being borrowed. Alison took the palest of her cousin’s three bottles, named “Sea Shell,” and presently surveyed the result with satisfaction, there was no doubt that her small, square, capable hands looked more finished with pale-pink lustrous nails!

She would wear her newest frock, bought earlier in the summer in a Norwich shop and scarcely worn. It looked good, though it had been inexpensive. It was made of ivory creaseless linen, gaily patterned with red ships, and cut shirtwaist fashion, with a narrow belt of red leather. The effect was cool and fresh and simple; the ivory and red suited her dark hair and eyes. It paid, she thought, giving herself a final inspection—it certainly paid you to take trouble about your appearance! Knowing you looked your best did stress the knowledge that after all, at thirty-five you weren’t so very old, and gave you confidence, as well.

Not that she ever felt in need of confidence with Hugh. Under the saccharine sweetness of Miss Brill she had occasionally suspected hidden venom, betrayed occasionally by a revealing glance, a spiteful remark, quickly laughed off. But with Hugh she had a restful feeling of serenity, an assurance of well-being. She supposed it must be due to something in his personality, something that must be a great asset to him in his profession.

As she thought of him, an unsuspected knowledge flashed into her consciousness: a knowledge that she realised, in this revealing moment, had lain for some time hidden away in the remote places of her mind, unknown to her, yet none the less a fact. Knowledge so overwhelming, so momentous that she would not think of it, would turn away from its existence until she might consider it at leisure. It was time now for her to go to Swan House.

CHAPTER TEN

Lucia
Brill was waiting in the drawing-room of Swan House for Alison to arrive. Usually at this hour she was putting John to bed, but this evening, for the first time, she was letting Jenny bath him. Not that she cared for John to be with the new maid. Jenny told stories and initiated him into games she played at home with younger brothers and sisters, entering into them as happily as he did. Lucia would frown when he ran off to talk to Jenny as she was doing her housework, telling herself as she heard their laughter that John would soon get into rowdy ways if this continued. The fact was, though she did not realise it, that she was jealous of his enjoyment of any company save her own. Still, she had had to choose between allowing Jenny to bath him or having him in the drawing-room while Alison was here. And in Lucia’s opinion the less he saw of the Hamilton girl, the better. For two days she had managed to keep him from trotting off to Fantails, by providing him with fresh distractions such as chalks and a clay pipe for blowing bubbles. Soon, if she persevered, he would forget the delights of climbing up and down the steep stairs from the coach-house, “helping” to make pastry and clean silver, looking at the scrap-book Jane had made when she had the measles. Meanwhile, seeing Alison would remind him of them.

Complacently Lucia looked at her reflection. She loved materials, particularly in bright colours and large patterns, and chose them for her wardrobe with blissful disregard of whether they were becoming or otherwise to her swarthy skin and large, flabby figure. To-day she wore a frock of brown rayon patterned with enormous yellow roses, fussily made with frill and ruchings.

Hearing Hugh’s car draw up outside, she went out into the hall. “Ah, Hugh! I’m glad you managed to be early. I’m expecting Alison any minute now.”

“Good! I’ll be with you in a moment. I must just wash.” Half-way to the cloakroom he called over his shoulder, “Have you made cocktails—or did you tell MacNeish?”

“Cocktails? I’d thought sherry would be more suitable. Or tomato juice.”

“I think sherry’s a bit heavy in hot weather. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.”

Presently she heard him in the dining-room, and found him mixing gin and vermouth with a dash of orange juice. “I shouldn’t make it too strong, Hugh! People who don’t often drink have weak heads, as a rule. Though of course you, being a doctor, know that even better than I do!” Hugh’s silence disconcerted her. She watched him for a few minutes, then went back to the drawing-room. Uneasily she wondered whether he would comment on the three photographs of Melanie she had put on mantelpiece and bureau and a small table near the fireplace. He did not care for photographs in public rooms; he had put a photograph of Melanie on his dressing-table, another on his desk in the consulting-room, one in John’s bedroom and another in the nursery, but none in any other room. Still, if he said anything she could surely manage to postpone removing them until Alison had come and gone, having seen the mute evidence that in Hugh’s life Melanie still played a vital part.

Hugh came in, bringing the cocktail-shaker. He put it on the tray with the tomato juice and sherry and glasses. Would he see the photographs or wouldn’t he? ... Lucia told herself she might have known he would. Those inscrutable eyes of his missed nothing.

Unhurriedly he took the photographs from their places, opened the bureau, laid them in it. “If you don’t mind, Lucia, I’d rather not have photographs about the house. Can’t stand them anywhere but bedrooms. Too personal.” His charming, sudden smile softened his words. “A silly fad of mine, no doubt, but there it is!”

Trying to make her manner light and casual she said that everybody had their little fads. She wondered whether he remembered a recent description she had given him of a friend’s drawing-room. “Suburbia incarnate,” she had called it. “Edith doesn’t seem to have discovered that photographs in a drawing-room are just about as dowdy as elastic-sided boots!”

Indifferently he had answered that no doubt both fashions would return in time. She hoped he had forgotten the trifling episode. If not, he must wonder why...

Hugh left the room. At the same time she heard MacNeish come from the baize door opening on the kitchen premises. Hugh spoke in a questioning tone of voice; MacNeish said, “Front door bell, sir.” There was a moment’s silence, then Hugh’s surprised, “Hullo! I was on my way to meet you in the garden! I never thought of your arriving at the front door, like a polite visitor!”

Alison answered, laughing, “But I
am
a visitor—and I hope I’m reasonably polite!”

Hugh laughed too. “When I was a small boy a ‘Polite Visitor’ in capital letters was our term for fearsome formality. There was a lot of it in those days! At Home days—a little music after dinner; cards on a
silver salver with one corner turned down to show they had been left in person, not by the second footman. All that sort of thing. I’m sorry you went all
the way round. In future you must come through the garden. Come along in. We’re in the drawing-room—Lucia thought it was still too hot out of doors.”

Lucia came forward, very much the gracious hostess. Poor thing! thought Alison, that garment she’s got on makes her look like an over-stuffed sofa!