Miss Buncle Married (7 page)

“P'raps you call them irises,” said the child impatiently. “Some people do. But you can't mean them to be dug up and thrown away. They're so lovely in the spring—all yellow and mauve with spiky gray-green leaves—”

“You had better come in, and tell me about it,” Barbara said.

The child followed her into the house and they sat down together on the stairs.

“I don't mind about the rest of the garden so much,” the child explained. “After all you've bought it, so it's yours now, and I suppose you can spoil it if you want to. But the flags are down near the stream—miles away from the house. You haven't ever been down there, have you?”

“Only once,” Barbara admitted. “I've been so busy, you see.”

“Do you
want
them dug up and thrown away?” continued the child with some exasperation. “I mean it seems so silly, that's why I came. I simply had to come. Lanky said it wouldn't be any good, but I had to try.”

Barbara was beginning to understand. “Of course I'll tell them not to,” she said quickly. “I don't want to spoil anything. You see I just told the men to tidy up the garden.”

“I suppose you want the garden tidy?”

“Yes,” replied Barbara in some surprise.

“We think it's nicer as it is.”

“Well, I'm afraid I don't,” Barbara admitted. “I'm afraid I want the garden tidy, but, of course, I don't want to take away anything that's really nice. Men are so stupid,” she added with conviction, “unless you can be after them all the time—and I've been so busy with the house.”

“Oh, the
house
,” said the child scornfully. “You can do what you like with the house. I hate houses. It's the garden that
matters.
We live next door, you see, and we like this garden much better than ours—it's ever so much nicer for playing in. Of course, if you're going to have it tidied up it will spoil it frightfully.” She clasped her hands round her dirty bare knees and rocked herself backward, lifting her chin, and shaking back her hair from her forehead. It was an elfin face, pointed and delicate in profile. The eyes were dark and very brilliant beneath the small, but definitely arched, eyebrows.

“Who are you?” inquired Barbara with interest.

“Trivona Marvell,” replied the child. “Most people call me Trivvie—
you
can if you like. I don't think you're bad,” she added frankly. “Lanky says you're a vandal, but I don't think you're bad at all. You'll remember about the flags, won't you?”

Barbara said she would. She decided to go down to the stream tomorrow and see what the men were doing. The last thing she wanted was to alter the place—it must remain exactly as it had always been.

“I suppose we shan't be able to play here once you've really come?” Trivvie inquired hopefully. “I mean you won't want children in your garden—p'raps you've got children of your own?”

“No,” said Barbara.

“I think the garden will miss us,” said Trivvie sadly. “I think it will be rather lonely without any children. I think it likes us playing in it, you know.”

Barbara rose at once—it was a lure she couldn't resist—hadn't she always said, from the very beginning, that The Archway House—and incidentally The Archway House garden—was to have what it wanted?

“I don't mind you playing in the garden a bit,” she proclaimed rashly.

“Really!” cried Trivvie in amazement. “D'you mean it? Oh, you
are
decent! I shan't let Lanky call you a vandal again—not ever. In fact I'll sock him one, if he does. We shan't bother you, you know; in fact I don't suppose you'll ever
see
us. We don't like this part of the garden a bit—just the stream and the wood—so you see it really won't bother you, will it? As a matter of fact,” she added ingenuously, “as a matter of fact we were going to play in it, anyhow. We had quite decided that—and you'd never have known—but when you were so decent about the flags I thought I'd just see what you said. Even if you'd said, ‘No, we couldn't,' it wouldn't have made any difference.”

Barbara was struck dumb by this frank statement, and made no reply.

“Well,” said Trivona, rising and holding out her hand. “I must go now—good-bye. Froggy will be looking everywhere for me, and she gets in such a wax if she can't find me. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Barbara, whose voice had returned to her; and then she inquired, for she was exceedingly interested in her fellow creatures, “Who is Froggy?”

“Oh, Froggy's our governess,” replied Trivona, standing on one leg in the empty hall, as if poised for flight. “Her real name's Miss Foddy, you know. And Lanky's my brother—his real name's Lancreste, and he's two years older than me.”

“Have you only got one brother?” asked Barbara.

“Oh no, of course not. I've got Amby as well. Amby's younger than me.”

“What unusual names!”

“Mhm! Rather silly, aren't they? Trivona is a goddess you know—the Goddess of the Trent—and Lancreste and Ambrose were archbishops or something. I really
must
go now.”

***

Barbara's second visitor was the vicar's wife. She arrived just as the furniture was being carried into the house. It was the most awkward moment she could have chosen, for Barbara required all her wits to direct the men as to which room each piece was to adorn. It was difficult enough to recognize the chairs and tables, the bookcases and cupboards and beds beneath their sackcloth wrappings, without having to carry on a conversation with the vicar's wife at the same time.

“I hope you belong to Our Church, Mrs. Abbott,” said Mrs. Dance, advancing upon Barbara with a somewhat toothy smile.

“Oh yes—yes, of course,” Barbara replied, shaking her hand vaguely. “In the study, please,” she cried, trying to direct the furniture-man. “No, not there, this room—I'll open the door for you. Mind the wall—oh, please mind the wall—yes, of course, I expect we do. What is your church?”

“I'm chapel, mum,” said the furniture-man, setting down the bookcase and wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. “I'm chapel, I am.” He was somewhat surprised at the question—most people didn't seem to mind what place of worship you attended as long as you did your work properly and were careful not to take chunks out of their walls with the edge of a cupboard. But he was a polite man, and always liked to answer people's questions when he could. “My people was chapel before me,” he added, hoarsely, for the bookcase was heavy, and he was a little out of breath. “The Potts has always
been
chapel—if you see what I mean, mum.”

“I didn't really mean you,” Barbara explained. “Though I'm sure it's very interesting,” she added with her usual kindness and politeness. “Very interesting indeed—oh wait, that doesn't go there,” she cried, rushing after another man who was bearing a bed into the dining-room. “Upstairs, please—not you, that's the dining-room table—upstairs please, wait, and I'll show you which room—it's my bed I think—no it's the spare room at the end of the passage, I'll show you—mind the light—that's right—look out, take care of the banisters. In the pantry,” she shrieked, leaning over the stairs and signaling wildly to a third man, who was staggering into the hall with a crate of china balanced precariously upon his shoulders. “Go into the pantry.”

“Why?” inquired Mrs. Dance who thought the signals were for her, “I'd rather wait in the drawing-room.”

“The drawing-room, did you say?” asked the man with the crate, lurching toward the drawing-room door.

“Where's this bed to go?” inquired the man on the landing.

“Shall I unpack this bookcase, mum?” shouted the ever-polite Potts.

It was all very difficult. Barbara wished that Mrs. Dance would go away and leave her free to wrestle with the situation, but Mrs. Dance was determined to remain until she had received a proper answer from Mrs. Abbott and, possibly, a contribution to the Organ Fund. She lingered in the hall, dodging packing cases and getting in everybody's way, until Barbara would willingly have given her a whole organ if she had known that was what Mrs. Dance wanted.

At last the furniture had all been carried in. The vans drove off, and Mrs. Dance and Barbara were left in sole possession of The Archway House. They sat down on the stairs—there was nowhere else to sit—and Mrs. Dance had the opportunity she had been waiting for.

“I hope you'll like it here,” she said, dubiously. “It's very quiet, of course. You've come from London, haven't you?”

“Hampstead Heath,” Barbara told her.

“That's London, isn't it?” said the good lady. “I'm afraid you're bound to feel it quiet. There is so much going on in London.”

“Yes,” admitted Barbara, thinking of the dinners and bridge from which she and Arthur were escaping.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dance. “Do you like music?”

Barbara answered in the affirmative. She was not very fond of music (possibly because she knew very little about it), but she was aware that it was the correct thing to like music, and she really thought she liked it. There are very few people in the world with courage enough to admit that they do not care for music (dogs and children come into the same category) and so brand themselves forever as Philistines in the eyes of their friends.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Dance. “Ah, that's good! You like music. You will find us very musical down here. Lady Chevis Cobbe is passionately fond of music. She has the most delightful Musical Evenings at Chevis Place. You will enjoy that immensely.”

“I'm sure I shall,” agreed Barbara politely.

“And the choir,” continued the vicar's wife. “The choir at our dear little church is excellent. So different from most country choirs. The bishop always remarks upon the excellence of the choir when he comes.”

Barbara said that was very nice.

“Yes, so encouraging,” agreed Mrs. Dance, “but I am sorry to say that the organ is very poor. The organ is not worthy of us,” she said sadly. “We are making a collection for a new organ.”

Barbara said what a good plan that was.

Mrs. Dance sighed. It was not the reaction she had hoped for; however, she did not despair. There was plenty of time, and, if she could not get a decent contribution out of Mrs. Abbott today, she would return to the charge later. She had waited patiently for some time for this little chat, and she determined that it must not be altogether fruitless; if she could not get any money out of the woman she must try to get some information. Everybody in Wandlebury would want to know all about the new people and she had obviously got in first. Mrs. Dance knew that she would be able to lunch and tea out of the new people for days to come.

“I believe your husband is a publisher,” she said, smiling toothily. “I suppose, with so many new books being published, he must make a great deal of money.” Her eyes strayed round the hall as she spoke—it was amazing how nice the house looked, simply amazing when you knew what it had looked like before—all that nice white paint, and the crinkly new paper—it must have cost a small fortune.

“Oh
no
!” cried Barbara, horror-stricken by this suggestion. “Business is very bad—very bad indeed.”

Private
means,
thought Mrs. Dance, making a note of it in her mind. Aloud she said, “I've been wondering if you are related to the Wimbornes that I know—
dear
friends of mine—the Rutlandshire branch of the family.”

“No, I have never heard of them,” replied Barbara promptly.

“You aren't?” exclaimed Mrs. Dance in surprise. “I thought your name was Wimbourne before you were married.”

“Oh no—no it wasn't,” Barbara said.

“How funny!” giggled Mrs. Dance. “I wonder how I can have got that idea into my head. Isn't it queer?”

Barbara agreed that it was very queer indeed.

Mrs. Dance sighed again. It was extraordinary uphill work, and she was not getting much “forrader.”
Very
secretive,
she thought,
and
obviously
ashamed
of
her
origin.

“Do you find the climate very trying here?” she inquired hopefully.

“Oh no,” replied Barbara. “I mean we haven't really lived here yet, but I'm sure I shan't.”

“Perhaps you are used to bracing air—before you were married, I mean.”

“I don't notice any difference in air,” admitted Barbara frankly. “All air is the same to me—even bad air. I'm so very strong, you see.”

Mrs. Dance was sick of hedging. “Where did you live before you were married?” she inquired.

Unfortunately Barbara was not listening. Her eyes, wandering round the cluttered hall, had alighted upon a large crate, which, she was certain, must contain Arthur's chest of drawers, and Arthur's chest of drawers had no business to be in the hall; it ought to be in Arthur's dressing-room, of course, that small, but delightfully convenient apartment leading off their conjugal bedroom.

“How trying!” Barbara murmured.

“Rye!” exclaimed Mrs. Dance. “Fancy that—most interesting, I know Rye very well, I have a cousin living there. I wonder if you know her—” She expatiated on her cousin who lived at Rye while Barbara gazed at Arthur's chest of drawers and wondered how it was to be got upstairs now that the men had gone. Perhaps the gardener—thought Barbara, not very hopefully, for even her optimistic imagination boggled at the vision of the frail form of Grimes staggering up the staircase with that enormous crate.

“No,” she said absentmindedly. “No, I don't know anybody called Skate, I'm afraid.”