South Riding (53 page)

“Come in. Come in, Mrs. Beddows. I’ve left you a lemon bun.”

“Here’s an angel cake made by one of our women. She worked in Ainsworth’s confectionery place. Marvellous cook. Try it.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Paranoia . . .”

“Let me see, two lumps, Mrs. Beddows?”

“Mrs. Beddows—you know Carne. We want you to persuade him to let us have Maythorpe Hall
cheap
.”

She roused herself. The wounds to her pride and friendship smarted sharply, but she must learn the worst.

“Matron was telling me. But I don’t think it would be suitable.”

“Position’s excellent. Air good. Grand garden, and we need a farm for the men at Minton.”

“But who said Carne was going to sell? No, no more to eat, thanks.”

Food would choke her. She gulped down the blessed tea. Oh, why didn’t he tell me? she mourned.

“It’s not official.” Anthony Snaith’s voice was precise and soothing. “The property really belongs to the bank that holds the mortgage. It’s been losing heavily. Carne’s done it well; the land’s in good condition, they say, though the house is pretty bad. But it’s been farmed extravagantly, and he can’t keep it up. I think we could get it very reasonably.”

“But does Carne
want
to go?” Emma Beddows could force herself to ask just that.

“Well. In the circumstances—the choice is hardly his. He could hold on a year or two, I suppose. I don’t know what his resources are—of course, this is strictly confidential.”

“Ain’t it a bit dilapidated—the house, I mean?” asked Tubbs.

“Yes. But we should have to make considerable alterations in any private house, and because this has been let go so badly, we should get it all the cheaper.”

Tubbs sniggered.

“It’s suitable enough in
one
way. Maythorpe’s always been a bit of a madhouse. It’ll be a real one now.”

Oh, God, prayed Emma Beddows to that seat of incommunicable justice, you can’t let this happen. It’s
too
cruel.

But whether the cruelty was to herself or to Carne, she hardly knew.

She heard Snaith continue: “That’s why I feel it would be a good idea for us to press in every legitimate way the need for a new children’s home. In our visitor’s report, for instance. It will strengthen our hand with the finance committee.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to go to bed, to lie with her mind drugged happily by the absorbing incongruities of a Wild West romance, to forget this world in which doom fell inexorably, and men were cruel, and even benefit for defective children was bought at the price of ruin and defeat. She felt her age pressing upon her, with her swollen ankles and smarting eyes and aching knees. But something in her, stronger than disappointment or resentment or fatigue, controlled her actions.

Her statutory visit over, she was driven by the Mental Hospital car to Yarrold station; but there, instead of catching the Kiplington train, she took a bus to Maythorpe. Jealousy, curiosity and determination to take her place as Carne’s intimate friend might move her a little, quicken her breath, scald with hot tears her eyeballs, stiffen her tongue; but overriding these ran her love, her generosity, her grief which was for him, not for herself.

The Maythorpe drive seemed unusually long that evening. She felt as though she would never reach the dark bulk of the house, piled beyond the sad chestnuts and limes and sycamores. She was too weary even for speculation when she entered the open sweep of lawn and gravel before the porch, and saw a small saloon car standing there.

Elsie opened the door.

“Is your master in?”

“Why, it’s Mrs. Beddows. Yes, do come in. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. One of your own kind.” Elsie liked the alderman, and, in her bustling welcome, had opened the dining-room door and thrust her in before Mrs. Beddows could ask: “And who’s the visitor?”

Unannounced therefore, she entered the long shadowy room, lit at one end by fire and lamp-light. So far was it from door to fireplace that the alderman could at first see only the lamp and tea-tray on a low stand between the fire and the great table; then, as they turned towards her, she observed, seated comfortably in two arm-chairs, tea-tray between them, Robert Carne and a woman. For a second her mind leapt back for twenty years and she thought “Muriel!” But the firelight caught the red gleam of the woman’s curling hair, and she knew Sarah Burton.

She had dragged herself there to comfort, warm, uphold him, to offer help with Midge and counsel about finance. She saw that he had already found a confidante.

Her quick wits failed her.

“Oh,” she gasped.

They rose and came forward, Sarah quickly, Carne with his slow deliberation.

“Oh, Mrs. Beddows. This is nice of you. Come to the fire.”

His welcoming smile drew her forward; but some unrecognised shock withheld her.

“I came to inquire after Midge.”

“Oh, she’s practically all right again.”

“How did
you
hear?” smiled Miss Burton.

“You’ll have some tea?” Carne peered solemnly into the big silver pot. “This has gone a bit cold. I’ll get some fresh . . .”

“Elsie’s looking after me,” Mrs. Beddows permitted herself that small satisfaction. She refused the low chair vacated by the head mistress and settled herself in one turned from the head of the table. “No. I
always
sit here, thank you. Robert knows I’ve no use for low chairs—don’t you?”

She was establishing intimacy around her, shutting out Sarah, proving the ripe confidence of her old friendship.

“I wish you’d tell me how you got to hear about Midge,” repeated Sarah, a little pucker of worry about her brows.

“I suppose it might have been Wendy?” teased Mrs. Beddows.

“But she doesn’t know. No one knows, unless her form has gossiped. I tried to stop them. But of course . . .”

Girls will talk—you can’t trust Judy. I suppose I was a fool to keep it quiet.

Candour and malice warred in Emma Beddows’ mind; candour won.

“As a matter of fact, I heard to-day at the Mental Hospital, through Matron who’d got it from Dr. Flint, who’d heard from Campbell.”

“I thought there was such a thing as professional secrecy,” said Sarah, a little bitterly.

“Not in the South Riding. And after all, you’re a public institution. Ah, good, Elsie. Just how I like it.”

The maid set the new teapot on the tarnished tray. Carne looked at his older visitor, then silently rose and went to the sideboard, returning with a whisky decanter.

“You’d better have a pick-me-up,” he said. “Been visiting?”

“Yes.”

Her gratitude for his thoughtfulness was beyond reason. She watched his fine big hands measuring out the drink—the whisky, the tea. His fingers were still well kept, but a nail was broken; there was dirt ingrained in two deep cracks, and a scratch across the knuckles. He had been working. An impulse made her want to seize those hands, caress them weep over them, because she was so sorry for him and loved him so completely.

All she said was: “Here. I’ve got to catch a bus back tonight, and you’ll have me up before my betters as drunk and disorderly.” She gave an unsteady little laugh, then turned to Sarah. “Now, I’ve heard the story that’s going round.” She told it. “You’d better let me have your version.”

“Well”—Sarah plunged into the story. She told of Miss Sigglesthwaite and of her own unfulfilled desire that the woman would resign. She told of the A.S.S. and Midge’s part in it. With delicate tenderness for the father’s feelings, she gave her interpretation of the lonely child’s bid for popularity. Her low husky voice was appealing in its humour and vitality. It became obvious to Emma Beddows that Sarah was minimising her own efforts to set the trouble right. She was still nursing in her own house the shattered science mistress. She had visited Maythorpe that afternoon to bring home the partially restored Midge—now enjoying a pampered invalid tea upstairs in bed.

“She’s really well enough to come back. I don’t think there’ll be any scar. It wasn’t deep. But I wanted to keep her out of school for a bit. She’s not going to have the luxury of martyrdom if I can stop it. I’ll see that by the time she comes back to school the girls have something else to think about.”

She would, too. Mrs. Beddows recognised Sarah’s competence. A thought which had been playing round in the remoter senses of her mind suddenly defined itself.

“Did Dr. Campbell say that she ought not to be by herself so much?”

“Yes. I rather wanted her to come as a boarder, but I quite see there are objections,” Sarah began.

“Why don’t you let her come to me?” the alderman asked. Suddenly she felt the problem simplify itself. “We’ve got that little top room free still, and she could go into school every day with Wendy.”

She sat back and awaited battle.

It did not come.

Sarah and Carne stared at each other across the tea-table.

“Do you know,” Sarah said at last. “I believe that that’s a very good idea.”

“You two women seem determined to manage my affairs for me,” said Carne, and his sad smile embraced them with equal benevolence. At half-past six Mrs. Beddows rose and gathered up her magenta scarf and big leather bag.

“Must you go now?” Sarah rose too. “Can’t I give you a lift? I practically pass your house.”

Three thoughts simultaneously possessed Mrs. Beddows’ mind. She had scored over the boarding of Midge; she dreaded the fatigue of the bus ride; she would, by accepting Sarah’s offer, avoid leaving her alone with Carne.

She smiled: “That’s very kind of you.”

She had not removed her own worn sealskin jacket, so stood winding the scarf round her throat as Carne helped Sarah into her grey fur coat. There was a moment when the younger woman slid her thin aims into the sleeves and leant back for a second against Carne as he pulled the furs up and round her; when Emma Beddows, her perceptions sharpened by the day’s conflict, caught the expression in Sarah’s face. Good Heavens! she thought; she’s in love with him.

The revelation came to her as suddenly as it had come to Sarah six months earlier. She did not think that Robert was in love with Sarah, but it struck her that he well might be attracted.

Driving home in the dark she asked abruptly:

“What d’you really make of Midge?”

“It’s hard to say,” Sarah was steering carefully. Her gloved hands on the wheel were steady and firm. “She may be all right and she may fly to pieces. I should say it’s touch and go.”

“More go than touch, if you ask me,” snapped Emma, at war with jealousy and apprehension.

Perhaps just because she was conscious of malice, she dragged herself to another final effort.

“Worrying business for you—this about Miss Sigglesthwaite.”

“Oh, yes. Poor thing. I feel horribly to blame—though I don’t see quite how I could have helped it.”

“Never mind, my dear.” Emma patted kindly (though tentatively, because of the steering) the hand on the wheel. “I think you ought to know that all of us—the local people, you know, and the Higher Education Committee—are quite pleased with you. You seem to be doing a good job of work among us.”

“Oh, am I?” gasped Sarah, with spontaneous and unmistakable relief. “Well—that’s something. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

R
ABBIT PIE
was the trouble. And pork.

Mrs. Brimsley could not eat pork. Her stomach, usually a docile organ, could not accommodate it. Yet when Bill Heyer, one-armed as he was, succeeded in snaring a rabbit just below the cabbage patch, pork immediately suggested itself to Mrs. Brimsley’s mind, and pork and rabbit she served, very tastily, with onions and carrots and circles of hard-boiled egg in a nice crisp pie.

“What’s this?” asked Nat, prying with his long nose across the tablecloth.

“Rabbit pie.”

“Why aren’t you taking a bit?”

“Because I can’t eat the pork. I’m boiling myself an egg.”

“Here.” Nat pushed back his plate. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“What’s the matter?”

Hal Brimsley opened his sluggish eyes, and Bill, who always ate midday dinner with his next-door neighbours, grinned expectantly.

“I know you want shut on me. Well I know you’d like to be rid of me,” roared Nat. “But you’ve not done it yet. I know what you want. You want to drive me and Peg out so as we won’t have no place to go. But you’re wrong. We’re coming here, and it’s you who’ll go—bag and baggage. So you can think on.” And he lifted his plate of rabbit pie, scraped the contents carefully back into the dish, cut himself a hunk of bread and cheese, and stalked off into the November fog.

“Well,” Bill’s genial voice broke the awkward pause. “That’s a rum un. I thought it was only when there was an R in the month that rabbits poisoned you.”

“That’s oysters. When I was cook at Lissell Grange,” began Mrs. Brimsley, whose wits were quick enough, but whose emotional reactions were slow.