The Baker’s Daughter (2 page)

Mr. Bulloch was so lost in dreams of long ago that he was not surprised when he heard Mary's own private signal—three times three taps on his old oak door. He cried, “Come in,” and raised his eyes from the fire expecting to see Mary's fair merry face, but it was not Mary who came around the edge of the door, and for a moment Mr. Bulloch gazed at his visitor with a blank, unrecognizing stare.

“Sue!” he said at last, like a man awakening from sleep.

“Yes, it's me,” declared his granddaughter, somewhat bewildered by her reception. “Can I come in? You're not too busy?”

“Come in, child, come in,” said Mr. Bulloch. “I was dreaming, I think—very reprehensible in business hours. Have ye been up to see Granny?”

“No, it's you I've come to see,” Sue replied. She had a small parcel for him—a woolen scarf that she had knitted for his birthday—and Mr. Bulloch drew her head down and kissed her soft cheek with rare tenderness.

“You're a good lass,” he declared. “Sit down and talk to the old man for a wee while, Sue.”

The mists of the past still lingered so that he had almost called her Mary, yet she was unlike her mother in every way. Different in appearance, with her small pale face and gray-green eyes and the heavy mass of chestnut hair that waved back from her wide serious brow, and different in nature with her thoughtful, quiet ways. She was not like Mary's daughter at all; she was more like Susan his wife. He looked at her, searching her face, wondering if she was happy (how could she be happy with that woman in her mother's place), wondering what sort of thoughts were hidden behind that quiet masklike look, and it seemed to him that she was too old for her years, her mouth too firm, her expression too reserved. He remembered that even as a child she had worn a quaint air of maturity, of responsibility—perhaps that was what Mary had meant.

“You're not old, Grandfather,” Sue said, leaning against the edge of his desk and surveying him critically.

“I'm seventy today.”

“I know that, but you don't seem old. You're interested in things.”

“Things are interesting,” he replied.

There was a little silence, and then Mr. Bulloch asked, “Why did ye knock like that?”

“Knock?” she repeated questioningly. “Oh yes, I see. It was just that Mother always knocked on your door with three times three. I used to see her do it and wonder what it meant.”

Mr. Bulloch did not tell her about Goldilocks, for Sue would not understand—not for her the foolish tender make-believes that had so entranced her mother. “It was a bairn's trick,” he said. “That's all, Sue—a bairn's trick. But never mind that now. Tell me all the news.”

Her face clouded over. “There's no news,” she said, “or at least nothing important. Have you fixed on the music for the Hogmanay Party, Grandfather?”

Mr. Bulloch was fully aware that this was a red herring, but it was such an attractive red herring that he could not resist it. “We have then,” he declared, brightening perceptibly. “Andy Waugh was in last night. It's to be Haydn this year. Wait till I tell ye about it, Sue.”

It was a time-honored custom for the Bullochs to give a party on New Year's Eve—a fine dinner first and then a small concert of chamber music. Mr. Bulloch played the cello exceedingly well, and his great friend Mr. Waugh, who kept the music shop in Beilford, was no mean performer on the violin. This year (as Mr. Bulloch proceeded to explain) the party was to be on an even more ambitious scale than usual.

“Hadyn's not easy,” declared Mr. Bulloch seriously, “and the piece Andy's chosen has an awful hard solo for me. It'll need a good bit of practice, I'm tellin' ye, but it's beautiful music, Sue.”

They were still discussing the subject when they were disturbed by a knock on the door—no three times three this time, but a perfectly sane and sensible
rat-tat, rat-tat.

“That'll be Hickie!” said Mr. Bulloch. “What'll Hickie be wanting?
Come in.
”

Hickie came in. He was Mr. Bulloch's chief assistant, a sturdy, well-set-up fellow of about twenty-eight with thick brown hair and bright brown eyes. His eyes fell upon Sue and kindled with pleasure, for he had loved her and waited patiently for her ever since she was a small girl. Sue did not love him, of course, and Bob Hickie knew that, but he was willing to wait for her another nine years if necessary. He knew that she was old Bulloch's favorite grandchild and most probably his heir, and, although he would still have loved her if she had been a pauper, her position was certainly an enhancement of her charms.

“Mr. Bulloch,” said Hickie, when he had greeted Sue and asked her how she did. “Mr. Bulloch, it's that Mrs. Darnay. She's asking for you. Will I tell her you're engaged?”

“No, no, I'll see her,” declared Mr. Bulloch. “I'll come this very minute. You'll stay and have dinner, Sue. Away upstairs to your grandmother till I see what Mrs. Darnay's wanting.”

Sue accepted the invitation, but instead of going upstairs, she followed the two men into the front shop. The fact was she wanted to see Mrs. Darnay. She had heard of her, of course (for the whole of Beilford was interested in the Darnays and talked about them unceasingly), but Beilford folk were not good at describing people, and Sue wanted to see Mrs. Darnay with her own eyes. Sue knew—as everybody knew—that the Darnays lived at Tog's Mill, an old disused flour mill that stood on the riverbank about two miles above the town. They had taken the place on a long lease and had done it up and made it habitable. Everybody thought that this was a very strange thing to do, for the Darnays could have gotten a villa on the outskirts of Beilford for less money than they had expended on the mill—a comfortable modern villa with electric light and other conveniences—but Mr. Darnay was an artist, and artists were well known to be “queer,” so perhaps that was why they preferred a tumbledown mill to a decent modern house.

Sue stood a little apart and examined the artist's wife with thoughtful care. She had never seen an artist's wife before and had expected something picturesque, something artistic, with graceful flowing draperies and untidy hair. Sue had seen an amateur production of
Patience
that the Beilford Dramatic Club had presented to its admiring neighbors and fellow townsmen the previous year, and she had imagined Mrs. Darnay would be “like that.” Mrs. Darnay was not the least “like that,” but she was sufficiently peculiar and striking to obviate disappointment. She was tall and slim, with very fair hair set in sculptured waves, and her face was “made up” with paint and powder—red lips, pink cheeks, and dark blue shadows around her eyes. Her clothes were peculiar too, for she was hatless, and her leopard-skin coat, sleek and shiny, reached only as far as her knees, while her slim legs were clad in stockings so fine that they looked as if they were bare. Sue gazed at Mrs. Darnay, fascinated by the strangeness of her.

Mrs. Darnay turned from the assistant who was attending to her order and smiled at Mr. Bulloch engagingly. “So good of you to spare me a few minutes,” she told him in a high, light voice.

“What can I do for ye, Mrs. Darnay?” he asked. “No complaints, I'm hoping.”

“No complaints at all,” declared Mrs. Darnay. “The fact is I want you to help me. I don't know many people about here, you see, and I wondered if you could tell me where I could find a cook.”

“A cook?” echoed Mr. Bulloch in surprise.

“I brought my cook with me,” Mrs. Darnay explained, “but she had to go home. It is dreadfully inconvenient. I haven't got anybody now except my French maid, and she can't do everything. Besides, she isn't a good cook, and my husband is
so
particular.”

“Well, it's not quite in my line,” said Mr. Bulloch, smiling. “I've enlarged the scope of my business a good deal, but this is the first time I've been asked for a cook.”

“Oh, I know!” Mrs. Darnay cried. “Of course I know it isn't really in your
line
, but I hoped perhaps you might be able to suggest somebody. I'm really almost desperate.”

“What about me?” inquired Sue in her quiet voice.

Neither Mr. Bulloch nor Mrs. Darnay had noticed Sue, for she was a person who could fade into the landscape when she pleased, but now they both turned and looked at her: Mrs. Darnay critically, Mr. Bulloch with incredulous dismay.

“I can cook quite well,” Sue continued, “and I'm a good washer too. I don't mind getting up early.”

Mrs. Darnay looked at her searchingly and liked what she saw. She was so desperate for a cook that she would have taken almost anybody and had an absurd impulse to seize upon Sue then and there and abduct her forcibly, but it was better not to seem too eager, so she curbed her feelings and asked the conventional question, “Have you got good references?”

Sue was about to reply that she had no references at all, but she was forestalled by Mr. Bulloch.

“This is my granddaughter, Mrs. Darnay,” he declared in his most kingly manner. “My granddaughter, Miss Pringle.”

“Then of course I shan't require references,” said Mrs. Darnay, smiling sweetly.

“But it's a mistake!” Mr. Bulloch cried. “I mean, there's no need for Sue… I don't want her to…”

Mrs. Darnay summoned all her tact and charm (for she
had
to have a cook, and she had set her heart on this nice, superior-looking girl). “If Miss Pringle would come temporarily,” she suggested, “just to help us out, just until I can find somebody else.”

Miss Pringle agreed. She agreed to everything that Mrs. Darnay said, quite regardless of her grandfather's objections. She agreed to go tomorrow and to stay for a week to see how she got on. “And then we'll see,” Mrs. Darnay said with her charming smile. “We'll see how we get on, but you'll stay until I can get somebody else, won't you?”

Sue assented to these somewhat ambiguous terms.

Mr. Bulloch had not been able to interfere, nor to prevent Sue from making the arrangements with Mrs. Darnay, but when Mrs. Darnay left, he took Sue upstairs to her grandmother.

“Susan!” he cried, bursting into the dining room where the dinner was being laid. “Susan, look at this girl—she's daft.”

“My,” said Mrs. Bulloch, smiling calmly. “So Sue's daft, is she? That's a pity, Thomas.”

“Wait till ye hear what she's wanting to do,” Thomas told her. “She's engaged herself to go cook for the Darnays. Did ye hear what I was saying? Susan, she's to go tomorrow and cook for these people.”

“I heard,” said old Susan softly, and young Sue, watching intently, saw her old thin hand hesitate for a moment as she laid down a spoon.

“Ye heard!” Mr. Bulloch cried. “Well then, tell her the thing's all nonsense. She's to come here if she's wanting away from home.”

“Sue knows we'd like that,” Mrs. Bulloch declared, looking up and smiling tenderly at her granddaughter. “Sue knows, so there's no need to say it. I'm thinking we would be more sensible if we listened to Sue and heard her reasons, instead of argle-bargling over her as if she was a dummy.” There was a glint of humor in her eyes, though her voice was perfectly quiet and grave, and Mr. Bulloch's clouded face broke into a reluctant smile.

“My gracious, woman, you're smart!” he exclaimed. “Come away, Sue, and let's hear what possible reasons ye can have. Are ye wanting away from us all?”

“No, no, Thomas,” interrupted his wife. “That's no way to get hearing about it.”

“I want something to do,” Sue said. “I want to be useful. It's difficult to give up everything you've been doing and just stand out of the way. I'm not complaining about anything,” she added with a quiver in her voice. “It's not that, Grandfather. It's because there isn't enough for me to do—two women, in one wee house—”

“But ye can come here,” Mr. Bulloch cried. “Leave Grace to get on with it and come here. Ye can help me in the shop. Susan, for maircy's sake, tell her we're wanting her!”

“Sue knows that,” declared Mrs. Bulloch again.

It was true that Sue had known she could go to the Bullochs, for they had suggested it in a tentative manner when her father married again, but Sue had not known that Mr. Bulloch wanted her to help in the shop or she would have accepted the invitation forthwith. She had visualized herself helping her grandmother with the household duties and, after considering the matter carefully, had decided that there would not be enough for her to do—Mrs. Bulloch had one small maid who came in daily, but she did all the cooking herself and obviously enjoyed the work. Sue was too proud and independent to go live with her grandparents unless she could be useful to them. All this rushed through the girl's mind like an express train, and she began to regret her sudden impulse and to wish that she had spoken to her grandfather and found out what was in his mind.

“I've promised Mrs. Darnay,” she said at last.

“If ye've promised, ye've promised,” Mrs. Bulloch replied. “It was a kind thought to help them out, and when they've got some other body to do for them ye'll just come home to us.” She looked at her husband as she spoke and the words of protest died upon his lips, for they were so near in spirit that she could speak to him with a glance.
It will be easier this way
, her glance said, and Mr. Bulloch saw that this was true. It would be easier for Sue to come to them from the Darnays' than straight from Will's house to theirs.

“They'll have to find some other body soon, then,” he declared, “for we're wanting Sue ourselves.”

* * *

It was six o'clock when Sue got home, for she had some necessary shopping to do in the town. She found her father and her stepmother and her young brother sitting down to tea. There was a large piece of boiled bacon on the table, and a fine smell of kippers filled the air.

“I've got a job,” she announced as she drew up a chair to the table. “I'm going to cook for Mrs. Darnay at Tog's Mill.”

“A job!” exclaimed Grace. “Where's the sense of that?”

“What do ye want to take a job for?” inquired Will. “There's no need for ye to go out to service when ye've a good home.”

“I want something to do,” she explained. “There's nothing for me to do here.”

“What'll folks say,” Will grumbled, scowling at her gloomily. He knew quite well what folks would say. They would say he had remarried and turned his daughter out of the house—a nice thing to be said, and too near the truth to be comfortable.

“It doesn't matter what folks say,” replied his daughter tartly.

Will thought it mattered a good deal, for the truth was he liked to stand well with his neighbors. He would have liked folks to say, as they said of old Bulloch, that he was a fine fellow. He would have liked them to seek him out and talk to him—but nobody did. Will knew that he was unpopular in Beilford, but he could not change his nature and the knowledge that he was disliked made him more gloomy and taciturn than ever.

He thought of all this and consumed a large slice of ham before he answered. “That kind of talk is bad for business. They'll say the business is going down if I can't afford to keep ye at home.”

“I'm going anyway,” said Sue.

He banged on the table with his hand. “Then ye'll not come back,” he declared in a voice that trembled with passion. “Ye can go, and stay—I'll have no defiance in my house.”

The threat did not move Sue at all, for she did not intend to return home. When her time at the Darnays' was over she would go to the Bullochs and help in the shop. She said as much to Will, and said it without tact, for she was too straightforward and independent to beat about the bush.

“The Bullochs!” cried Will. “I'm sick of hearing about them. It's the Bullochs this and the Bullochs that from morning to night. It's the Bullochs have put ye up to this nonsense—I know that fine.”

“You know wrong then,” she replied calmly. “The Bullochs aren't wanting me to go, but I said I'd go, and I'll go.”

“Go, then,” raged Will. “Go for any sake. We'll maybe get a little peace in this house when ye've gone.”

Grace had been silent during the discussion, but afterward, when they were washing up the dishes, she had a good deal to say.

“It's a daft thing to do,” she told Sue as she rinsed the plates and put them on the rack to drip. “Ye'd be much better off married, with a house of yer own, than cooking for other folks. Ben Grierson would have ye tomorrow—”

“I don't want him,” declared Sue. “I'm sick of hearing about Ben.”

“Ye're daft,” Grace said. “Clean daft, that's what ye are. Ben's a good steady man and he's mad about ye, forby. Ye've kept him dangling too long already—maybe ye'll lose him altogether if ye wait much longer.”

“It's you that's kept him dangling,” retorted Sue with some heat. “It's you that's encouraged him, not me.”

Grace sighed. She had a long and drafty sort of sigh that Sue found most annoying.

Sue was surprised at the opposition she had encountered from Will and Grace, for she was aware that her presence in the house was a trial to them both. Sue was impatient and impulsive and it was impossible for her to stand aside and watch Grace doing things differently without making any remark. In fact, Grace had not been in the house twenty-four hours before they had fallen out over the arrangement of the cleaning materials. The things had always been kept in the boot cupboard, on a particular shelf, and Grace moved them into the kitchen without consulting her stepdaughter. “But they've always been there,” Sue had cried. “Mother always kept that shelf for them.”

Grace had never forgiven those injudicious words. She had made sweeping alterations after that just to show Sue who was the rightful mistress, and she had taken an even stronger line because she felt uncomfortable and insecure. Grace did not feel that the house really belonged to her. She felt like an interloper, and this annoyed her. She fixed the blame for her discomfort on her stepdaughter: How could she settle down contentedly in her new home when Sue was there, disapproving of all she did and comparing her methods with Mary's? Grace wanted Sue to marry—that was the sure way to get rid of her; it was no use playing about with temporary jobs. Sue would soon get tired of cooking for the Darnays. She would miss her chance of a comfortable marriage, and they would have her back in the house for good.

“Could ye not give Ben a chance?” she inquired, stifling her annoyance and trying to speak in a friendly manner. “He's a real good sort, Sue.”

“I wouldn't marry Ben Grierson if he was the only man in the world,” declared Sue flatly, “and you may as well know the truth.”

Sandy had taken no part in the argument at the tea table. He was a peace lover, and he kept aloof from unpleasantness whenever it was possible to do so. He and Sue were very fond of each other and were allied together against Grace, but Sue was aware that Sandy was a very poor ally when there was trouble brewing.

The evening passed without any opportunity for a private talk with Sandy and, this being so, his sister was not surprised when she heard a gentle tap on her bedroom door. She had not yet started to undress, so she opened the door and motioned Sandy to come in.

“I had to speak to you,” he said in a whisper.

“What do you think of it?” she asked in the same conspiratorial tone.

“It's a good thing for you to get away from here.”

“And for you too,” returned Sue dryly. “You'll have peace now—and that's what you like.”

Sandy did not attempt to contradict this. He sat down on Sue's bed and looked at her thoughtfully. “My, I wish it was me,” he said. “I'd give anything to get away.”

“You haven't got much longer,” Sue pointed out. “You're sixteen now, and you're going to the university—”

“But I'm not!” he cried. “It's all off now. Father spoke to me today. I'm to leave school at Easter and help in the bakery.”

“Oh, Sandy!” exclaimed Sue in dismay. “Oh, Sandy—but he promised you.”

“That was before he married Grace,” Sandy reminded her. “I've known for some time that Grace was working against me. She thinks it's all nonsense me going to the university, and she's made him think the same. A waste of money, that's what he said.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” replied Sandy wretchedly. “What could I say? If he won't spend the money, I can't do it, can I? Oh, Sue, I can't bear it. Think of me living on here with Father—and Grace—all the rest of my life. Just think of it—all my work wasted.”

Sandy was very near tears in spite of his sixteen years of manhood.

“Why don't you stand up to them?” Sue said, but she said it without conviction, for she knew Sandy too well to have much hope that he would ever be able to stand up for himself.

“I hate rows,” he said, kicking at the bedpost with his toe. “You know I hate rows. It would be hell if I didn't do what he said.”

“We won't sit down under it,” she declared in a brisk tone. “I'll think of a way, Sandy.”

“But you won't be here—”

“You can come out to Tog's Mill and see me. Don't worry, Sandy; we'll find some way—perhaps Grandfather would speak to him.”

They talked for a little while longer, and at last Sandy went away. Sue had cheered and braced him—as she always did—and he began to think there might still be hope.

* * *

When Sue woke it was gray dark. She sat up and rubbed the mists of sleep from her eyes and looked around the little bedroom that she had slept in as long as she could remember, that she might never sleep in again. The furniture was barely visible in the gloom, but the small round mirror near the window shone like a silver penny, gathering light from the sky.

Sue had been unhappy here, but all the same, she could not contemplate leaving her home without a pang, and her heart gave an unpleasant lurch when she thought of the immediate future. “I must have been mad to say I would go cook for those people,” said Sue to herself.

She lay down again and considered the whole thing carefully, and the more she thought of it the more worried she became. It was the venture into the unknown that troubled her: the prospect of arriving at a strange house, of taking up her abode among strange people, of sleeping in a strange room. And then there was the cooking: supposing they were not satisfied with the food, supposing they asked her to make a cake and it was a failure, stodgy, heavy, the currants congregated at the bottom in a solid mass!

“Oh
dear
,” cried Sue, rolling over in bed and burying her head in the clothes. “Oh, goodness gracious me, whatever was I thinking of! But I'll just have to go through with it now. There's no way out.”