Fantails (11 page)

“I suppose I shall be able to picture it all more easily when I know Crail.”

“Probably.” Abruptly Sherry changed the subject. “Tomorrow let’s go up to London. We can make it in a little over three hours, have lunch and do a spot of shopping and be back in time for dinner. How does that strike you?”

Logie made a rapid mental review of her wardrobe. In this warm weather her blue printed crepe would do ... she needn’t wear a hat ... “I think it would be lovely!”

“We’ll buy your ring. What shall it be? Diamonds? Emeralds? Sapphires?”

“I’d love a sapphire ... Could we perhaps look at some rubies? I’ve never even seen one.”

Sherry’s mouth hardened. “I hate ’em. Beastly colour.”

“Do you? Then let’s not bother about them. Red doesn’t suit me, anyway. It’s getting dark. Ought we to be getting back?”

“We ought ...” He laid his cheek against her hair. “My sweet, I do so hope I’m going to make you happy.”

“Of course you are,” she reassured him tenderly. “Only—I can’t help wondering how I’m going to fit into your background. You like horses and everything to do with them—racing and hunting and that sort of thing. And I just don’t know anything about them.”

“I like all country things,” he pointed out, “and so do you. You’ll love the dogs—I’ve got a couple of labradors.”

“I’d love a dog of my own. I’ve never had the heart to get another since my old cairn died. She was fourteen. I couldn’t remember being without her. I grew up with her, you see.”

“You shall have as many dogs as you like, of course. And there’s the home farm. I’d thought of building up a Jersey herd. You’re keen on farming, aren’t you?”

“Frightfully.” Logie had a happy picture of herself, efficient in breeches and leggings, knowingly discussing the points of a young bull with the bailiff, while Sherry listened, impressed by her knowledge, and at her heels waited an adoring golden labrador and perhaps a cocker as well “Sherry, we’ll have such fun! ... Only I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn your hunting jargon.”

“I hope you won’t. I’m not sure that I care much about huntin’ women. Stay as you are. I’d hate you to be different.”

“If that’s what you’d like best, I will,” she answered lightly. “And we’ll live happily ever after.”

As they walked hand-in-hand back to the car she shivered, looking uneasily about her. “Cold, darling?” Sherry asked remorsefully. “Have I kept you out too long?”

“No. Only a ghost walking over my grave ... Sherry, so many lovers must have sat here in this garden, making plans and being happy ... She did not add, although the words were on her lips. “And perhaps quarrelling, and parting.” They must never quarrel, she and Sherry. She was glad to leave the whispering shadows of the forsaken garden for the leathery-smelling, familiar security of the car.

On the way home, planning to-morrow’s expedition to London, they agreed that he should call for her soon after half-past nine. “I won’t come in now. Time you went to bed,” he said, opening the wicket door for her. Suddenly he caught her lightly by the shoulders. “Logie—d’you really want to ‘picture what’s behind me’? Does the past count when two people are happy together? Isn’t it the future that matters?”

She wondered at the urgency in his voice and eyes. “Only the future. It’s the future that we’re going to share,” she answered, and he said, “That’s how I feel about it, too. Good night, sweet!”

Alison was waiting for her. For a few minutes they talked, Logie telling of the plans she and Sherry had made for being married when Andrew came home on leave; for going to-morrow to London to have lunch and choose a ring; for him to take her to his Yorkshire home, that was to be her home too, on his mother’s return from Italy. Alison listened and rejoiced.

“There’s only one minor bother,” Logie ended. “Clothes for going to Yorkshire. I just can’t go with nothing but the ones I’ve got—you know I can’t!”

“We’ll manage something.”

“You always do!” said Logie gratefully. “Oh, Alicey—I am so glad that Sherry’s rich! It’ll be so lovely to be able to do things for you and Jane, and Andrew too!”

“My dear, it’s your own happiness that matters—not that you’ll be able to do things for us.”

“I know. But doing things for all of you will be part of it.”

Presently they went to bed, but neither slept for a time. Alison lay thankfully thinking of Logie’s happy prospects, considering the gaps in her wardrobe, planning how they might be filled before she went to stay at Sherry’s home, turning over in her mind various ways and means of having the wedding. It wouldn’t be too easy in this little flat, entered by steep stairs from the coach-house, to have even a small family gathering. It was a pity that the Sinclairs were abroad—Ella would certainly have suggested that Logie should be married from Swan House. Not that these things really mattered; it was Logie’s future, Logie’s happiness that counted.

Over-excitement kept Logie’s mind spinning in a ferment, reliving the events of the long, lovely day, dwelling on the moment when for the first time Sherry had taken her in his arms, the feeling of his smoothly shaven cheek against hers ... It would be fun to go with him to London, thrilling to choose a ring, the first ring she had ever owned ... Idly she wondered why he didn’t care for rubies. Had they some unfortunate association for him or was it only that he didn’t like their colour?

Her mind went wandering on. She met again his compelling eyes, heard again his urgent voice:

“Logie
—
d’you really want to ‘picture wha
t’
s behind me’? Does the past count when two people are happy together? Isn’t it the future that matters?”

Silly to be troubled by that memory, and by another that she had half forgotten, of the girl “nearly as tall as I am” with whom Sherry had gone dancing before he came to Market Blyburgh. Folly to wish that Sherry’s past life might be as empty of romances as her own—as though any man, particularly a man as personable as Sherry, would reach the age of nearly twenty-seven without having a few love affairs She had been right when she had answered,
“Only the future matters. It’s the future we are going to share.”

Logie had gone to London, Jane had disappeared in the direction of the river; Alison was making an aspic mould with corned beef cut in cubes, tomatoes, green peas, stock, and gelatine when she heard from below a small forlorn voice calling plaintively, “Isn’t anybody there at all?”

Looking from the window, she saw John struggling unsuccessfully with the latch of the gate. “Just coming!” she called, and hurried down to let him in. “You told me I could come an’ see the kittens,” he reminded her.

“Of course you can. If you get tired of being down there alone, come up these stairs and have a look at where we live. I can’t stay here and keep you company. I’ve got to do some cooking.”

Presently she heard him coming, one step at a time. “It’s funny to come upstairs to the kitchen!” he remarked.

“Everything’s upstairs here. Have a look round,” she invited him.

When he came back from a tour of the flat she had just taken a batch of scones from the oven. “Have a scone? Or doesn’t your aunt like you to eat between meals? It’s only half-past ten—a long way still to lunch-time.”

“She wouldn’t mind me having it if it’s got lots of proteins. Has it?”

“Lots of them. Particularly if I spread it with butter and honey,” Alison assured him gravely.

“If you don’t have proteins you might get to be a famine child. And if you don’t eat up your vegetables you get sore red places on your skin,” John told her earnestly, taking a large bite from the scone.

“How about a cup of milk to help it down?”

“It doesn’t need helping, thank you.” But he took the cup of milk and drank it, every drop.

Through the open window came the sound of a voice calling frantically “John!
John!
Wherever have you got to?
John
!”

John looked at Alison rather guiltily. “That’s my Aunt Lucia. I expect she’s looking for me.”

“Well, it does sound rather like it! Hadn’t you better call to her from the window?”

“It would be more fun to hide. She’ll take me shopping. I’d rather stay up here.”

“John!—Oh, this is dreadful!—Gardener, have you seen a little boy?”

Alison went to the window. In the middle of the lawn of Swan House, looking about her in a flustered way, stood a large, solid woman with a pudgy sallow face from which her hair was combed back in black loops. She wore a voile dress patterned with large bright flowers on a dark ground; Alison thought it an unfortunate choice for a woman with her ample proportions.

“John is up here with me,” she called. “He’s quite all right. Won’t you come up too, and have some coffee?”

“Up there! How
naughty
of him!”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault. I suggested it. Do please come and have some coffee. I’ll come down and show you the way.”

Lucia was on her high horse. John was her nephew. People had no
business
to make suggestions to him. “I’m afraid I haven’t time for coffee at this time on a busy morning.”

“There’s scones, Aunt Lucia!” John piped shrilly. “Hot scones an’ honey!”

Lucia weakened. “But it would be so nice to meet you, so just this
once,
perhaps—”

That child, thought Alison, would follow in his father’s footsteps and end up as a successful psychologist. She ran down to escort the second visitor up to Fantails.

On the way up Lucia took entire command of the situation, introduced herself, told Alison her exact relationship to Dr. Brandon, let it be understood her stay here would be a long one, possibly permanent. “It was a wrench to tear myself away from dear old London Town! From Kensington it was so easy to pop in on them in Harley Street, and see that all was well. But when they moved here, the poor dears needed me, and so I came.
John,
you’re a very
naughty
boy to hide away in here. Poor Auntie was afraid something had happened to you, darling. It wasn’t kind of you. Another time you must remember to stay where you’re told, dear.”

“What were you afraid of happening to me?” John asked, interested.

“All sorts of dreadful things can happen to little boys who don’t do as they’re told. Oh, Johnny, you’ve been eating something!” She sounded more hurt than angry. “Darling, how could you, when you
know
you’re not allowed to eat between meals!”

“You like me to have proteins an’—an’—carollies!” he argued.

“Calories. Yes, but at the proper time. Now you won’t be able for the lovely sweetbreads Mrs. MacNeish is cooking for your lunch!”

Alison, making coffee in the next room, reflected that if it were drummed into him enough, he probably would not, although more than two hours were at his disposal to acquire an appetite between now and lunch-time.

“Are you an’ Daddy having sweetbreads too?”

‘There aren’t enough for us, dear. They’re a very special treat, you know.
We’re
only having dull fried plaice.”

“I like fried plaice. I’d
rather
have fried plaice.”

“Oh, what a funny fellow! Isn’t he a funny little boy, Miss Hamilton? Fancy wanting fried plaice when he’s going to have lovely sweetbreads!”

“Why can’t I have fried plaice?”

“It isn’t good for little boys. Fried food gives them indigestion.”

My goodness, Alison thought, inwardly exasperated, why in the name of common sense can’t they all have something John could have too—baked fish if it’s bad for him to have it fried?

For the next half-hour Lucia talked in her flat, quacking voice of entirely her own interests; the bridge club she had joined in Kensington, her difficulties in getting a good charwoman, her next-door neighbour’s selfishness in objecting to the wireless late at night, her brother-in-law’s skill and reputation in the medical world, his devotion to her sister. “Poor darling Hugh—it took him ages to get used to Melanie’s adoration of me! We were inseparable, you see. But tact can smooth away most difficulties.”

She ate two hot scones thickly spread with honey, drank three cups of coffee, plentifully sugared, and finally departed, having formed an excellent opinion of the Hamilton girl. A pleasant little person, she decided, very sympathetic and not too pretty. Not at all the sort to attract Hugh, who liked a woman to be like Melanie, fair and young and gay and slender and not too intelligent. “I know we’re going to be
great
friends! You will let me drop in to have a little chat with you from time to time, won’t you? And I can count on you for good advice, I’m sure, if we get into any bothers!” she gushed, rising to go.

Alison assured her politely that she could. But it was not of Lucia Brill that she was thinking as she hurried to make up for wasted time—it was of a pale-faced little boy whose mind was being trained along lines of fear: fear of becoming “a famine child if you don’t have proteins,” of getting “sore red places on your skin if you don’t eat up your vegetables,” of being given indigestion from fried food, of “all sorts of dreadful things happening to little boys who don’t do as they’re told.” She wondered if his father realised the harm Miss Brill might well be doing ... No, of course not! If he did, he wouldn’t have her here another day. Yet what could an outsider like herself do, beyond encouraging John to come here so that she might have the opportunity of trying to eradicate the implanted tendency to fear from his impressionable mind?

As Alison and Jane were having tea there came a telegram.
“Sapphire and diamonds. Staying for theatre and dinner. Shan’t be back till all hours. Logie and Sherry.”

“Sapphire! That’s a blue stone, isn’t it? ... Logie’s turned into a sort of Cinderella,” Jane said, unenvying, pleased for her sister. “I’m going to play tennis on the school court with Rosemary and Joyce and Sheila. Miss Wren said she might coach us a bit. Can I tell them about Logie being engaged?”

“I shouldn’t. Better to keep it private till there’s been time for them to hear from Sherry’s mother and Andrew. They’re going to cable to them to-day. When you come back we’ll take a picnic supper to the river, if you like?”

“Love to!” Jane went off, humming to herself, swinging her racket. It was queer how people changed, she thought. She could remember Logie being all wrapped up in the school tennis tournament, and her school cert., and things like that, and never caring about clothes nor how she looked. And then she had begun to fuss about her nails and hair and having soap that smelt nice and lavender bags among her clothes. And now she’d gone all dreamy, saying, “Oh, darling—please don’t bother me! What
does
it matter?” if you asked her about something that a month ago she’d have thought mattered quite a lot ... Surely, oh surely if you didn’t want to change, and fought against it, you could stay the way you were?