Fantails (3 page)

Guiltily she came back to earth as sizzling noises and a most unpleasant smell proclaimed that the hens’ food was boiling over.

CHAPTER TWO

Logie,
fastening the belt of the white overall Alison had cut out for her from a linen sheet brought from Swan House but never used, since it was a double one, ran down the steep flight of steps from Fantails into the stable yard. As she was opening the gate in the low wall dividing it from the doctor’s garden, the church clock began striking nine, telling her that after all, she wasn’t late—she could be in the surgery by the time the last stroke of the hour rang out.

It had been raining in the night. Silver drops hung on the nets over the raspberry-canes, and glittered in the sun on every leaf and petal. The shining air was sweet with roses and sweet-peas, and spiced with currant-bushes, mint and thyme, and all their fragrant neighbours in the herb bed. Logie’s depression lightened as she hurried down a path between box hedges, flanked on one side by fruit bushes, on the other by a wide flower border. On such a day as this it was impossible not to feel a gay conviction that something lovely must be waiting round the corner!

“I feel gay,

As well I may,

For something nice Will happen to-day!”

she chanted, laughing at herself.

Opening the garden door she wondered, as she wondered every morning, whether the Sinclairs were acclimatised by years of custom to the faint astringent smell of disinfectants that pervaded Swan House. It had been architecturally impossible to make a separate door for surgery and waiting-room without spoiling the character of the Queen Anne home, and so the smells of home and practice mingled in the hall and passage, where, as she entered, Mrs. Sinclair was conferring with the elderly woman, Mrs. Moffat, who came from eight to twelve, and who for some time had been her only help.

The doctor’s wife was short and dark, and always managed to seem cheerful, no matter how she felt. She had dark, sparkling eyes, a round face with strong features, and even white teeth that showed a good deal when she smiled, which happened often. Her age was forty-nine. She was by reputation and in fact the most discreet woman in Market Blyburgh.

“Good morning, Logie! Such a lovely morning, too! The Doctor’s only just begun his breakfast. He had a call to Mrs. Chiffin in the night. Another boy.”

“I’ll hold the fort,” said Logie, and went into the waiting-room, that had chairs ranged round the walls, and picture papers on a table in the middle. Beyond it lay the surgery. Both rooms were ready for the arrival of the patients, as Logie “did” them as a rule when evening surgery was over, preferring that to getting up an hour earlier of a morning. Now and then the morning help gave them a good turn out. As she was opening the window Mrs. Sinclair popped her head round the door. “Is Alison about this morning? Not going out shopping?” she asked.

“She’s going to be in, as far as I know. She did a lot of Marketing yesterday,” said Logie. “But I can’t be sure.”

“Oh, well—I just thought I’d look in to have a word with her. If she’s not in it won’t quite kill me to have walked all the way for nothing!”

“Shall I go back and tell her you’ll be coming?”

“Goodness me, no! Thanks all the same. I want a word with Michie, in any case.”

This being the obliger’s day for turning out the dining room, Mrs. Sinclair dealt herself with a good deal of the routine housework. It was eleven before she was free to go out into the garden, where she spent some time in trying unsuccessfully to persuade the elderly Scots gardener that she and the doctor far preferred the peas picked while they were small and sweet, instead of waiting till they were as large as marbles and as tasteless, and finally went up the flight of steps to Fantails. The door was open.

“Alison? Are you there?” she called.

“Indeed I am! And charmed to see you! Do come in. How nice of you to give me an excuse for idling. I’ve been longing for a cup of coffee, but I’d never bother to make one myself. I’ll just put on the kettle and be back with you in half a minute.”

“You’ve brought the art of welcome to perfection, Alicey,” said Ella Sinclair when they were sitting side by side on the low window-seat, each with a large cup of coffee.

“I don’t think it’s an art. It’s simply that I’m really pleased to see you!”

“Well, whatever it is, coming here certainly does give one a cosy feeling of being wanted. What delicious little crunchy biscuits! I can’t make out what it is they taste of.”

“Custard powder, in place of a quarter of the usual amount of flour.”

“Next time I make biscuits I shall practise the sincerest form of flattery. Good news of Andrew?”

“Yes, he’s very fit. We heard from him this morning.”

In silence Mrs. Sinclair sipped at her coffee. Then she said, “You must be wondering why I’ve dropped in at a busy time of day. I wanted to have a quiet word with you. The fact is that we may be leaving here.”

“Leaving? Oh
dear
!” Alison was startled and dismayed. The Sinclairs seemed so much a part of Market Blyburgh, she had supposed that they had taken root for life.

“Oh, not for ever—though it’s nice of you to look so tragic! Only for a year or so. You know that paper Tom wrote for the
Lancet
that made so much stir?”

“The one about his theory of anaesthetising?”

“Yes. Well, it’s had repercussions. Bietmann, one of the most distinguished surgeons in America, thinks it may revolutionise the whole science of anaesthetics. He’s been corresponding with Tom for some time. Now he wants him to go to Boston so that they can work on it together. He would arrange for Tom to lecture to a medical congress and all over America to medical students.”

“Ella!
How simply wonderful for you both! How proud you must be!”

“Yes. I don’t think either of us can quite realise it yet. It’s such a wonderful opportunity for a hitherto inconspicuous G.P. And though we’ll hate to leave home, it will be rather marvellous to see America. And, of course, an experience beyond Tom’s wildest dreams—or mine, for that matter.”

“What’s going to happen to the practice?”

“That’s one reason why I came to talk to you. We wanted you to know about it first of all, so that you’ll have time to think things over. Then, if all goes as we hope it will, you may have some plan to suggest to Logie. That’s the one snag. The man who will be coming here is bringing his own secretary-dispenser. It’s natural enough; she’s been with him for years. But it means Logie won’t be needed.”

“No. No, of course not.”

Ella Sinclair looked at her anxiously. “Alison, is this an awful blow? We’ve been wondering, Tom and I, what else there is for her to do here. Have you any ideas?”

Alison forced a smile to lips that felt strangely stiff and numb.

“I think things usually work out for the best in the long run. Something will turn up for her ... It’s odd that you should tell me this to-day. All morning I’ve been rather worrying about Logie—thinking that Market Blyburgh is rather dead for a young girl, wondering about her future ... Probably this will turn out to be the best thing that could have happened, from her point of view. Working for Tom was an ideal beginning for her, but it’s bad for anyone of Logie’s age to settle down in too much of a groove.”

“Did you ever think she might perhaps find work in Norwich? Then she could come home for the week-ends?”

“Yes, I’d thought of that. But without training or experience she couldn’t earn enough at first to keep herself, away from home. And though there’s only Jane to educate now, we aren’t much better off than when they were all three at school—other expenses have gone up so enormously, and income tax as well. To help her out wouldn’t be easy.”

“I see.” Ella was looking at her thoughtfully, at her troubled brown eyes, her generous, wistful mouth. “How old are you, Alison?” she demanded suddenly.

“How old am
I?
I’m thirty-five. Why?”

“I was wondering whether you ever thought of your own future, that’s all. Because if you don’t, it’s high time that you did, my dear! You’ve given up the best years of your life to those three—oh yes, you have!—and in a very few years now Jane will be able to stand on her own feet. How about planning what
you’ll
do when they don’t need you any longer?”

“That time mayn’t come for years. Jane ought to have some sort of training. Then it would be nice if she and Logie were to get work in some town where they’d have opportunities of making friends of their own age, and they’d need me to make a home for them. For Andrew too when he comes home on leave.”

“Alison, I could shake you! Unselfishness can be carried so far that it becomes a vice!”

In all the years that Ella Sinclair had known Alison she had never seen her ruffled, so it was startling now to see her cheeks flame as she cried: “If something must be done, one may as well do it with a good grace outwardly, no matter what one may be feeling inwardly. And I
loathe
people who parade their miseries to the world and revel in being martyrs! And to have hard-won self-control mistaken for—for milk-and-water meekness is just
maddening
!”

Ella was remorseful. “My dear, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

Alison laughed, a trifle shakily. “I know you didn’t, and I’m sorry for exploding. Now let’s talk of you and Tom. When will you know for certain if you’re going?”

“It’s practically certain now, but don’t say anything to Logie or to anyone else just yet. I have a feeling that it’s better not to.”

Hurrying back down the garden path, Mrs. Sinclair realised remorsefully that she had never given Alison the credit due to her for her unfailing cheerfulness and good humour, unsuspecting that at times it covered heartache and frustration. The moaners of this world, she reflected were far too often given the sympathy that was more deserved by those who made a gallant effort to hide their troubles ... Then, as one does, she forgot Alison in the annoying discovery that the fish for lunch had not arrived.

Oh dear, thought Alison, oh
dear!
I was an idiot to flare up like that! Then she began mechanically to carry out the remainder of the morning’s tasks, her thoughts all centred once more on the problem of Logie’s future.

How peaceful it would be if there were only someone with whom she could share a problem such as this! How restful to be able now and then to lean on someone else’s strength, instead of being always leaned upon! Suddenly Alison felt very tired.

Barely had Logie flung wide the windows of the waiting-room and surgery when the bell rang. She went to answer it, and the day’s work began by listening to a long account of Mrs. Watson’s “bronickle catarrh.” It was a busy morning, as most mornings were for Logie. Surgery over, there were instruments to be sterilised, accounts brought up to date, letters to be typed. An urgent summons came for Dr. Sinclair after he had set out on his round, and to track him down meant putting through several telephone calls. A frightened woman brought a small boy bellowing from the pain of a scalded foot. Logie administered first aid and a strawberry from the garden to the child, sympathy and a cup of tea to his mother. By one o’clock she was a trifle tired and very hungry.

Mrs. Sinclair met her in the hall as she was going out to post the letters she had typed. “Logie, would you mind?” She held out a letter of her own. Logie took it. “Yes, of course. Did you find Alison?”

“Yes. I forgot to tell her Crumpet’s taking orders for greengages, so will you remember, if you can?”

“I’ll do my best!”

The market-place was empty. Market Blyburgh had gone home to have its midday meal. Outside the Painted Anchor a few cars were drawn up, ancient Fords and Morrises and Austins belonging to local farmers, a couple of sleek new ones owned probably by wayfarers passing through to Norfolk. Through its open door as Logie passed wafted a blend of beer, tobacco, and roast mutton to mingle with the smell of hot tar rising where the road had been recently mended and was now oozing a little in the heat of the sun.

Logie went to the letter-box at the corner where the High Street entered the market-place. She heard a car draw up behind her as she dropped the letters in the box, and turned. Behind her was a dark-grey drophead coupe, long and low and sleek. Even Logie, usually unobservant where cars were concerned, knew it for a Rolls.

The hood was open. The driver leaned towards her. He was a man of four or five-and-twenty. His well-shaped head was set on broad, lean shoulders. He had dark-red hair with a slight crisp wave. His face was square, his features blunt and strong. He looked as though he knew what he demanded from life and meant to get it. His voice was deep and pleasant as he asked: “I wonder if you can tell me ...” then broke off with recognition in his keen grey eyes.

“You’re Logie!” he exclaimed.

Startled, she looked at him uncertainly. Surely she couldn’t have forgotten him if they had ever met?

“Yes,” she said hesitantly, “yes, I’m Logie Selkirk. But I don’t remember ...?”

He finished for her. “You don’t remember meeting me, because we’ve never met. In spite of that, I know all manner of things about you.” He leaned back, one arm outstretched along the back of the seat, and smiled at her. “You were named Logie after an old house in Scotland where your parents spent their honeymoon. Your father was a doctor. You once ate seven strawberry ices one after another—”

“I call it mean to drag up something that happened eleven years ago!” she protested, flushed and laughing.

“You have a twin named Andrew, and a younger sister named Jane.”

Logie was completely mystified. “Who
are
you? How do you know all this?”

He grinned back at her quizzically, as though he knew a good deal more about her if he cared to tell it. “Does the name Sherry ring a bell?”

Sherry—Andrew’s friend! “Why, of course! You’re Sherry MacAirlie!” Her eyes, puzzled no more, were bright with pleasure. “But how did you—well, how did you know that I was me?”