Rest and Be Thankful (17 page)

“I’ll get you a nice cup of coffee,” she said to Mrs. Peel, with a quick eye for the worried face. She took the empty bottles and the wastepaper-basket, shaking her head over that Drene. She glanced at Ned, wearing his best black shirt too. He might have known he wouldn’t find Drene here in the kitchen. Gallivanting around the countryside with that Mr. Schmetterling in his big car.

“Hello, Mrs. Peel,” Ned was saying, “how are you?”

“Fine,” Mrs. Peel said, giving the correct answer to the correct greeting. “Hello, Chuck, how are you?”

The two men had risen as they welcomed her to the table. O’Farlan remembered in time, only to manage half-way to his feet. He grinned. “I’m getting lazy. Shouldn’t have stayed here so long. Mrs. Gunn’s kitchen is much too comfortable.”

“We might call it the Five o’clock Club,” Carla said gaily. The warmth in the kitchen had set her eyes and lips smiling; her face was flushed, and she looked a full ten years younger.

“She’s nice without glasses, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Gunn. “Now, if she’ll just eat a bit more she’s going to be winning one of these beauty competitions when she goes back to the city.”

That, Mrs. Peel decided, as she looked at the delighted Carla, was a slight exaggeration, but it obviously did no harm.

“Miss T-bone 1948,” Carla said, and then bit her lip, wondering if she had insulted anyone.

But Chuck was grinning. To his mind, the description was apt. Ned half smiled. Then, by contrast, he thought of Drene. He stopped smiling, stared at the table, and threw Carla into a panic of remorse. She looked nervously at the dark young man with the unhappy dark eyes, quiet, unsmiling now. She couldn’t tell whether it had been her silly joke that had hurt him. Then he looked up, saw her watching him, and gave her a reassuring smile. But it was still unhappy. Mrs. Peel had noticed it too, for she began quickly to talk about the eagle she had seen this afternoon.

Ned had his own thoughts, as he sat gravely listening. Where was Drene now? She was free every afternoon from two until five, and even if he tried to get all the jobs around the ranch, little did he see of her. Out with that store dummy again, showing him the trails from his automobile. Sure, it couldn’t last...she’d be back, riding in the evenings, listening with a smile, walking around, she’d be back. Sure. But it was hell while it lasted. Don’t know if I care for her to be back, Ned thought, with hurt pride, not a girl who ditches me so damned quick. Less than a day here, and she ditches, me. Don’t know if I care. He rose suddenly. “Time to get back to the corral,” he said. He didn’t want to see her coming in with the patent-leather-hair guy driving up the road as if he owned it.

“See you at the party!” Carla called after Ned.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Chuck said to Ma Gunn, and lifted another piece of cake as he followed Ned out of the door. “Sure get tired of my own cooking.”

Carla said to Mrs. Peel, “You’re invited too; everyone is.”

“Just singing and dancing,” Mrs. Gunn explained. “The boys thought they’d like a bit of fun tonight. Miss Bassinbrook has been coaxing them to have a party in the barn. She found out that Ned plays the guitar. And Robb gives a good recitation too. Writes some of the poetry himself.”

“Songs about sleeping on the wide prairie?” Carla asked, too delightedly.

“You’ll all have to perform,” Mrs. Gunn said as an answer. It’s only fair if you get a laugh at them that they get a laugh at you.”

Carla looked guilty. “But
what
could we do? I can’t do anything, really.”

“Nor I,” O’Farlan said hastily.

“Oh, you’ll manage something,” Mrs. Peel said. “After all, there are talents in the East too.”

Carla looked as if the idea of the party wasn’t quite so amusing now.

“It will be fun, I’m sure,” Mrs. Peel reassured her. “Oh, dear—” She choked on a mouthful of coffee.

“Burned your mouth?” Mrs. Gunn asked sympathetically.

“The lecture. Mr. Atherton Jones’s lecture. It’s tonight.”

There was a short silence. Mrs. Gunn opened the oven to inspect a large roast and baste it.

“Too bad,” O’Farlan said, with a sudden smile. He rose. “I’d better get some work done before dinner if I’m going to a party tonight. Thanks for the coffee.”

Carla laughed. “I bet we aren’t the only truants,” she said delightedly. “I think I’ll go up to the corral now and see Jackson.”

“Jackson drove Miss Bly into Sweetwater this afternoon,” Mrs. Peel said. The car was being troublesome again, and Sally had had a worrying journey by herself yesterday. The road was a difficult one, all curves and twists as it descended to the plains. Jackson had insisted on driving today, much to Mrs. Peel’s relief.

“Oh...” Carla said. “Well, I’ll go up to the corral, anyway.”

“All roads lead to the corral, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Peel said, as she watched Carla’s wrinkled red trousers follow the path to the ranch. “I hope my guests aren’t being a nuisance to Mr. Brent.”

“No,” Mrs. Gunn said thoughtfully, “but—”

“But what?”

“Oh, it all evens out,” Mrs. Gunn said, and began peeling potatoes to roast in the gravy of the meat. “Jim feels the corral has given you some trouble too. Ned telling me that Drene was a good worker!”

“Poor Ned.” Mrs. Peel looked as if she were to blame somehow.

“Have a nice piece of cake. It was baked today.”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Peel said virtuously. She looked down at her blue jeans to encourage her to resist. I just made it, she thought, just. Now all she had to worry about was to get Jackson for half an hour to herself, to show her the easy way to climb on a horse. There must be an easy way. Everyone wanted to find it: that was the reason so many visits were being made to the corral.

“Don’t people out West ever use mounting-blocks?” she asked Mrs. Gunn.

“Never heard of them.”

“But the horses are so big... My stirrup is practically at chin-level.”

“Pick a hillside,” Mrs. Gunn suggested practically. “Plenty of
them
around here.”

“I’ve tried that. Then I find, somehow, that I’ve got Golden Boy on the upside and I’m downhill, and he looks round at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I should learn to mount from the right-hand side too, and solve all problems.”

“Don’t try that,
ever,”
Mrs. Gunn warned. “When he’s the wrong way round just move him. Put your shoulder against his forequarters and shove.”

“He weighs eleven hundred pounds, and I’m down to one hundred and thirty-two,” Mrs. Peel said gloomily. “What I need is spring-heeled boots. Or a rope-ladder—one tied to the saddle-horn, to be let down when necessary.”

“Maybe you’ll pick up a tip or two at the rodeo,” Mrs. Gunn said, and counted the potatoes. Not many of the guests would eat them, and that made her work easier, but she shook her head over their lack of appreciation of good food. What use was gravy without potatoes? Well, by September she would be cooking for the boys again, and she’d have plenty of potatoes to peel. Poor Chuck, getting tired of his own cooking. And the boys? They’d be glad when September came around. These guests had complicated a lot of lives, and they didn’t even know it. Poor Ned, for instance. And poor Miss Bly, running in and out of Sweetwater with lists of this and that to get for them— couldn’t they remember all they needed, once a week, and give her some time to enjoy herself? And Mrs. Peel—all she got was just to be plain worn out.

“If I was you,” she said to Mrs. Peel, who was at that moment reflecting on Golden Boy and his little ways (except when he decided it was high time to go home, he really was a most amiable horse), “if I was you, I’d stop worrying about them. Let them drop things all over the place, and let them do the picking-up or live in a pigsty, whichever they prefer. I’d let Drene go, and save
that
much money—goodness knows it’s all costing you plenty, and who’s going to pay for the laundry? The first lot went out today, shirts and everything, special two days’ service that Milt Jerks offers at double rates, and I bet they’ll come back charged to you. And all that liquor they drink at night. They don’t
think,
that’s all. They give Miss Bly lists of things they find they need, and never calculate the trouble or gasoline or wear and tear on the car with each trip down that road to Sweetwater. They don’t
think
!”

Mrs. Peel was still with Golden Boy. She wakened up to the last sentence. “They do,” she protested. “Really it is amazing how much they can think. Whenever we come to a patch of flowers I can see Golden Boy weighing up the situation. What kind this time? How long will I get away with it? Two minutes? And if I urge him on he breaks into a canter just to discipline me. You know what I’ve discovered? Horses don’t only think, they’ve got a sense of humour. Why, the way he looks round at me if I choose a very steep path, as much as to say, ‘Are you sure you mean this? You’ll be sorry!’”

Mrs. Gunn said nothing. It did her heart good to hear Mrs. Peel laughing, even at herself partly. You couldn’t blame her for paying so much attention to the horse: he was nicer to her than most of the human beings around here. Miss Bly was kept so busy with the shopping in Sweetwater through the day, and riding with Jim in the evenings. And the others were busy too, pestering the boys when they weren’t arguing among themselves.

“He’s a fine horse,” Mrs. Gunn said at last. “And you look fine riding him.”

“Do I?” Mrs. Peel was so pleased that Mrs. Gunn refrained from finishing her remarks, which were about to be, “if you don’t look so nervous.”

Mrs. Peel pushed aside her coffee-cup. “That was just what I needed, Mrs. Gunn. Now I must go and change the flowers in the living-room. They are wilting, and Mr. Atherton Jones would hate to look at faded flowers in between his paragraphs. Oh, but, of course, there won’t be a lecture this evening... Or will there?” She looked in dismay at the dough now being rolled out on the marble-topped table where Mrs. Gunn’s perfections were made.

“Blueberry-pie tonight. That will put him in a good humour.”

“Oh, dear...” Mrs. Peel’s worries flooded back, and she remembered all the things she had meant to ask when she had first come into the kitchen. “Mrs. Gunn, what shall we do about Drene?”

“I’d tell her to go. She’s little use to us. Just a waste of money.”

“But Ned?”

“He’d understand. Besides, he’s got his troubles with her too.” “If only Mr. Schmetterling would leave!”

“That wouldn’t improve her work. Carries a duster around as if it would bite her.”

Mrs. Peel considered that. She said slowly, “You know, I don’t like to discharge her. A month is not a very long time, anyway, to have her around. And she really
is
so decorative. Silent, of course. Does she ever speak?”

“I don’t mind that. Norah talks too much.” Mrs. Gunn had been hurt.

“Norah’s a bright girl, Mrs. Gunn. She’s in her third year at college, isn’t she?”

“Going to work on a newspaper some day,” Mrs. Gunn said, with justifiable pride. “And, even if I say so, she’s a pretty girl. Not Drene’s style, of course. Thank heaven for that.”

“But Drene isn’t a bad girl... I mean, she attracts men; but you can’t blame her for that, Mrs. Gunn. Now, can you?”

Mrs. Gunn pursed her lips. “She doesn’t try to hinder the attraction. She’s going to do some trick riding at the rodeo.” Mrs. Gunn sniffed openly.

“Then I couldn’t discharge her—not now,” said Mrs. Peel, in relief.

“Why not?”

“Well, the rodeo probably means a lot to her. It would be a blow if she were to miss it because we had sent her home.”

“You sort of like her?” Mrs. Gunn was scandalised. “Why, she’s only good for posing her eyelashes against a sunset.”

Mrs. Peel began to laugh. “True,” she said. “But consider the lilies of the field...”

Mrs. Gunn folded the dough, refolded it, and then rolled it out for the fifth time into a smooth thin circle. “Just like Mary choosing the better part... Sometimes I wonder why any of the rest of us went and chose the other.” Mrs. Gunn slapped the dough angrily into a large pie-dish.

“It isn’t so easy,” Mrs. Peel agreed hastily. “Oh, if only Mr. Schmetterling would leave, that would solve everything, I’m sure. I’ll speak to Drene about the cleaning. She always listens so charmingly, as if she wanted to understand. And if she doesn’t improve, Mrs. Gunn, then we’ll ask her to leave.”

“If that isn’t too late. Poor Ned, I mean. His mind isn’t on his work these last few days. Hasn’t practised any calf-roping, either. Fine showing he’ll make at the Sweetwater rodeo. And he’s missing other rodeos. He should have entered for two this week. He will never get enough points to qualify for Madison Square Garden.” She shook her head gloomily.

Mrs. Peel had never imagined anything like this. “I shall talk to Drene,” she said. “And please believe me that we really appreciate the work you do, Mrs. Gunn.”

“Ah, well,” Mrs. Gunn said, mollified, “the back is made for the burden.” And she shrugged her strong shoulders and smiled.

“Ned...” Mrs. Peel said reflectively. “Is he the only one who has found our guests—well—troublesome?”

Mrs. Gunn was intent on placing the pie in the oven. Then, as Mrs. Peel waited for an answer, she turned round. “No,” she said frankly. “There has been a bit of bother with Mr. Koffing.”

“Oh?”

“The boys thought he was kind of funny at first, but he’s just getting to be a plain nuisance. Keeps telling them they ought to have a forty-hour week.”

“Oh!”

“And he wants to see the land divided fairly among the workers, so that everyone can have their right share. He thinks a lot of a new system being tried in some countries in Europe, where the farmers get twelve acres each. ‘But this is America,’ Bert says, meaning the grazing is probably different here. Mr. Koffing picks him up wrong. ‘All right, then. This is America. Everything bigger and better. Double that twelve-acre estimate. Does that suit you?’ Chuck says, ‘Twenty-four acres for me?’ Mr. Koffing nods his head, serious as can be. ‘There’s plenty of land and too few people on it,’ he says.”

Mrs. Peel was speechless.

“He says all ranchers are making fortunes, while
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people in the cities can’t get meat unless they pay a dollar and twenty cents a pound.”