Something Light (20 page)

So might the coxswain of a lifeboat feel, retired from service; or a fireman drawing his pension. It was wonderfully restful, but took getting used to.

Whenever the children appeared, their manners towards Louisa continued perfect. They expressed warm appreciation of everything she did for them. Paul and Toby came separately to thank her for darning their socks. Catherine exclaimed more than once how lovely it was not to find any chores waiting, when she came in from grooming and feeding Tomboy. Louisa, recalling how difficult this sort of thing is to adolescents, was both touched and heartened; but she recalled also the remarkable aptitude of adolescence for concealing its true sentiments.

Distasteful as it was to put herself in the position of her Aunt May, Louisa made the effort; and came to the conclusion that she really hadn't the slightest idea what the children truly thought of her.

—It didn't stop her looking ahead. Louisa devoted a considerable portion of her solitary hours to wondering what Catherine and Toby and Paul were going to call her after she was married to their father. “Mother” was out of the question—Louisa humbly, regretfully, set “mother” aside at once. The Victorian “mamma,” which she believed currently fashionable among such sophisticated son-in-law types as Henry Peel, was unsuited to their age group. The appellation “mummy,” on the lips of Catherine, would have made Louisa happy indeed—but hardly suited the lips of Paul and Toby. (The shorter version “mum” Louisa set aside as too common. She had traveled a long way already, from Paddington.) In the end, she mentally settled for the plain-spokenness of “stepmother.”

3

Fortunately for a peace of mind thus sufficiently precarious already, Louisa's apprehensions as to Miss Lindrum were scotched almost before they took shape.

Miss Lindrum was Catherine's riding mistress, from whose pony club stables had been purchased Tomboy; so at least a business relationship existed, with Mr. Clark, and Louisa couldn't help asking herself, nervously, whether there existed any other. (To have no rival at all, for such a potential husband, struck her as too good to believe.) True, Mr. Clark did no more than once or twice pronounce Miss Lindrum's name, and then always in connection with Cathy's riding; but since he pronounced no other female name whatever, apart from that of a history don engaged on his Mediaeval Europe series, Louisa was very glad to have her mind relieved.

“There's Cathy back from her ride,” said Mr. Clark, one evening just as he came in. “Shall we go and meet her?”

Of course Louisa accompanied him down the short gravel drive, to see Cathy pass the gate on her way round to Tomboy's stable; and Cathy wasn't alone. Beside her trotted Miss Lindrum on a stocky bay. It was a rather handsome animal, well up to weight; it had need to be—Miss Lindrum herself was well up to weight, as a pair of ill-advised white breeches emphasized. Nonetheless her bare, flaxen, Saxon head, and weather-ruddied cheeks, had a certain earthy attraction, and Louisa knew that some men liked big behinds.—She glanced swiftly at Mr. Clark. But obviously he had eyes only for his daughter. His greeting to Miss Lindrum was briefly courteous, no more. And Miss Lindrum merely waved her whip and trotted on …

Louisa still flew a slight kite, so to speak, watching Catherine rub down Tomboy in the stable. (Mr. Clark stayed only to see her unsaddle.)

“I dare say Miss Lindrum usually comes in for a drink?” suggested Louisa.

“What, our Lindy? Not on your life,” returned Catherine absently. “She's never been inside the house.”

Louisa hung about a bit, very willing to lend a hand if she could. But Catherine rubbed away with such fierce concentration, it was plain that any offer of assistance would only be resented.

Louisa didn't mind. She felt Catherine's fixation on horses entirely acceptable, so long as Catherine's father hadn't an eye for Catherine's riding mistress.

Louisa's nerves steadied. They were still daily over-stretched between enjoyment of the present and hopes for the future; but after this particular incident, they definitely steadied.

Which was just as well, considering what the very next evening held in store.

Chapter Twenty-One

1

Another instance of Mr. Clark's sympathy with youth was that Glenarvon possessed a television set. He himself disapproved the invention; as the telephone had killed the art of letter-writing, so television, according to Mr. Clark, would kill the art of conversation. (Louisa thoroughly enjoyed such pronouncements. She felt it was just the way a family man ought to talk.) But with a household of young people, acknowledged Mr. Clark—Louisa hanging on every word—to deny them the universal pablum would be like denying them bread and butter. Sometimes the family watched even
commercial
television, if there was a worthwhile program on some serious subject; thus on the Friday they all went down a coal mine, and though Paul for one came up again with a convinced prejudice in favor of oil, all agreed that it was a wonderfully interesting experience.

“But as for
this
rubbish—!” groaned Mr. Clark, as a first singing commercial replaced the fading pit-head. “Paul, or Toby, turn the thing off!”

“Can't we just see if it's the soap-bubbly one?” begged Catherine. “Miss Datchett, don't
you
like the soap-bubbly one?”

Louisa, her eye on Mr. Clark, hesitated. He gave back a whimsical, understanding smile. “Though neither of
us
care for this sort of thing,” that smile seemed to say, “I see you mean to side with Cathy!” He nodded; Louisa felt it a minor triumph …

Only what came next wasn't the soap-bubbly one, what came next was F. Pennon.

2

Old Freddy had evidently got himself up for the occasion. Though only his head and shoulders were on view, he was in dinner jacket. From its left lapel sprouted an outsize white carnation; his handkerchief was equally overdone—arranged to display two white peaks like the sails of a miniature schooner. Were his eyebrows powdered? In any case they added enormously to the general effect—as of Sealyham crossed with club man.

“And here,” announced a disembodied voice, “on forty seconds' private time, a speaker who prefers to remain anonymous. Let's just call him, shall we, a Man with a Message?”

“It's the first time I've ever seen
that,”
commented Paul interestedly. “I believe it costs the earth …”

Even Mr. Clark's attention was held. Louisa froze. What Freddy was doing with a Message she couldn't imagine—unless he was going to make an appeal on behalf of Distressed British Admirals? She could think of nothing else; but still, presciently, froze.

F. Pennon cleared his throat with easy deliberation. He might have been appearing on television every night of his life.

“There are times,” he opened largely, “when what a chap wants above all is to hear a voice from the past. What I mean ter say is, the sound of a voice that is silent, the touch of a hand that is still.”

“That's very true,” observed Mr. Clark, showing unexpected emotion.

“It's just going to be another Appeal,” sighed Catherine.

“And in a Welfare State—!” murmured Louisa censoriously.

But as his next words showed, Freddy's message was uncapitaled. It was simply and strictly a message—like a telegram.

“Not necessarily from the
far
past,” continued Freddy, “say just a couple of weeks ago. Still an' all it may mean much, let alone the Admiral mislaying his full-dress uniform. For though a chap may be right as rain—no doubts as to the future, no intention of skating out of his obligations—there are times when that voice from the past would fall like refreshin' Highland dew. All telephone charges to be reversed,” finished Freddy, “because I'm not here really, I'm back at Bournemouth. Good night!”

He faded like the Cheshire Cat. It was absurd to fancy that his eyebrows faded last; but that was the impression.

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed Mr. Clark.

It wasn't in the least extraordinary to Louisa. As soon as she'd had a moment to think she saw commercial television absolutely made for old Freddy. She saw him employing it, over the years to come, quite recklessly: to advertise for a cook, to relieve his mind on the subject of super-tax, or just to complain about the weather. It was probably the most rewarding use of money he'd yet encountered. He was probably rarin' to go again already—especially if that voice from the past didn't immediately respond …

Louisa's nerves had been steady enough to carry her through his first effort; but if his next, as it well might, began with a
Dammit Louisa, where are you?
she felt disinclined to trust them. She would almost certainly give herself away; and had a strong impression that Mr. Clark might consider the whole thing out of place.

As soon as she was alone next day Louisa telephoned Bournemouth (reversing charges).

3

“Hi,” called Louisa. “This is the voice from the past.”

“Did you see me on television? I thought you might,” said F. Pennon complacently. “How are you, Louisa?”

“Fine,” said Louisa.

“Well,
where
are you? I've been telephoning your flat, I've been telephoning that morgue at Broydon—”

“I'm staying with friends,” said Louisa. “How are things at Bournemouth?”

“Oh, we're all fine too,” said Freddy cheerfully. “You couldn't have been righter, Louisa, about Enid and the Admiral. Enid's all over him, and the difference it's made to me no one could believe. You don't happen to know what became of his full-dress uniform?”

“No,” said Louisa. “He'll have to hire one.—For heavens' sake, Freddy, you didn't go on television just to ask me
that?”

“Of course not,” said Freddy. “It slipped in. What we really want is to get you to the party. It was Colley's idea,” added Freddy loyally, “when I couldn't find you on the phone, to send out some sort of a signal.
I
thought of television, though.”

There was no doubt, reflected Louisa, that the Admiral and Freddy were as much made for each other as were Freddy and commercial television. What with the Admiral's ideas, and Freddy's money, she foresaw a thoroughly enjoyable future for the pair of them.

“Dear Freddy, I think you're both very sweet,” said Louisa fondly. “When is it, the party?”

“Tomorrow. That's what the hurry was about. Tomorrow at six, here. Of course you'll stay overnight—”

Just as though he could see her, Louisa shook her head. She was sorry. The beano at Broydon Court was still fresh in her mind; however vowed to domesticity, the idea of such another—and probably her last—had its appeal. If she could have nipped up to Town and back, to Gladstone Mansions, or Claridge's, the thing might have been feasible; but not an absence of two days, in the middle of her first week at Glenarvon …

“I'm sorry, I can't possibly,” said Louisa.

“I never knew such a gel for refusing,” complained F. Pennon. “First I ask you to marry me, then I ask you to come and live with me and Enid, now you won't even come to a party.—It isn't an
ordinary
party,” persuaded F. Pennon.

“I don't suppose any of yours are,” said Louisa.

“Actually, in a way, it's more Enid's.”

Louisa waited.

“She's invited a lot of nice friends.”

“From Poole?”

“That's right. She started out with just a couple, but it's quite remarkable how they've bred.—To tell you the truth, Louisa,” said old Freddy, coming clean at last, “it's an
engagement
party.”

Louisa understood. Right as rain though he might be—no intention of skating out of his obligations—an engagement party called for reinforcements. She did her best to encourage, if only by telephone.

“You'll have the Admiral,” pointed out Louisa.

“He
just keeps telling me what a lucky chap I am.
He
just wants you to come because he likes you,” argued Freddy, “whereas what
I
need is, well, moral support.—Don't think I'm squealing,” added Freddy bravely, “I'm not. No one's ever heard a whimper out of me. But it 'ud mean a lot, Louisa, to have you there, just to catch my eye from time to time, perhaps nip out for a spot of brandy—”

But however touched, and she was, Louisa had at last learned to put her own concerns first. Only a month before, so appealed to, she would probably have wrecked all her chances with Mr. Clark to rush to old Freddy's aid. But not now! Now, she wasn't even torn.

“I hate to say it, Freddy, but there's no question. I can't possibly be away a night. Not possibly.”

“If that's all—” began Freddy resourcefully.

“And it's no use saying you'll send me back by car—and getting me here at four in the morning.”

There was a slight pause. Then—

“Wait,” said Freddy. “Hold on.”

He was away a couple of minutes. Louisa (the charges reversed) quite agreeably employed the time in composing suitable messages to Enid and the Admiral. She felt sure of the Admiral's getting his; the one to Enid she composed on the off chance.

“Louisa?” called back Freddy.

“Still here,” said Louisa.

“Is there a decent-sized lawn where you are?”

“Fair,” said Louisa, surprised.

“The Admiral says we could charter a helicopter.”

Again Louisa reflected with pleasure, and now admiration, on the happy results of money allied to enterprise.—Not that old Freddy wasn't enterprising enough on his own hook, but undoubtedly the Admiral stimulated him; while for Admiral Colley how delightful to see his good ideas—each as wild as helpful—so immediately and unquestioningly translated into action! “In two shakes, they'll be
buying
themselves a helicopter,” thought Louisa …