The Four Graces (5 page)

Mr. Grace was hoeing the front drive when his daughter arrived back from Wandlebury with William Single in tow. “This is delightful,” declared Mr. Grace, shaking his guest's hand. “This really is a most delightful surprise. You met Sal in the village, I suppose.”

“In Wandlebury,” said Sal. “We bicycled back—ride and tie—but Mr. Single wouldn't play fair so I did most of the riding. I expect he could do with a drink. Will you get him one, Father.”

“Of course, of course,” cried Mr. Grace, throwing down his hoe and taking his guest by the arm. “Come into my study and I'll get you a glass of lemonade or something.”

“Beer,” said Sal firmly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mr. Grace. “Come along, my dear fellow…”

Having made certain of her protégé's comfort, Sal hurried away to find Tilly and see about domestic affairs. She found Tilly in the dining room, told her the news, rearranged the table, and laid an extra place.

Tilly disliked being fussed. “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “Couldn't the man let us know? I meant to give the spare room a thorough cleaning.”

“He won't notice,” declared Sal. “We'll make the bed—it always looks better when the bed is made—and Joan can give it a dust over.”

They hastened upstairs to the front spare room, a large pleasant room looking out onto the garden.

“It's fusty,” said Tilly, wrinkling her nose. “It smells unaired. Why can't people stick to their plans? Did you meet him in Wandlebury or what?”

Sal threw open the window. “In Wandlebury,” she said.

“How did he know you?”

“He didn't know me.”

“Just picked you up?”

“First he knocked me down and then he picked me up,” said Sal gravely.

“He knocked you down!” cried Tilly, in horror-stricken tones.

“And then,” said Sal, continuing her story, “and then he walked straight through the fish queue and bought me a piece of salmon; three pounds of salmon if I'm any judge of weight.”

“Three pounds of salmon!” exclaimed Tilly, aghast.

“Darling, do help,” said Sal reproachfully. “We'll never get the bed made if you stand there with your mouth open. Tuck in the sheet.”

Tilly tucked it in obediently. She said, “Why are you giving him these twill sheets? The hemstitched ones are ever so much nicer.”

“He would tear them to ribbons,” said Sal firmly.

Tilly's eyes were almost popping out of her head, but she could not demand an explanation, for Joan had appeared with a duster and had begun to dust the dressing table.

“Where is his suitcase?” asked Tilly, as she spread the counterpane.

“I don't think he has one,” said Sal, wrinkling her brows and trying to think back. “He may have left it in the fishmonger's, of course, but I can't remember seeing a suitcase.”

“'E's big, isn't 'e?” said Joan, pausing to shake her duster out of the window. “I saw 'im coming up the garden with the master. 'E's as big as m' uncle, very nearly. These big fellows eat a lot,” added Joan, with a little sigh.

“About his suitcase,” said Tilly anxiously. “Oughtn't we to find out—”

“Perhaps he hasn't one,” said Sal. “His pockets are very large, so I expect he's got a toothbrush in one of them. He's got a doll.”

“A doll!” cried Tilly.

“For us,” explained Sal. “If you and Liz don't want it, I'd like it immensely. It's a very nice doll.”

***

William Single was certainly outsize, thought Tilly, as she shook hands with him in her father's study. He made the large, well-proportioned room look quite small, but unlike Joan's uncle (that legendary figure who was also of gigantic stature), William Single did not eat very much. In fact, he seemed uninterested in food. During the first part of lunch the conversation was entirely concerned with Roman Britain and was so technical and erudite and so full of references to various authorities upon the subject that Tilly and Sal ceased to listen and exchanged remarks in an undertone about the fish pie Sal was proposing to make. Then Liz arrived—in her working clothes, of course—and with her arrival the atmosphere changed. The talk became general, or perhaps it would be more exact to say that the Graces talked more and their guest less. After lunch Mr. Grace was about to lead the way to his study but William Single demurred.

“I should like to help,” he said, looking at the girls, who had begun to clear the table. He took a plate in each hand and hesitated.

Liz was making for the door with a piled-up tray of dishes. “Come on,” she said. “You can open the doors for me. I'll show you the way.”

Mr. Grace followed the little procession to the scullery. He was anxious to rescue his guest and enjoy some more conversation. He wanted to show him an old book he had picked up at the library in Wandlebury. “You need not bother about this, Single,” said Mr. Grace. “The girls will finish it in half no time.”

“I like to help,” replied Mr. Single, taking up a wet plate and drying it with meticulous care. “I'm very slow, of course, but I daresay I shall improve.”

“Of course you will,” declared Liz, smiling at him dazzlingly.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Single, and with that the plate slid out of his hands and crashed onto the stone floor, where it disintegrated.

“Oh!” exclaimed Liz in horrified tones. She might have said more, for it was a valuable plate, belonging to the best dinner service, but Mr. Grace intervened.

“‘Mistress of herself though China fall,'” said Mr. Grace, laughing.

It was a command—or at least an exhortation—and Liz recognized it as such. She drew a deep breath and assured Mr. Single that it did not matter.

“Matter!” cried Mr. Single in agonized tones. “Of course it matters. It's dreadful! It's the most appalling catastrophe! I can't think how it happened. It just slid—”

“It was slippery,” said Liz.

“No, not really. It was already dry…” He was kneeling at her feet now, gathering up the pieces and trying vainly to fit them together, lamenting over them.

“Don't worry,” said Liz. “Really and truly it doesn't matter.” And this time she meant it, for only a very hardhearted person could have gone on being angry in the face of such abject remorse.

None of the girls had looked forward with pleasure to Mr. Single's visit, Tilly least of all. She was conservative by nature and enjoyed the company of her family. A man in the house would change everything; he would make more work, they wouldn't be able to talk properly, they couldn't have tea in the schoolroom. But somehow or other William Single did not disturb the balance at all and nobody suggested that they should alter their habits on his account. That very first afternoon Sal set tea as usual in the familiar place—quite without thinking—and here they were. It was odd how well he fitted in, thought Tilly, looking at him. He was sitting near the window in a very large, old-fashioned chair with a straight back and projecting ears. Sometimes he looked out of the window and you could see his profile, which was strong and blunt, like the profile of a lion, and sometimes he turned his head and looked at you squarely. He was benevolent, thought Tilly—rather pleased with herself for finding the exact word—yes, he was benevolent. Already she had discovered that there was no need to talk to him. He did not want that; nor did he want to talk. But although he rarely contributed to the conversation, he was sympathetic and his presence was by no means cramping to one's style.

The schoolroom was full of sunshine. Sal had made the tea. Liz came in from her work and flung herself into her usual chair with her usual careless abandon.

“It's full of hay,” she said, sweeping her hair back from her forehead with both hands.

“A cap is the answer,” said Sal, pouring out tea as she spoke.

“Or a poke bonnet,” suggested Tilly.

“I'm tired,” said Liz. “Why is it that when you're tired you see things differently—more distinctly, I mean?”

“Like fasting,” said Tilly nodding. “Colors and smells, too.”

“Fasting weakens the body and strengthens the spirit,” said Sal. “There's jam today. It's the last pot so go easy with it.”

“It isn't spirit,” declared Liz, helping herself to jam. “That isn't what I mean. It's—something else. You see things differently when you're tired. I'm no better; in fact, I'm worse when I'm tired and hungry—it makes me cross and irritable—but I see things in a brighter sort of light and with more meaning to them. That teapot, for instance,” added Liz as Sal moved the teapot and the sunshine caught it in a dazzling ray.

“It always means things to me,” said Sal, stroking it affectionately.

“Everything means something to me,” declared Tilly, looking around. “Nothing is just itself in a person's mind, because it gets all mixed up with memories…and of course the same object means something quite different to different people…even a frying pan.”

“What do you see when you look at a frying pan?” wondered Sal.

“Not consciously,” objected Tilly. “But it
is
connected with all sorts of different things that have happened, and you remember them subconsciously when you look at a frying pan and that makes you see it differently.”

“I just smell bacon,” said Liz.

“A frying pan isn't a good example,” declared Sal. “But I know what Tilly means. For instance, when I'm lying in bed in a dark room and the door opens slowly and a slice of light appears on the wall, it takes me straight back to being a child and having measles.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Tilly. “Father coming in with a night-light to see how we were! Oh, yes, I
am
a child again!”

“All spotty,” added Liz,
sotto
voce
.

“You might be, if you had enough imagination,” said Sal thoughtfully.

“Stigmata?” wondered Tilly, stirring her tea.

One would think this sort of conversation was liable to bamboozle an antiquarian, used to the measured logic of his kind, but William Single seemed perfectly at ease. Obviously this was not because he was the same sort of person as the Graces. He was totally different. He was like a person from a foreign country—from a different planet—who found the inhabitants of the Vicarage utterly incomprehensible, strange in habit, language, and mentality. He sat and listened to their conversation and drank his tea. Presently he asked if he might smoke his pipe and was immediately granted permission. Sitting and smoking and listening—occasionally smiling sympathetically—William Single seemed completely happy in his own quiet way.

The talk flowed on until it was interrupted by the noise of a powerful motor bicycle coming into the yard.

“Who on earth is that?” asked Tilly indignantly.

Liz was already hanging out of the side window with her long legs waving in the air, for it had been discovered, long ago, that by performing this somewhat dangerous acrobatic feat, one could get a glimpse of the yard.

“It's that man,” said Liz, a trifle breathlessly. “The one who came to lunch when we had Pedro.”

“Oh,
him
!” said Tilly, with more emphasis than grammar.

“I expect he's come back for the umbrella,” said Sal. She half rose as she spoke and then sat down again.

“Shall I go?” asked Mr. Single. “Shall I ask him to come upstairs?”

“I suppose we shall have to give him tea,” said Tilly inhospitably.

Mr. Single was away for some time and presently returned with Roderick Herd. Roderick was a living example of the matter that had been under discussion before his arrival, for each of the Graces thought about him in a different way. Tilly thought of him principally as the man who had stared so hard in church, and the rose window was mixed up with him, too. Liz obviously thought of him as fellow devourer of Pedro. Sal's idea of him was much more complicated.

Roderick looked small beside Mr. Single; you could hardly hope to find two men more different in appearance, manner, and personality. A St. Bernard dog and a terrier was the nearest comparison Tilly could find…and as a matter of fact Roderick was much more like a terrier than an eagle. Could you have brown terriers, wondered Tilly, as she shook hands with him. He sat down and accepted a cup of tea and explained at some length that he happened to be coming in this direction and remembered that he had forgotten the umbrella. William Single had not disturbed the atmosphere of the room, but this man did. There was a sort of electricity in him, thought Tilly.

Liz was talking to the man, chatting gaily about her work on the farm. Sal was saying nothing. Mr. Single was looking out of the window. I don't like the man, thought Tilly. She was, in fact, a little frightened of him.

The site William Single had come to examine was on the shoulder of a hill not far from Chevis Place. It was downland country in that direction, high grassy hills, rolling southward toward the sea. Mr. Single had obtained permission from Archie Chevis-Cobbe to do whatever he liked on the site. Nobody would interfere with him except perhaps the sheep. In normal times William Single would have brought a team of trained excavators to help him, but this was impossible in wartime. He did not intend to dig seriously, but merely to measure and take notes for future use. Even for this job it would have been easier to have some help, but he had decided to do the job alone. It was better to work alone than have inexperienced men muddling around; as a matter of fact, William Single enjoyed being alone, and as this was really his holiday, he need not feel he was wasting time, either his own time or other people's.

He explained all this to Archie Cobbe who had walked up to meet him on the site. The two men stood on the hill together, smoking their pipes and talking. They were both big, but William Single was the bigger. His clothes were loose and clumsy, which made him look even more gigantic than he actually was.

“It doesn't look much of a place,” said Archie Chevis-Cobbe, surveying the tumbled heaps of stones in some surprise. “I've often been up here before, of course, but I never took much notice of the stones. Are you sure it's the site of a Roman Camp?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Single simply.

“Well, you ought to know,” said its owner. “Do what you like. Sure you wouldn't like the loan of a man to dig?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Single. “It's very kind of you, but I shouldn't dream of allowing you to lend me a man.”

“Isn't it Emerson who says, ‘A man of thought should not dig ditches'?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Single again. He smiled and added, “But I don't intend to dig ditches. I shall make a trench here and there, just to confirm my measurements. I'm perfectly capable of that.”

“You look it, I must say. Well…good luck. I hope you'll find—er—whatever it is you're looking for. Pottery, I suppose?”

“No,” said Mr. Single. “Not anything like that.” He hesitated and looked at his companion. Did Chevis-Cobbe want an explanation? Was he interested? No, obviously not, for he was holding out his hand to say good-bye. “Good-bye. And thank you again, very much indeed,” said Mr. Single politely.

William Single was alone now, and, as has been said before, he enjoyed being alone. He relighted his pipe, which had gone out during his conversation with Chevis-Cobbe, and sat down on the close-cropped turf. Soon he would begin his work; he would drive in his pegs and take his measurements, but there was no hurry. He had the whole summer vacation before him. He sat in his favorite position, leaning forward, his great shoulders hunched, his hands between his raised knees, and as he sat there he looked around and noticed various details of the site. It was an extremely commanding site, with a view that embraced several valleys, yet it was sheltered from the east. There was a stream not far away—William Single was pretty sure he would discover a lead from the stream to the camp. He nodded to himself. All he saw was confirming his opinion that this particular camp was an important one—not just a station upon the military road. He allowed his thoughts to drift; he began to absorb the atmosphere of the place. It was quiet and peaceful now; the place belonged to the sheep, to the rabbits and the birds, but it had not been always thus. It had been the scene of martial force…it had been peopled with Roman soldiers…the hillside had echoed to their shouts, to the rattle of their armor and the tramp of their feet…

William Single was hundreds of years away in time when he heard the rumble of iron-shod wheels upon the stony track. This did not surprise him, nor did it draw him back to the present year of grace (for, of course, the Roman garrison had chariots at their beck and call), but when he raised his eyes, half-expecting to see a chariot descending the hill, he saw instead a farm cart, piled with marigolds, driven by a young woman with curly, golden hair.

“Liz!” exclaimed Mr. Single, leaping two thousand years or thereabouts in a second of time.

“Yes, it's me,” said Liz, smiling down at him. “I suppose you thought it was a Roman girl or something.”

“Er—not exactly,” he replied, rising and holding out his hand to help her down.

“You were dreaming about the Romans, weren't you?”

“Er—yes. Roman legionaries. There were not many Roman girls in this part of the world.”

“And they didn't drive chariots, I suppose?”

“No,” said William Single.

“Dull for them,” said Liz, putting her hand in his and leaping to the ground. “Very dull for them. I suppose they did embroidery while their knights fought duels in the lists—or am I muddling it up with
Ivanhoe
?'

“I think you are,” said William Single gravely.

“Archie told me you were here,” said Liz, as she took a rope and tied up her horse. “I had to go up to the seven-acre field for marigolds, so I thought I'd come back this way and have lunch with you. Have you had lunch yet?”

“Lunch?” he said in surprise.

“Yes, lunch. You'll find some sandwiches in your pocket. Sal put them there this morning.”

He searched his pockets and found the little parcel. “How kind of her!” he said.

Liz was looking around. “You haven't started yet, or have you? Are you going to dig holes? Will there be gold coins buried here? I suppose they'll belong to you if you find them, won't they? How do you know where to look?”

“No—yes—no,” said William Single breathlessly.

Liz gave a little snort of laughter. “Oh, poor William!” she said. “It will take you some time to get used to the Graces, won't it? By the way, I suppose I can call you William as you've started calling me Liz?”

“It was a mistake,” said William hastily. “It was just—seeing you suddenly—it came out without thinking.”

“That's the best way,” Liz told him. “I mean it's much more natural that way than somebody you don't like at all saying, call me Maureen.”

William began to laugh.

“Yes, it
is
funny,” agreed Liz, smiling gently. “Call me Maureen, she says, and of course you simply can't, because you only think of her as Mrs. Snooks, so you avoid calling her anything at all or you address her as ‘Er—I say.'”

“‘She would answer to “Hie” or to any loud cry,'” said William, shaking and mopping his eyes.

“Oh,” cried Liz in delight. “Oh, of course…
The Hunting of the Snark
.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed William.

“‘His intimate friends called him Candle-Ends.' I shall call you Candle-Ends, William,” said Liz gravely.

“As long as—you don't call me—Toasted Cheese,” agreed William, gasping and shaking and rocking to and fro with uncontrollable mirth.

When William had recovered a little, they sat down together and ate their lunch, and Liz was surprised to find that William could talk quite reasonably. So far she had only heard him talking to her father about Roman Britain; he had been dumb in the company of herself and her sisters. He explained this by saying he was not used to the society of girls, nor had he ever had the opportunity to enjoy family life. He was an only child and had gone to school when he was eight years old, after which time his life had been spent at schools and colleges.

“Always with clever people!” exclaimed Liz, much impressed.

William was a little surprised at this point of view. “Clever in their own way, of course,” he said doubtfully. “But clever in their own way
only
. Somewhat circumscribed in their outlook and—”

“No wonder you think we're silly!” cried Liz, interrupting him.

“I don't,” declared William. “I don't think so at all. I'm tremendously interested. The fact is I had no idea…” He stopped. What he had intended to say suddenly seemed a little rude.

“You had no idea people like us existed,” said Liz, nodding understandingly.