The Four Graces (7 page)

“I mean,” continued Tilly, floundering in a morass of silence. “I mean this isn't a very nice room, it's rather dark—it faces north, too—but it's the only room we've got for you, so if you don't like it—”

“No, no, you mustn't worry,” said Aunt Rona, finding her voice and speaking in the most friendly manner imaginable. “Of course I
quite
understand, Matilda. It doesn't matter in the least. I'm sure I shall be most comfortable here.”

It was fortunate that Joan appeared at this moment, carrying the pigskin suitcase. She dumped it down on the floor and stood back, breathing heavily (perhaps a trifle more heavily than was actually necessary, thought Sal, looking at her in some alarm).

“Oh, thank you,” said Aunt Rona in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite different from her normal manner of speaking. “Thank you. If you will just move it a little…No, over here…or perhaps I could have it on the ottoman…and please undo the straps.”

“This is Joan,” said Sal, trying to make things easier.

Aunt Rona took no notice; she had moved over to the dressing table and was using her lipstick with a practiced hand.

“Is there anything else, Miss Sal?” inquired Joan.

“No, thank you, Joan,” said Sal.

“Oh, wait a moment, please,” said Aunt Rona, still speaking in that extraordinary voice. “I will give you my hot water bottles. I have two. I should like one put in now and the other at nine o'clock. Fill them with hot—but not boiling—water, please.”

Sal knew that she would not sleep so she took
Emma
to bed with her, hoping that the well-known story would soothe her troubled spirit and dissipate her worried thoughts, but it was no use at all; the worries kept flooding in and she found herself reading whole pages without taking in the sense. She put down the book in despair and allowed her thoughts full rein. What a frightful day it had been! Aunt Rona had arrived only this morning, yet it felt like a month at least. I shouldn't have let her stay, thought Sal, but how could I help it? I couldn't turn her away from the door, could I? All the same, thought Sal, if I had known what she was like, I believe I could have tried…

Sal thought of the day in detail. Lunch first. Liz had not come home to lunch, for they were busy at the farm, and William had taken sandwiches with him, so he was not home, either. Four of them sat down to lunch, a very small party, and Aunt Rona had talked the whole time, with Father answering politely. Sal had done her best but she was not good at small talk—none of the Graces was—and Tilly had been absolutely dumb. Aunt Rona had rested in the afternoon, to recuperate after her journey, and had come down to eat (in the drawing room, of course) with renewed vitality brimming over with conversation. Roderick had come over from Ganthorne on his motorbike, then Liz had arrived—and William—and to each one, Aunt Rona's presence had to be explained, and each one had seemed less pleased to make her acquaintance. Fortunately (or was it unfortunately?) Aunt Rona seemed oblivious of the fact that her presence was resented. She had chatted brightly, leaving no gaps at all in the conversation, and everyone had sat around eating and drinking and saying “yes” or “no.” She must think we're awful, thought Sal. Perhaps we
are
awful. Perhaps if we tried to love her…but how could you love a person who bored you to death, a person who made interesting conversation impossible by talking banalities all the time? Liz had been the first to lose patience. She rose and said, “I'll feed the hens for you, Sal.” And Sal, who had been looking forward to feeding the hens herself and so escaping from the room, had been obliged to thank Liz for undertaking the task. “Ah, hens!” said Aunt Rona. “One of the little daily tasks! And I daresay Captain Herd will go on with you and help you to carry the heavy pails.” “Er—oh, yes, of course,” said Roderick.

Liz and Roderick! Well, Sal had known before, hadn't she? She hadn't needed Aunt Rona's arch look as the two left the room together to tell her what she had known before.

Then after supper Aunt Rona had gotten hold of Father (who had been out all the afternoon visiting his parishioners and wanted—as Sal well knew—to be left in peace to read his book), and the two of them had walked up and down the terrace together, Aunt Rona talking interminably in her penetrating voice. Sal had made up her mind that Father must be protected from Aunt Rona, and yet, the very first day of her visit, Aunt Rona had gotten him like this, had carried him off beneath Sal's very nose…and Sal could do nothing about it, nothing at all except watch them from the window and worry and fret. I'm no use, thought Sal. I'm no match for her—none of us is. She can do what she likes with us.

The following day was wet; Tilly took the key of the side door of the church and went off to play the organ. The churchyard was dismal, the grass sodden, the tombstones black and dripping. Water poured off the roof of the church, gurgled down the pipes, and splashed into the gratings. Tilly opened the side door and went up the short flight of steps to the organ. She did not start practicing at once but took her seat and leaned back against the grille. It was quiet and peaceful here. There was no peace at home. Presently she would begin to practice the voluntary that she intended to play next Sunday—it was Handel's “Water Music”—but for the moment she only wanted silence.

Suddenly she heard steps on the little stair and William's head appeared. He hesitated there and looked at her. “I followed you,” he said.

“Why did you?” asked Tilly crossly.

“Do you and Sal want me to move?”

“Move?”

“From my bedroom,” explained William. “Mrs. Mapleton asked me to change with her, and of course I can—easily—it would be no bother at all.”

“If you move, I shall never speak to you again,” cried Tilly hysterically.

William seemed undaunted by the threat. He said, “That's all I wanted to know. It seems rather unchivalrous but my shoulders are fairly broad.” He gave a deep chuckle and turned to descend the stairs.

“Don't go,” said Tilly imperiously.

“I thought you didn't feel like talking,” said William.

“I didn't, but now I do,” she replied.

William sat down on the top step and waited patiently.

“Everything is horrible,” said Tilly at last. “Everyone is upset—Father, Liz, Sal, everyone. It isn't
all
Aunt Rona's fault, either.”

“Most of it is, but not all,” agreed William.

“You notice things, don't you?” said Tilly, looking at him curiously.

“I'm learning,” said William, with a sigh.

“You aren't happy, either.”

“Not very,” agreed William.

There was a little silence.

“I expect things will come right,” said William at last.

“I don't,” declared Tilly. “I think everything is going wronger and wronger every day—every hour, really. I don't want Liz to marry Roderick.”

“You can't do anything to stop it.”

“And what's the matter with Sal?” continued Tilly in an unsteady voice. “Sal is always so—so dependable, so peaceful and—and understanding—but now—”

“Sal is very worried,” said William.

“I'm a beast,” said Tilly miserably. “I
feel
all beastly inside…as if there was a devil inside me. It's because I hate Aunt Rona, that's what it is. I hate everything about her…the way she talks to Joan…it makes me feel quite sick to hear her talk to Joan.”

“I don't suppose Sal likes it either,” said William thoughtfully.

“You think I'm a beast, don't you?”

“I think you could—help—more,” said William cautiously.

***

Sal and Joan were in the kitchen, making jam. It was a good employment for such a wet morning, and a very companionable sort of employment. Sal heard all the gossip of the village. She heard that Cynthia Bouse (from the Whistling Man) was walking out with Jim Feather, and his father wasn't half mad about it, neither: and she heard that young Mrs. Foley was “having another,” the third in two years, and she heard that Mrs. Toop had fallen out with Miss Bodkin, and they were not on speaking terms.

There never was such a fiery-tempered woman as Mrs. Toop, thought Sal, with a sigh. Practically all the trouble in the village could be traced back to Mrs. Toop; she had a perfect genius for saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment, and in the wrong way…and little Mr. Toop was such a kindly, sociable man.

“It was at Elsie Trod's,” said Joan, with relish. “Maria Toop was there, and in comes Miss Bodkin. They were 'aving a cup of tea and Elsie was giving a drop to 'ar baby. ‘You didn't ought to do that,' says Miss Bodkin. ‘Tea's bad for 'is stummick.' With that Maria goes off the deep end and says, ‘What do
you
know about babies, any'ow?' And that was 'ow it began.”

“Miss Bodkin was right,” said Sal. “I'll stir for a bit, shall I?”

“If you don't mind,” agreed Joan, surrendering the wooden spoon. “It's pretty 'ot 'anging over the fire for long. That's 'ow it
began
,” continued Joan. “It went on for hours—so Elsie says—she says they'd both forgotten 'ow it began before they got to the end of calling each other names.”

Sal nodded. She could well believe it.

“The new people at The Beeches 'ave moved in,” continued Joan. “Lovely furniture they've got. It's Empire, Mrs. Feather says. She's doing a bit of cleaning till they find a cook. Fancing getting furniture all the way from New Zealand, Miss Sal!”

“From New Zealand?” asked Sal in surprise.

“Empire,” explained Joan. “New Zealand would be Empire.”

“It means French Empire,” said Sal.

“French Empire! Well, Mrs. Feather didn't know
that
.”

Sal smiled. It was obvious that Mrs. Feather's ignorance would soon be remedied.

“Mrs. Feather says they're queer sort of people,” continued Joan. “They don't 'old with church, Mrs. Feather says, and they're always 'aving rows together.”

This was getting a bit too gossipy so Sal changed the subject. “How is your father?” she asked.

“Better,” said Joan. “You let me stir, Miss Sal, your face is like a beetroot. You can get out the pots if you like; they'll warm nicely on the cool part of the stove.”

“I'm glad he's better,” said Sal, counting out the pots. “Does the doctor think he'll be able to get up soon?”

“Sunday,” replied Joan. “It's a great 'elp to m' mother, me getting 'ome early. She said I was to thank you, Miss Sal. That Mrs. Mapleton thinks I get out too much.”

“Oh, I don't think so!”

“She said to me this morning, you've got a very good place 'ere, 'aven't you? That's what she said.”

“Well,” began Sal.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Joan. “I know I'm well off compared to some, but she didn't mean it like that. It wasn't so much what she said as 'ow she said it. She meant it spiteful.”

“Hasn't it boiled long enough?” inquired Sal, knowing quite well it hadn't.

“Five minutes more,” replied Joan, glancing at the clock. “Oh, Miss Sal, I almost forgot. Did you 'ear about the Fate?”

“The Fate?” asked Sal.

“Sports and that,” said Joan. “It's going to be at Chevis Place. Mr. Feather told me when he brought the letters this morning. Tea and ices and Aunt Sallies, and all that—a proper first-rate Fate.”

“No!” exclaimed Sal. This was news indeed.

“Yes.” Joan nodded. “Quite soon, too. I was just wondering 'ow I could freshen up my best dress a bit. P'r'aps I could get a new collar or something.”

There was a little silence, filled with the bubbling of the jam. Sal was reflecting philosophically upon values, upon the shifting values of material things. The value of a possession depends upon whether or not you really need it, thought Sal. If a woman has six pairs of stockings, the value of one pair is not very high, but if she has only two pairs, the value of one pair is far more than three times as much. This was too muddling for Sal so she abandoned that line of thought and came down to brass tacks. A frock hanging in your wardrobe (a frock you wore only very occasionally) was not really of very much value to you, but if you gave it to Joan and Joan could wear it at the fete and enjoy it…and it really would suit her, thought Sal, looking at Joan and envisaging her attired in it.

Joan was even more enchanted with the offer than Sal had expected.

It was still raining in the afternoon. Sal had hoped Aunt Rona would retire to bed but, instead, she seated herself in the drawing room and indicated that she wished Sal to keep her company.

“We can do some mending,” said Aunt Rona. “I expect you have quite a lot of mending to do.”

For a moment Sal thought Aunt Rona intended to help her with her task and was about to accept gratefully, but even as the words formed themselves upon her lips, Aunt Rona produced a silk stocking from her work basket and surveyed it with a worried frown.

“So annoying,” said Aunt Rona. “One can't get silk stockings in England, and of course I can't wear anything else. I have them sent over from America—it's the only way.”

She took out a little hook and began to pick up the stitches of a ladder, one by one.

Sal's basket of household mending was bulging with garments requiring attention. She always intended to keep the mending down but it piled up too quickly. The linen was old and needed constant patching and Father was terribly hard on socks.

“You see,” said Aunt Rona, displaying her work. “You see, it scarcely shows. Of course it takes a long time to do, but it's worth the trouble. If you do a thing at all, you should do it with all your might,” added Aunt Rona complacently.

“Yes. It's very neat,” said Sal. She chose a piece of gray wool and began to fill in an enormous hole in the heel of Father's sock.

A few moments later Tilly came in and sat down. “Shall I put a patch in this towel?” she inquired, holding up the article in question.

Sal looked at her in amazement. It was not Tilly's job to help with the mending. She did other things, of course, knitting, or ironing or anything else that needed to be done; mending was Tilly's pet aversion.

“Shall I?” repeated Tilly. “It needs a patch, doesn't it? I can take a bit off this old towel to patch it with.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, thank you,” said Sal gratefully.

There was silence. Tilly tried to think of something to say, something bright and cheerful, or amusing, but she couldn't think of anything at all. How queer it was! She and Sal and Liz could talk all day without stopping, but now, with Aunt Rona sitting there, her mind was an absolute blank. It seemed odd that Aunt Rona wasn't talking—but perhaps Aunt Rona felt the same, or perhaps Aunt Rona thought it was not worth while making conversation for girls. Yes, that must be the reason, thought Tilly, glancing in Sal's direction. Was Sal trying to think of something to say? Sal's head was bent over the sock. She was darning as if her life depended upon it.

I must say
something
, thought Tilly, so she opened her mouth and said, “I wish it would stop raining.”

“The farmers need rain,” said Sal.

There was another silence.

“You must find it dull here, Aunt Rona,” said Tilly.

“Not at all,” replied Aunt Rona brightly. “As a matter of fact, I'm very fond of the country. Of course one would have to run up to town occasionally.”

Tilly pondered these words, and the more she pondered them, the more ominous they seemed: “One would have to run up to town occasionally.” That meant—well, obviously that meant…if one lived here…always. Tilly glanced at Sal to see if she had heard and, hearing, understood the implication, but Sal was darning assiduously.

The silence that followed Aunt Rona's statement became unbearable. Tilly wanted to scream. She was just wondering what would happen if she screamed when the back door bell rang.

“That's the back door,” said Sal, rising.

“Doesn't Joan answer the bell?” inquired Aunt Rona.

“Joan's out,” replied Sal.

“Again!” exclaimed Aunt Rona.

Sal was glad to escape. It was a bit mean to leave Tilly there alone, especially when Tilly had been so decent, but Sal
had
to escape. If she hadn't been able to escape, something appalling might have happened. Sal could not have borne it another minute. She ran through the kitchen and opened the back door and found Mrs. Element on the step; a wet bedraggled figure in a very long, brown waterproof and a shapeless felt hat. Mrs. Element was thin and angular with large feet that flapped as she walked; her face was pale and freckled; her forehead was bumpy; her hair had been sandy, it was now faded to the color of old hay, but these misfortunes were redeemed by a pair of really beautiful brown eyes, clear as crystal and full of human kindness.

“Oh, Mrs. Element!” cried Sal in dismay. “Oh goodness, how wet you are! Your rheumatism—”

“I won't come in,” said Mrs. Element. “It'll muss up your floor.”

“Of course you must come in! Let me take your coat. I'll get you a cup of tea in half no time.”

“It's reel good of you, Miss Sal,” said Mrs. Element, coming in with a show of reluctance, though of course she had intended to come in all the time and would have been surprised beyond measure if she had not been offered tea.

“I knew Joan was out,” continued Mrs. Element, taking off her felt hat and placing it on the draining board of the sink. “So I just thought I'd come up and see you. It's about Bertie. Bertie Pike—
you
know. I've 'ad 'im all the war.”

“I know,” nodded Sal. “You've been most awfully good to him.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Element. “Yes, that's right. Jim and me, not 'aving children of our own (through no fault of ours, Miss Sal, though there's people who throw it in our faces), we took a fancy to the little chap. Just like our own 'e is.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, Miss Sal, 'is mother's wrote to Jim saying as 'ow the bombs are over and she wants 'im back. That's the
position
, Miss Sal,” added Mrs. Element, obviously pleased with the word.

“Oh, Mrs. Element!”

“That's the
position
,” repeated Mrs. Element. “Bertie don't want to go back and we don't want 'im to go back. There it is.”

There it was. Mrs. Element was sitting back in the chair with her hands folded, waiting confidently for the verdict, quite certain it would be a favorable verdict, too. What was Sal to say? Solomon had ordered the child to be cut in half, thought Sal distractedly.

“I'm afraid,” began Sal. “I'm afraid his mother has a legal right—”

“Oh, Miss Sal!” cried Mrs. Element reproachfully. “Oh, Miss Sal, 'ow
can
you! We've 'ad 'im four years come October—and
you
know what 'e was like when we got 'im. Thin and miserable and 'alf starved—neglected, that's what 'e was—nobody 'adn't bothered their 'eads about the pore lamb, nobody 'adn't even taught 'im to be good. What sort of a mother is that, Miss Sal?”

Sal was silent. She agreed with Mrs. Element wholeheartedly.

“You'd 'ardly believe it,” continued Mrs. Element. “You'd 'ardly believe it, but when Bertie came to us 'e didn't even know about Jesus. ‘Oo's Jesus?' 'e said to me. You'd 'ardly believe it, but it's true. You ask Jim. Seven years old, 'e was, and knew nothing more than a black 'eathen…and now,” continued Mrs. Element earnestly. “Look at 'im now, Miss Sal; as nice a little chap as anyone would want to see, a reel little gentleman and clever as paint. Doing well at school and winning prizes for arithmetic…Look at 'im now, Miss Sal!”

Sal knew it was all true—all and more—the Elements had made a splendid job of Bertie.

“I thought you might write to Mrs. Pike,” said Mrs. Element, after a short silence.

“She wouldn't take any notice of what I said.”

“You could tell 'er the
position
,” declared Mrs. Element. “You could put it nicer than Jim and me. It was Jim's ideer really. Ask Miss Sal, 'e said. You go up and ask Miss Sal, she'll put it right. You will, won't you, miss?”

“I'll try,” said Sal reluctantly. “I'll write to her if you want me to, but I'm afraid if his mother wants him, he'll have to go back.”

“You write,” said Mrs. Element, smiling for the first time. “It'll be all right if you tell 'er. Jim said so. Jim said, ‘It'll be all right if Miss Sal writes 'er a letter. Remember that beautiful letter Miss Sal wrote when Mother died?' A beautiful letter it was,” said Mrs. Element reminiscently. “Jim and me 'ad gone to Bristol for the funeral, and you wrote to us, Miss Sal. I 'adn't never got on very well with Jim's mother, but when I read that letter, I cried and cried—
beautiful
, it was.”

Sal was so full of conflicting emotions that she was speechless. She poured out a cup of tea for Mrs. Element and handed her the sugar bowl.

“Not for me, thank you,” said Mrs. Element. “It ain't right to take people's sugar. If you 'appen to 'ave a sack-reen 'andy I'll 'ave one. Useful stuff, ain't it? I don't know 'ow I'd get on without sack-reen. I use it for rhubarb—sweetens it lovely—makes a nice tart, rhubarb does, if you can spare the fat.”

Sal agreed. She was glad to change the subject—cooking was always a nice safe subject and practically inexhaustible. She sat down and poured out a cup of tea for herself and they proceeded to exchange recipes. But Mrs. Element had not forgotten and as she was going away, with Sal's pet recipe for a ginger sponge tucked into her handbag, she paused on the step and said, “Oh, it's stopped raining, that's nice. You'll write and tell 'er the
position
, won't you, Miss Sal?”

When Sal returned to the drawing room, Aunt Rona had vanished and Tilly was sitting alone on the sofa staring in front of her in a dejected sort of way.

“Where
have
you been!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were never coming back…I was rude to her, Sal.”

“You weren't!” cried Sal incredulously.

“I was—really—about Joan. She's such a pig about Joan, isn't she? And I just couldn't stand it any longer. I was definitely rude,” declared Tilly emphatically.

“How did she take it?” inquired Sal.

“That was the queer thing. She didn't seem to notice. Do you think she's very stupid?”

Sal sat down beside Tilly on the sofa so that they could talk in whispers. (Odd that one should have to talk in whispers in one's own drawing room; odd, but necessary, for Aunt Rona had a way of appearing suddenly and silently when one least expected her.)

“Do you think she's stupid?” repeated Tilly.

“No,” said Sal. “No, she's rather clever in her own way. Stupid in some ways, perhaps…”

“You never know what she's thinking,” complained Tilly.

It was true, of course, and to Sal's mind this was the most unbearable trait in Aunt Rona's personality. You never knew what she was thinking. Her eyes were opaque, and unchanging, they gave no clue to her thoughts; her tongue, instead of revealing her thoughts, obscured them still further. Her armor had no chinks—or none that Sal could find—and you could not offend her for she never took offense. She was always bright and pleasant and often smiling, but her smile was not a proper smile for it never reached her eyes.

“She's made us all horrid,” said Tilly miserably.

“There's frightfully dangerous poison in her,” said Sal.

They were silent for a few minutes, their heads close together, and Tilly began to feel comforted, for she and Sal were in tune again (it was wretched to be out of tune with Sal). Sal understood about it now, she understood that Tilly was sorry for being “difficult” and the blame had been laid upon Aunt Rona and her poisonous influence; so
that
was all right.

“Sal,” said Tilly in a threadlike whisper. “Have you noticed Aunt Rona talks as if she intended to stay here—always?”

“Yes,” said Sal.

“It couldn't be—I mean do you think she has designs on—on Father?”

“Yes,” said Sal.

“You've noticed it!” exclaimed Tilly in dismay. “I was just hoping it was imagination!”

“No,” said Sal. “No, it isn't imagination. That's why I try to—to keep track of her. Father is terrified of her, I'm certain of it.”

“What are we to do?” cried Tilly. “What
are
we to do? If she has made up her mind to marry him, he hasn't a chance!”

“I don't know about
that
,” said Sal thoughtfully.

They were silent again.

“Perhaps William could do something about it,” said Tilly at last.

“William!”

“Yes, William is rather—deep. I don't mean deep in a horrid way, of course, but he sees a good deal more than you would think.”

“I don't believe William could help much.”

“I shall talk to him anyhow,” declared Tilly.