The ground floor of the house consisted of what Mary believed was called, in contemporary houses, the living space. Finding her way around the half walls from one area to another always made her feel as though she was wandering around a maze, but with no hope of finding any core of privacy when she got to the end. Yet this maze was fun, and so were the queer reptilian plants that sprang from scarlet pots to claw one wall of the living area, and the large painting that hung against the other. She had not the faintest notion what the picture represented but it was splashed with red and orange and emerald green and was bright and gay. There was a staircase with airy treads and no visible means of support, and a central chimney of roughhewn stone that soared up through the house like a tree trunk. The furniture was reduced to a minimum and as curiously shaped as the reptilian plants, and there was a good deal of space and brilliant light. Close to her, on top of a bookcase, a hamster was curled up fast asleep in a wooden cage with stairs, a sight as astonishing as though a Beatrix Potter picture had appeared in the midst of a modern action painting. The house was striking as well as fun but it was an astonishing apparition to appear in Appleshaw, and she wondered what Jean would have thought of it. She could also understand Edith’s passion for the little things.
“Did you design it?” she asked Roger.
“I did,” he said with pride. “If you’re building a house in a village like Appleshaw, then build it of your own period, right up to the minute, and don’t try to ape old places like The Laurels and Orchard Cottage. To my mind there’s a sort of dishonesty about it. Cowardice too. One should have the courage of one’s own convictions in one’s own generation and not cower back into the past. Do you like Jo’s picture? ‘Sunset in the New Forest.’ ”
So Joanna was a painter, not a games mistress, and had probably never been near Roedean. It is good for me, thought Mary, to have come to this country backwater. It is possible that I shall learn more about the modern generation here than I could have done in London. How very odd. “The country,” she said to Roger, “isolates things. Even modernity. I believe I shall come to appreciate this house better in Appleshaw than I would have done if you had built it at Wimbledon.”
“You don’t appreciate it yet?” he asked with twinkling eyes.
“I don’t think it’s a very good setting for the hamster,” she replied lightly, and then, half to herself, “nor perhaps for Edith.”
She had thought of Joanna as being in the kitchen making the tea, and had forgotten that the kitchen area was separated from her only by a low wall of silvery wood crowned by a row of pots containing the kind of ferns that like steam. She was suddenly aware of Joanna looking at her through the green ferns. Her brown eyes were troubled and they stayed troubled after she had carried the tray around the ferns and they were drinking their tea.
“You’ve seen Edith?” Roger asked Mary.
“We met last Sunday morning in my garden. No, don’t protest, and don’t tell Edith not to come into the garden. I want her there. And the others too. I told you before, I like children.”
“Mummy, I want a drink!”
The imperious cry of a small boy sounded from upstairs and Joanna said, “You go, Roger. Did Mr. Hepplewhite send them anything?”
“Toffees and Lindt chocolate,” said Roger, and Mary noticed that his pockets were bulging. “Hepplewhite is an odd man, Miss Lindsay. I suspect him of being devoid of the usual human affections yet he always sends gifts to the children.”
He went away up the airy stairs two at a time and Joanna turned instantly to Mary.
“I love children so much,” she said breathlessly. I imagined that because I’d had two myself I knew all there was to know about them. I didn’t realize how blessedly ordinary my own two are. I didn’t realize how ordinary I am. And Roger. I imagined that because we are artists we are unordinary, intuitive and so on. But of course it doesn’t follow at all. It’s the kind of picture you paint, or the kind of book you write, that makes you unordinary, not just writing a book or painting a picture. Don’t you think so?”
Mary had discovered during the evening that Joanna was inclined to lose herself in abstract discussion and she brought the conversation gently back to what she imagined it was supposed to be about, Joanna’s failure with her adopted child. “How old was Edith when you adopted her?” she asked.
“Five. Her mother was a school friend of mine. We were at Malvern together. Anne and Rupert were killed in a motor smash. There were no near relatives to take Edith and so we did. She took our name. We were awfully fond of the little scrap and we thought it would be the best thing for her. But it’s not worked out right and I don’t know why.”
She was near tears and Mary said, “It will work out right, for what else could you do? The inevitable thing is always in the end right. Why was she called Edith?”
“It was Rupert’s mother’s name. He was devoted to his mother and she died a little while before Edith was born.”
“What was Rupert’s work?”
“He was on the stage. Charming and queer and brilliant, Edith’s like him.”
“Brilliant?”
“No. That’s the queer thing. The children go to a good day school. Roger takes them on his way to work. Next year we want Rose and Edith to go to boarding school together but Edith is doing so badly she’ll never make the grade. She doesn’t get on well with the other children either and she keeps being sick. The doctor can’t find any reason, but he’s worried and he suggested I keep her at home for the rest of this term and teach her myself. But I can’t teach and she doesn’t respond to me at all. She’s such a funny shut-up little thing. Forgive me for pouring this out to you, the very first time you come to see us, but I felt suddenly that it would help to tell you.”
“Would you like me to teach her?” asked Mary. “I taught when I was young. I’m old-fashioned now but I have teaching friends who will send me the right books and help me to get up to date. I’d do it for my own pleasure because I like teaching and I love children. Would you like me to try?”
She was instantly filled with dismay. Whatever was she doing? Soon Rose would need coaching in a few subjects and then Jeremy would feel left out. Before she knew where she was, she would be running an old-fashioned dame school. And she had come here to seek solitude and retirement. She had spoken without premeditation, on one of those impulses that come behind you like a wave and lift you off your feet before you know where you are.
Joanna’s face went an even brighter pink and tears came into her eyes. “Would you really do it? It would be marvelous for Edith if you would. But how can we let you do such a thing? May I talk to Roger about it?”
“Yes of course. Don’t be in a hurry to make up your minds. Just remember that I’d love to do it if you’d like me to.”
“You would understand Edith,” said Joanna. “I don’t. I’m so hopelessly ordinary.”
“So am I. Perhaps I shan’t get on with her any better than you do.”
“You will. Paul Randall does. He’s good with children. It’s a shame he has none. They couldn’t afford a child. Valerie says it’s broken her heart to have no baby.”
Mary looked at Joanna, but saw no sign in the charming pink face of the dryness of tone she thought she had detected in the voice: nothing to reinforce her own conviction that when people said their hearts were broken they were really entirely indifferent. She said, “May the children come and have tea with me? I’d like Edith to get accustomed to me and the house. Sunday?”
“Yes,” said Joanna. “Thank you very much. I wish there was something we could do for you.”
“I want a cottage tabby cat,” said Mary. “And I want it rather quickly to prevent Mrs. Hepplewhite persuading me into a white poodle.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Joanna. “Mrs. Croft’s Susan is expecting. I’ll see Mrs. Croft at once.”
Roger came back and they talked of the difficulty of circumnavigating Mrs. Hepplewhite’s kindness until Mary rose to go. She wal
ked slowly back toward The Laurels, her thoughts flying ahead of her. This flight of the thoughts, like homing pigeons, was a new experience. The house came into view, low and solid, its thick walls and steep roof and air of having settled down deeply into the earth making it look eternally strong. The white chimney stack in the center of the roof towered like a unicorn’s horn, a magical thing. She had not seen her home before from this angle and she was as excited as though she were an explorer finding a new land.
She went indoors to the parlor and sat for a little while thinking of Mrs. Hepplewhite and her adoration of an indifferent husband, of Edith, and of Paul deprived of children. Living here is like being with the concentration camp people again, she thought, and then was horrified by the idiocy of what she was thinking. That had been fearful and degrading suffering, this was just a few people gathered together in one place with their normal human problems. It was because that had been the most worthwhile period of her life, and so was this, that the two communities had come together in her mind. She stretched out her hand for the diary and sat for a while holding it. But she did not read that night. It was late and she was tired. Presently she put it away and went upstairs to bed.
Chapter VII
1
THERE’S no need to take Martha,” said Joanna.
“We are taking Martha,” said Rose. The hamster was already in her arms and she shut her mouth firmly upon the statement.
“Very well,” said Joanna. “But you must take Martha’s traveling basket with you and then if Miss Lindsay doesn’t like Martha she can go in her basket.”
“There’s no need to take the basket,” said Edith.
Jeremy, when united with his sisters against authority, was silent but stood like Napoleon with his hands behind his back.
“Good-bye darlings,” said Joanna hastily. “Be good.”
They smiled at her kindly, dismissed her from their thoughts and ran to the gate. In a moment they were out of sight but she could hear their voices excited as those of chattering starlings. She stood upon her doorstep once more digesting the knowledge that she could not manage her children. Miss Lindsay, she believed, would be more successful. How did these tall, poised women who could command obedience with the lifting of an eyebrow get the way they were? Was it something they ate? But would even these Olympic ones be able to manage their own children if they had any? Joanna doubted it and went back into the house in a more cheerful frame of mind.
The three walked down the lane slowly, savoring the great occasion. They were going inside The Laurels, the house that for years had lain brooding beside their garden like some fabulous golden beast with many eyes and a towering horn sticking out of his forehead like a unicorn. At least that was how Rose thought of the house. It was not impossible to go inside a beast; Jonah had, but it was an unusual thing to do and she had no idea at all what it would be like inside. That was what made the visit so exciting and was why Martha had to come too. She did not like to enjoy things unless Martha could enjoy them also.
Jeremy felt differently about the house. For him it was not a beast but a sailing ship, and the boy in the pond was the boy who kept the lighthouse. From the trusty ship Mulberry he looked across the green rolling sea to the golden galleon, fo’c’sle windows blinking in the sunlight and the mainmast towering up into the sky, and his longing to be the captain of that ship was only a little less consuming than his longing for food. The Mulberry was a nice old thing but it was not his own, he had to share it with the girls. That other ship would be his own once he could board it. No one, not even his mother, knew about his passion for the sea and ships. There had been a day some while ago when the children had gone to have tea at the manor. Rose and Edith had been out in the garden with Mrs. Hepplewhite, and Mr. Hepplewhite and Jeremy had been in the library. Mr. Hepplewhite had taken him on his knee and shown him pictures of sailing ships, for which he had so fiery a love that Jeremy had caught alight too. From that day onward the garden of The Laurels had been for him no longer a garden but the sea.
Edith, more imaginative than the other two, was less imaginative about the house because for her it had a subordinate value, it was a jewel case lined with dark velvet that held the little things. But she had always been fascinated by the door in the wall and she was longing to walk up the steps and ring the bell and watch the door open. “This is one of the special days,” she said. The others nodded but they did not know what she had seen this morning. She had awakened at dawn to find the full moon still shining and the owls calling, but right up in the dark yet shining sky a lark had been singing. Night and day had been perfectly balanced, greeting each other. She had known then it would be a special day in Appleshaw, the most unlikely people greeting they knew not what and not knowing they’d done it.
The children were now facing the green door and Rose spoke first. “I’ll ring the bell,” she said. “No, I will,” said Edith. Jeremy said nothing because for him there was no door. The bottom step, upon which he stood, was the pinnace that had brought him alongside. It rocked gently beneath his feet. Presently, from far up, the rope ladder would descend. Edith seized the bellpull quickly and fiercely and pulled it out to its farthest limit. Rose, hampered by Martha, was not able to stop her. She kicked her briefly, and then smiled, for she was not a child to bear malice. The bell, which had now been repaired by Bert Baker, operated smoothly and could be heard ringing far away in the beast’s stomach, the ship’s hold, the velvet depths of quietness. “Don’t come too soon!” Edith called voicelessly to Mary. She need not have done so, for Mary understood these things. She came to the door with measured and mysterious tread, opened it slowly but wide and stood smiling down upon the little group on the steps.
Edith was looking remote and Mary knew instinctively that she must give no sign of recognition. Ignoring Edith she smiled at the two rosy faces and the grave furry countenance looking up at her with such profound consideration that she felt her smile becoming unsteady. Then the sandy freckled boy began to smile too. The right-hand corner of his mouth gave an upward quirk, his button nose wrinkled up and his eyes screwed shut while entrancing creases folded themselves across his fat cheeks. Then the creases smoothed themselves out, the gray eyes flew open and were full of light. Mary saw with pleasure the tousled head, the suit of crumpled green linen stretched rather tightly over the aldermanic front, the scarred knees and scuffed brown sandals. Joanna, she realized, was not a mother who tormented her children with too much tidiness. “It’s Jeremy,” she said. He nodded, accepting and recognizing her, as she had recognized him, as someone without whom he would be the poorer.
And Rose? Being older, her intuition was not so acute and she was not quite sure yet. She was lovely in her faded cotton frock, her warm brown eyes looking gravely into Mary’s. Then her pink face began to glow and a quick smile came and went leaving a dimple in her right cheek. “Rose,” said Mary. Rose nodded briefly and said, looking downward, “This is Martha.”
Mary bent to the hamster, which was now sitting on the top step. It sat up on its hind legs, its front paws folded demurely across its breast like an old lady’s tippet. It had a grave benevolent dignity.
“And Edith,” said Rose, continuing her introduction. Edith’s face was pale and still but her eyes were dancing. She and Mary shook hands with formality and then the children and Martha followed Mary through the tunnel of wistaria into the hall, where now wallflowers glowed in the silver tankard on the bamboo table. Mary was aware of stillness and a sigh behind her and she felt an intruder in her own hall, too large and too old. She wished she could turn into a spider and scurry up to a dark corner of the ceiling and hide there. But all she could do was go into the kitchen without looking at them, saying as she went, “Tea is in here. Come and join me when you feel like it.” They did not join her for a full ten minutes. Where were they?
Rose was in the beast’s magical stomach and it was velvety dark just as she had thought it would be. And the beast was moving, slowly stretching him
self, yawning, tossing back his head with the tall white horn. He had only been waiting for her to come to him to go somewhere. Presently he would trot, then canter, then gallop, then leap for the sky, taking her with him. She had a moment of delicious panic and shut her eyes, clasping Martha to her.
Jeremy found the darkness of the hold entirely satisfying. Ahead of him worn stairs sloped away into the shadows. At the top of them was the quarter-deck where he would presently pace up and down with his telescope under his arm. He was moving toward them when he was arrested by the smell of toasting buns, and paused, his nose twitching. The delicious aroma was drifting from a half-open door under an archway at the top of two stone steps. Instantly he forgot about the quarter-deck and ran up the steps and through the door, and Rose followed him.
Edith was left gazing at the wallflowers in the silver tankard, which only she had noticed. It was a few minutes before she followed the others into the kitchen.
“We are having tea in here,” said Mary, “because my dining room is all upside down.”
They had never had tea in a real kitchen before, only in the work area, and they were thrilled by the space and the dresser and the big old table piled with good things to eat, savory things such as they loved, twiglets and paste sandwiches and sausages on sticks. The only sweet things were the buns that Mary was toasting on the Rayburn, but they liked sweet things if they were toasted. The tea was a great success and appetites large, Martha imbibing milk from a saucer and sitting up on her haunches and holding twiglets in her paws in a most enchanting manner. When no one could eat any more Mary showed them the house; the mossy parlor where the little things had been removed from their place in the window, the dining room and spare rooms left by Bert Baker as fascinating scenes of devastation, and her own room filled with light. She let them go where they would for as long as they would, for she saw that all three were playing private games inside their heads. Or at least Rose and Jeremy were. She was not sure about Edith, who whispered something about singing.