I'll Never Marry! Read online

  Her eager response made his stiffness vanish in the most surprising way.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll ring Matron up myself and ask her if it’s O.K.,” he said, smiling down at Ruth, who had stolen up and was stroking the chestnut’s silky neck. “Meanwhile I’ll explain exactly where the little hay-field is to which I’m inviting them.” He pointed with his riding whip. “It’s the second field from here. You go straight through this grazing meadow where the heifers are, over the stile at the far corner, and there you are. They will be starting to cut it on Friday morning, if this weather holds.”

  She thanked him again, and with a friendly wave of his whip to her and the children, he rode off to rejoin Beryl Osworth who by this time was nearly out of sight.

  The children’s delight over the invitation was immense, and it was a race who could get home first to break the news to Matron. It was Maureen of the pale cheeks and haunted blue eyes who won, and there was little trace of tragedy on her small, heart-shaped face as she went flying up the drive. She had heard from other children of picnics in the hay, but ten years’ existence in a grim tenement, where the street, with its stale smells and foul litter, was the only playground, had given her no experience of such joys. She was almost beside herself with excitement.

  That Matron should refuse permission did not occur to any of the party, nor did she do so. She looked a little surprised certainly, but checking firmly Hilda’s sarcastic remark about Mr. Playdle’s “sudden interest in the Home” she declared that if he remembered to ring her up, she would gladly let all but the tinies go. That would bring the number up to just about the dozen children invited.

  Andrew Playdle did remember, and most keenly did everyone at the Home watch for the weather for the next two or three days. No one was more assiduous in this direction than Maureen; but on the Saturday morning, though the weather held, Maureen’s luck did not. She awoke with a toothache so violent as to proclaim an abscess, and an appointment had to be made for her that very afternoon with the dentist at Great Garsford.

  It was planned at first that Hilda, the only free member of the staff, should take the sufferer in by bus; but as the morning wore on, and the child began to look ill and feverish, it was decided to hire a taxi. This, however, was not to be. A Red Cross fete at a village a few miles away had resulted in the booking-up of every hired car in the neighborhood, and since absolute urgency could not be pleaded, it seemed that the bus journey would be necessary after all.

  And then Geoffrey Barbin, turning up at the ever-open back door, with a gift of strawberries for the children too young to go to the picnic, and hearing the sad story, made a suggestion. He was too busy to run the patient and her escort into Great Garsford himself, but he would be delighted to lend his two-seater, if anyone could drive it.

  “I can drive all right, but my licence expired months ago,” Hilda said, frowning. “And Matron’s expecting an important visitor. What about you, Catherine?”

  Catherine hesitated, but only for a second. “My licence is up to date,” she returned, “and if you really think Maureen ought to be taken in by car, rather than by bus, I’ll gladly run her in.”

  “I certainly do.” Hilda’s tone was incisive. “The buses are always packed on a Saturday afternoon, and what with this fete, they’ll be worse than ever. The child has just begun to pick up her health since she came here; she was perpetually ailing, at first. I don’t want her ill again.”

  Geoffrey nodded agreement. “Queuing up for buses, and watching them sail by, full up, is a very poor idea—when, as in this case, there’s an alternative. If you’ll tell me the time you want to leave, I’ll get.one of the boys to bring the car round, all ready to start.” And he called over his shoulder regretfully, as he went off: “Sorry I can’t do more than that. But you know what it’s like in the soft fruit season. We’re up to the eyes.”

  “I shall have to leave the picnic party to you, Hilda,” Catherine said with forced cheerfulness—for, childish as it seemed, she was most grievously disappointed at the thought of missing the visit to Andrew’s farm; of seeing him gradually yielding to the spell of these happy, excited youngsters, and forgetting that he had ever disliked children.

  “Oh, I’ll put up with it.” Hilda sounded resigned. “I must find Matron, and get her sanction; and meanwhile perhaps you’ll pop up to Maureen with this hot bread-and-milk. She’ll have to miss her dinner, even if she feels like eating, as she’s having gas. But if she can get this down, it may act like a poultice on that swollen jaw of hers.”

  Determined that Maureen should have no inkling of her keen disappointment Catherine went upstairs with the steaming bowl, and found the child curled up on her bed, under an eiderdown.

  “Now, darling, try to take some of this,” she said quietly, “Miss Dewney has made it specially for you.”

  Maureen struggled, and tried valiantly to eat the bread-and-milk. But after a few spoonfuls, the tears began to run, down her cheeks, and she shook her head distressfully.

  “Is the pain so very bad, pet?” Catherine’s voice was very soft.

  “No, it’s a little better,” the child stammered, fighting back the tears. “But I did so want to go with you and the others to play in the hay. I—I suppose I looked too much forward.”

  Catherine smiled, and smoothed back the rumpled black hair from the little girl’s hot forehead. “Suppose I let you into a secret,” she said, as she put aside the bowl. “I’m not going to the picnic, either. Mr. Barbin is lending us his car, and you and I are going to drive to Great Garsford in state. Maybe if you feel like it we’ll be able to have tea in that new cafe afterwards—the one where the band is.”

  It was as well she had removed the half-full basin of bread-and-milk, for Maureen’s reaction bordered on the violent. She flung her arms round Catherine’s neckband kissed her, exclaiming, half in tears, half, in laughter: “Oh, you are a darling. I do love you so.”

  Catherine returned the child’s embrace, then gently disentangled herself. “Are you still sure you can’t eat any more of that bread-and-milk?” she demanded.

  “I’ll eat every bit,” was Maureen’s swift response—with the somewhat disconcerting addition: “even if it makes me as sick as sick.”

  Catherine felt very glad during the course of that afternoon that the task of taking Maureen in to the dentist had fallen to her. The child’s gratitude and touching trust in her made her conquer completely any regrets she might feel over Andrew. She was here to mother children who needed love and care, to help them through their difficulties, not to form friendships on her own account; and she knew that her presence gave Maureen just the reassurance she craved.

  Hilda, with the best intentions in the world, could not have succeeded so well with this ultrasensitive child. New to the Home, and having—as Catherine had by now discovered—suffered ill-treatment at the hands of a stepmother who sharply resented the very fact of her existence, she shrank into herself if addressed in the most ordinarily crisp tones. She was nervous, not only of Hilda, but of Matron; it was only from Catherine, with her low-pitched voice and slow movements, that she gained confidence and poise.

  “She is doing better at school already,” Matron had told Catherine one day, “and it’s largely due to you. Her poor little brain seemed paralyzed when she first came; she just couldn’t concentrate at all. But this term she really is beginning to take in and remember. All the teachers are remarking on it.” And on observing Catherine’s quick flush of pleasure, she had gone on quietly: “Don’t spoil her, but give her all the love you, can. You can do more at the moment than any of us to heal the bruises which stupidity and cruelty have inflicted on her mind.”

  The tooth-drawing ordeal, faced with white-faced courage, was soon over, and within a few minutes Maureen was announcing that she felt, not only “much better,” but “ever so hungry.”

  The dentist, who had children of his own, smiled down at her as he dried his hands after his vigorous ablutions.

/>   “She can have some hot milk and a sponge-cake,” he told Catherine cheerfully. “But I should pop her into bed when you get her home. A nice long rest, and she’ll wake up tomorrow feeling grand.”

  Much relieved at the ease with which the tiresome business had been got through, Catherine tucked Maureen’s hand through her arm and trotted her out to the car.

  “Are we really going to that grand new cafe?” Maureen demanded in awestruck tones. “One of the big girls at school was telling us about it. She says the waitresses wear rose-colored dresses, and bows of the same shade in their hair. Doesn’t it sound lovely?”

  They found the place without difficulty, but had hardly seated themselves at a small table when Catherine suddenly realized that she had left her handbag in the car and, with an injunction to Maureen to “stay put,” she hurried out to retrieve it.

  She had just rescued it, and was shutting the car door again, when a masculine voice caught her ear.

  “Hello, Miss Emberley, what luck meeting you. I was wondering how you were all getting on at Little Garsford.”

  Turning, Catherine saw Roland Alldyke, whose very existence she had by now almost forgotten, and his somewhat puckish smile was so friendly she could not but respond.

  “Haven’t you been there lately?” she asked.

  “Not since the fateful day of your arrival. I went back to London a day or two later—I’m in my father’s office, you know, and the old man gets frightfully peeved if I don’t show up pretty often—and I only came back to Brexham yesterday. A week end in the country doesn’t come amiss at this time of year, I can tell you.”

  “You’ve certainly struck good weather,” Catherine returned, beginning to move away.

  “Haven’t I! But, tell me; have you seen anything of the Playdles? I hear rumors that Beryl has been staying there quite a bit just lately—on and off.”

  “I’ve seen Mr. Playdle once to speak to, and the others only in the distance,” Catherine said briefly. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Alldyke. There’s a child waiting for me in here.”

  “You’re having tea here? I’m coming in, too, as it happens.”

  She gave him a sharp look, and he went on, smiling: “I’m afraid I can’t offer you hospitality on this occasion, as my aunt is expecting me back for tea. I’m deputed to buy a special sort of chocolate cake.” And then he added, holding the door open for her to pass through: “I’ll say ‘goodbye’ now. But perhaps some other time, when you’re on your own, we can have a meal together. I’m sure we should have lots to talk about.”

  She gave him a non-committal smile, feeling sure that this last remark meant nothing and, rejoining Maureen, put him right out of her mind.

  The children were not back from their picnic when she and Maureen reached the Home, but they came tumbling in soon after in the highest spirits, full of the marvellous time they had had. The most scrumptious tea imaginable had been provided: shortbread, and orange cake and almond slices; and simply masses of strawberries and cream.

  “Miss Playdle came and had tea with us,” Nicola piped up, her dark eyes shining, “and afterwards she helped us build houses in the hay. It was ever such fun.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Playdle put in an appearance?” For the life of her Catherine could not suppress the question.

  “He came for a little while, just at the beginning,” Ruth returned, “and I heard him ask Miss Dewney where you were. I thought she might have told him, but she didn’t. She just said you were busy, and couldn’t come.”

  And Winnie chimed in, rather thoughtfully: “I don’t think she likes him very much.”

  “Any more than she likes cows!” Ruth, making this cryptic remark, exploded with laughter, and to Catherine’s mystification all the other children in the room, with the exception of the dignified Winnie, were likewise seized with fits of mirth.

  Too busy getting the toddlers to bed, Catherine dismissed their giggles as proof of a somewhat too exciting afternoon, and left them to share the joke— whatever it was—among themselves. She had something else to think about but their silliness—the fact that Andrew had noticed her absence, and inquired about it.

  That thought was still in her mind when she at last got to bed herself, and she planned, sleepily, how the next time she met Andrew she would thank him heartily for giving the children such a splendid party, and explain how it was she had been obliged, at the last moment, to stay away.

  But on the following Monday, happening to be alone in the house but for Maureen, who had developed a slight cold, that young person came along with the awe-struck announcement that Mr. Playdle had called and had asked for “Miss Emberley.”

  Surprised, but glad to have such a good opportunity of expressing her gratitude, Catherine pulled off her apron—she had been in the middle of a big wash—and hurried along to Matron’s office where Maureen had very sensibly conducted him.

  But when she entered the room, the smile died on her lips, and every word of her nice little speech vanished out of her head.

  He stood on the hearth,-rug, his big figure dwarfing the little room; and the expression on his sunburned face as he met her eyes was thunderous.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She did not have to wait long for an explanation of his wrath. After a curt “Good morning,” he went on at once, fixing her with his blue, angry eyes: “Miss Emberley, this is really too bad. I asked you particularly to be sure that those children went to the hay-field by way of that grazing meadow. Instead they went by a roundabout route, trampling through a field of high grass just ready to be cut and—what is a far worse crime—forcing their way through a small gap in a hedge with such thoroughness that the hole is big enough now to let a herd of cows through.”

  Catherine went white with dismay. “This is news to me,” she began.

  “Well, I hope you’ll regard it as serious news,” he retorted. “Perhaps you don’t realize it, but mending hedges isn’t like darning socks: hedging is a slow, expensive and very intricate operation. And to have to have it done at this time of year, when every available pair of hands is needed for hay-making is simply maddening.”

  “I am most awfully sorry.” The sincerity in Catherine’s tone was unmistakable. But too annoyed to notice, or to care, he continued angrily: “Sheer, wanton damage, that’s what it is. They saw the gate was padlocked and smothered with barbed wire, and instead of taking the hint, and keeping out, they must needs break down the hedge.”

  “I couldn’t go with them myself.” Once again Catherine tried to get in a word.

  “Apparently not. I happened to see you in Great Garsford that particular afternoon. However, as you were the one invited—and the one who undertook to take the children the way I pointed out—I am afraid you cannot evade the responsibility.”

  She colored up at this. But understanding very well the just nature of his grievance, and prevented by loyalty to a colleague from explaining that Hilda had received the fullest instructions as to the route to be taken, she merely said steadily: “I can’t apologize enough for what has happened. The matter will have to be reported to Matron, of course, and the question of payment for the damage taken up with you.”

  For a moment he seemed taken aback by the quiet dignity with which she spoke. But almost at once he exclaimed impatiently: “I’ve not come here to get money out of anyone, but to give you my considered opinion of the way these children of yours are allowed to behave. What is more, considering that the last time I invited them over they left a gate open and let a dozen or so bullocks get into a field of young oats, you will understand that I definitely refuse to have them on my land any more, apart from the public footpaths.”

  “That’s news to me as well,” Catherine said, with an access of dismay.

  “Well, I told Miss Dewney at the time what I thought of her over that episode,” he declared. “And I can tell you this, that if I’d known there was any likelihood of her bringing the children across on Saturday, I should not have issu
ed my invitation.” He hesitated, continuing shortly: “I thought, mistakenly, I see, that they had a sensible girl here now who understood that farming is a serious business, not a frivolous pastime.”

  Her color deepened at this sharp and wholly unmerited reproof, but she met it in silence, and with a brusque “Good morning,” he went on his way.

  She returned to her wash tub with feelings of extreme indignation, though whether she was angrier with Andrew or with Hilda she could hardly have said. Strenuous rubbing and wringing proved potent, however, in working off the worst of her wrath, and when Hilda came in with the morning’s shopping she managed to refrain from broaching the subject to her. Much better, she decided, to postpone discussion until after dinner when they could talk in peace without the risk of saucepans catching or boiling over, or children bouncing in upon them.

  At last, when the bigger children were trudging back to school, and the smaller ones resting, and she and Hilda were sitting out by the back door enjoying their after-dinner cup of tea, she took the plunge and told the other girl of Andrew’s visit, and of his complaint.

  She had expected Hilda to show signs of something approaching consternation, for it was she, ultimately, on whom the responsibility for the damage must rest. But to her surprise Hilda’s only reaction seemed to be resentment tinged with impatience.

  “I ought to have warned you never to accept any invitations for the children which come from Mr. Playdle,” Hilda exclaimed crossly. “He has a perfect genius for finding something to grumble at. He would, of course, being a farmer; everyone knows what grousers they are.”

  “But what happened, Hilda? Why didn’t you take the children the way I told you?” Catherine wanted to know. “I explained that Mr. Playdle wished them to go straight through that field where the heifers were, and anyway it would have been much the shortest route.”

  Hilda flushed slightly, and tossed her ginger head.

  “If Mr. Playdle imagines I’m going to take a pack of nervous children through a herd of cows, he’s very much mistaken,” she snapped. “What’s more I believe there was a bull among them. I heard one of the children—Ruth, I think it was—whispering something about one.”