(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn (12 page)

"But we're hungry!"

"When is lunch ready?"

"Can't we have a drink too?"

The protests came thick and fast.

"Have an apple each," suggested Miriam diplomatically, "and go and practice two-ball."

This solution pleased all, and the adults were left to sip their tea in peace.

It appeared that Martin Farrar's farm lay some twelve miles on the other side of the market town.

"Corn mainly, and sugar beets," he told Miriam, "though I keep a few head of cattle. I'm hoping to have pigs some day too. But tell me your news. Where do you live now?"

Miriam told him about the job in Caxley and her new home at Holly Lodge. She found herself rattling away—Martin had always been a good listener, she remembered—and was about to enlarge on her interrupted decorating of the sitting room when she remembered Lovell's feelings, and checked herself.

"I stopped in Cambridge on the journey up," she said instead, and that opened the way to a flood of happy reminiscences.

"You'll stay to lunch, won't you?" said Lovell. He turned to Miriam anxiously. "It is all right? It's cold turkey, I believe?"

"Quite right. And gammon too. And it will be lovely if you can stop."

"I'd love to," said Martin.

Miriam retired to the kitchen to finish her preparations. She was slightly puzzled. What about Martin's wife? Would she be waiting lunch for him? No mention had been made of her. Perhaps she was away. But, at Christmas time? Had they parted?

Perplexed, she assembled pickles and an unopened giant-size packet of potato crisps. She put in the oven the batch of mince pies she had made earlier, and hoped that the cheese board would provide for any empty corners left by the lunch she had prepared.

The children ate hungrily, their appetites whetted by the fresh air. As they ate, the first of the raindrops spattered against the window and the wind began to roar more loudly:

"We're in for it, I'm afraid," said Martin. "The glass was going back this morning. As long as we don't get snow, I don't mind."

"Do you remember the winter of 1962 and 1963?" asked Lovell. "My parents were marooned in the vicarage for four weeks, with eight-foot drifts cutting them off. Thank God, my mother always did a lot of bottling and preserving. Father said he hoped never to face another bottled gooseberry in his lifetime!"

"We were just married," said Martin, "and had misjudged the fuel amounts. Binnie walked about clutching a hot-water bottle all day. It taught us to stock up properly another time."

"I was in London," said Miriam, "a bitter waste of brown slush everywhere. Town snow is so much worse than country snow."

After lunch, the little girls elected to paint at the kitchen table and Miriam left them to enjoy the new paints and painting books while she put Robin to bed, and Lovell made coffee.

The rain now lashed the house, and Miriam stuffed the towel again into the vulnerable landing window before going downstairs to the fireside.

Martin was helping himself to Lovell's brew and surveying the weather.

"I ought to be getting back pretty soon. I'm the cattleman this afternoon, and it's going to get dark early today."

They sat at peace, enjoying the warmth of the fire and their coffee.

Miriam looked at Martin as he gazed somnolently at the blazing logs. He had worn well. His hair was thick, his face tanned with his outdoor life, and he was as lean as he had always been. And yet, there was an air of unhappiness about him. Perhaps he felt the same about herself. Perhaps it was simply the passing of the years, the change from the effervescence of youth to the sobriety of middle age.

Middle age! It was a shock to realize that she was half-way to her three-score years and ten. Martin must be nearing forty.

He put his cup down in the hearth with a clatter, and stretched luxuriously.

"Oh, if I could only stay by this fire! Instead, I must go back and bash swedes."

"Do you really bash swedes?" asked Miriam.

"Not today," said Martin, with a laugh. "Just feed the cattle with something less demanding."

He held out his hand.

"Thank you for giving me lunch, and for your company. I come your way about twice a year. Perhaps I may call in, now I know where you live?"

"I shall look forward to it."

"Well, it may be in a few weeks' time. There's a cattle dealer in Wales I want to see."

He made his farewells, and they watched him race through the rain to his Land-Rover. The rain was now torrential, and the branches clashed overhead in the force of the gale, but Martin's grin was cheerful as he waved goodbye.

"Nice to see him again," said Lovell as they shut the door against the weather. "We live so near, really, and were such close friends in the old days, it seems absurd to lose touch as we have done."

The fireside was doubly snug after their brush with the weather outside. Peace reigned in the kitchen, and Robin slept aloft. Miriam and Lovell resumed their seats with relief.

She lay back, musing about the encounter. It was good to see Martin again. Their early flirtation had been a happy one, and it was comforting to see, once again, the unfeigned affection and admiration in his looks. She hoped she would see him again when he traveled to Wales next.

"What is Martin's wife like?" she asked.

"Martin's wife?" Lovell looked startled.

"Binnie, he called her," said Miriam.

Lovell shook his head sadly.

"Poor Binnie! I should have remembered that you knew nothing about it. She died two years ago—quite that, longer perhaps. I can't quite remember."

"How ghastly for Martin! What was it?"

"One of those incredibly stupid accidents that strain one's religious beliefs sorely. She was bathing within a few yards of the shore, when a freak wave carried her out to sea, and a sort of whirlpool sucked her under. There were treacherous currents there always, we heard later."

"Was Martin there?"

"He had gone to fetch towels from the car, and returned to find the rescue operation going on. The ghastly thing was that the body wasn't washed up until the next tide."

"Poor Martin! And no children?"

"There was one on the way, which made it worse, of course. I heard that Martin was in an appalling state of shock for months. His old mother was a tower of strength, and went to live at the farm with him."

"I remember her," replied Miriam, recalling the ramrod figure of Mrs. Farrar, her white hair and her deep voice. "Dreadful for her too."

"Anyway," said Lovell, "he seems to have recovered, and let's hope he finds someone else one day."

"That's Robin," exclaimed Miriam, at the sound of a distant wailing.

And she went to resume her duties.

***

She traveled alone to see Eileen that evening, Lovell volunteering to see his family into bed.

As she drove through the roaring night, buffeted by a fierce northeaster, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to telephone Joan. Martin's arrival had put it out of her head.

Lovell's account of Martin's tragedy had moved her deeply. Why did these things have to happen? Lovell's comment about the strain on one's religious beliefs, in the face of such senseless horror, was understandable. If he, so secure and ardent in his faith, could feel thus, how easy it was to forgive weaker souls who turned against their religion in such circumstances. Martin appeared to have weathered his own storm remarkably well. Possibly the fact that his work must go on in rain or shine had helped him through the worst. She was glad she knew about it, if she were to see him in the future. When she had said that she would look forward to seeing him again, she had spoken from her heart.

Eileen was wearing the new black nightgown, and looked prettier than ever. She was in good spirits.

"I ought to know, very soon, if I'm coming home next week," she told Miriam. "How I long for it! Tell me, how are you managing?"

Miriam told her the scraps of news, how helpful the children had been, how she had introduced them to two-ball, how beautiful the church had looked decked for Christmas, and, finally, how Lovell had brought Martin to lunch.

Eileen's face lit up.

"I'm so glad! We feel so terribly sorry for him, and we wish we saw more of him. He ought to marry again. He's such a dear."

She looked at Miriam with such an openly speculative eye that it was impossible not to laugh. Eileen laughed too, with such infectious gaiety that the woman in the next bed said:

"She's as good as a tonic is Mrs. Quinn!"

And it was then that Miriam suddenly realized that there was a new neighbor. Mrs. White, of the gray sad countenance, had gone, it seemed, to a colder bed under the Norfolk sky.

"I'm not really matchmaking," said Eileen lightly.

"I should hope not," replied Miriam. "Tell me, how did Christmas Day go in here?"

Eileen was willing to be deflected from the subject of Martin, much to Miriam's relief, and launched into a spirited account of the chief surgeon's prowess in turkey-carving, the morning carols, and the visit of the Mayor and his retinue.

Miriam stayed later than she intended, reveling in Eileen's racy descriptions, and the undoubted fact that she seemed stronger and more relaxed after her few days in hospital.

"You'll have Annie back on Monday," said Eileen, as they said goodbye. "And with any luck, I'll be home very soon after." "We'll have a grand celebration," promised Miriam, fastening her coat, before leaving the warmth of the ward to face the gales outside.

Chapter 10

GOING HOME

T
HE WEEKEND
passed remarkably peacefully. Miriam felt more confident now that she was becoming accustomed to the routine of the household. One great blessing was that all the family seemed to eat most of the things she put before them, although turkey in a mild cheese sauce was greeted by Jenny with the remark that she "didn't like white gravy." However, her helping vanished, assisted, no doubt, by Hazel's offer to eat her share.

The craze for two-ball persisted, and the two little girls spent any rain-free periods—which were few—bouncing and catching the balls against the wall of the kitchen garden, twirling and clapping as Miriam had shown them.

It seemed a good idea to drive into the market town on Saturday morning, in the hope that a toy shop would be open. They were lucky enough to find a sports shop doing a brisk trade with two girls buying skiing equipment and a scoutmaster buying camping stoves. A basket of rubber balls, red, blue, yellow, and green, drew Hazel and Jenny like a magnet, and they ended by selecting two red and two green.

"I think you should have three each," said Miriam. "You ought to have a spare in case one gets lost."

"But can you afford it?" asked Hazel anxiously. "After Christmas too?"

"I think so," said Miriam.

"But you haven't got a husband to give you any money like Mummy," protested Jenny. "Are you sure?"

"I go to work, you know, so I earn some money."

"A lot? A pound a week?"

"A little more than that," admitted Miriam.

The girls sighed with relief.

"Then you're quite rich, aren't you?" smiled Hazel.

"Well then, thank you very much," said Jenny, choosing a yellow one for her spare ball. "You are kind, as well as rich."

The baker's shop was open next door, and Miriam bought fresh currant buns for tea, and a veal and ham pie as a change from the turkey.

"You must be
really
rich," observed Hazel, as they climbed into the car with their purchases, "if you can buy a great big pie like that. Mummy always makes ours, because she says they are so dear in the shops."

"Well, this is a treat," explained Miriam. And a time- and energy-saver for a struggling aunt, she added to herself.

***

She found time to ring Joan who sounded busy and happy.

"Roger goes tomorrow. A friend is picking him up and they are flying to Switzerland at six o'clock. Plenty of snow there, they say."

"None at Fairacre, I hope?"

"Not yet, but it's cold enough."

They exchanged news. Barbara and the family were off on the Monday. And when could Joan hope to see Miriam?

"With luck, during next week," said Miriam. "It depends if Eileen is allowed home, and how strong she feels."

"Well, Holly Lodge is waiting for you," said Joan. "So come as soon as you can."

"I can promise that," Miriam assured her.

***

The gales continued, rising to their height on Sunday night. There were tales of fishing boats smashed at their moorings, and of large ships riding out the storm within sight of the Norfolk coast. At places the sea had flooded the marshland, and great damage was reported from the seaside towns on the Norfolk and Suffolk coasts. Men spent the weekend filling sandbags to block the gaps in the sea wall where the violence of the high tide had breached it.

At the vicarage, some tiles were blown from the roof and an ancient apple tree was toppled, its roots exposed to the children's horrified gaze and its branches enmeshing a chicken house, mercifully empty.