Listening Valley (15 page)

Tonia could not help smiling at this glimpse into the past, but her smile was a little sad, for she remembered that Antonia's romance had ended in disaster. Antonia and her dear Arthur had never been married—he had been lost at sea. These were the words her father had used when he had spoken of the tragedy: “lost at sea.” There was a curiously forlorn sound about the expression; its very vagueness excited the imagination. Had the ship run upon a rock and been lost with all hands, or was it only Arthur who had perished? Perhaps he had been swept overboard in a storm and had sunk before his shipmates could rescue him.

Tonia sighed and turned over the page.

It was late when the party was over. Celia accompanied me to her bedroom, where I had left my wraps. She kissed me very warmly and said: “Is it true that we are to be sisters?” I told her that it was true and added that I could not love her more. “I have always hoped for this,” said Celia with the sharp little nod that is so characteristic of her. We kissed each other again and laughed—I fear we were a little foolish but there was no one to see our foolishness… Dunnian House will belong to Arthur when his father dies, for he is the eldest son, and we shall live there, which will be very pleasant indeed, not only because Dunnian is so beautiful, but also because I shall be near Papa and Mama. Arthur must make another voyage to the West Indies, but after that he will leave the sea and settle down at Dunnian. This is what Celia told me and I am writing as if all were settled. I feel sure Papa will welcome Arthur and agree to our marriage.

It was late and Tonia's eyes were tired, for Antonia's writing was small and faint and difficult to decipher. She put the book back where she had found it and went to bed.

By this time most of the people in Ryddelton knew Tonia, or at least knew who she was, so they had ceased to stare at her. She did the shopping every morning, not only her own shopping but Mrs. Smilie's as well. She had disliked shopping in London, but it was quite different here, for there were no queues and everyone was friendly and anxious to oblige. They were really sorry—one felt—when they were forced to deny one syrup, prunes, cookies, and onions, and usually held out strong hopes of being able to supply these commodities next week. How different from their counterparts in towns, where one was made to feel both foolish and greedy if one happened to ask for something unobtainable!

Tonia shopped with a large basket that grew heavier and heavier as she progressed. One day it became so heavy that she could scarcely carry it, and she was struggling home, feeling very thankful that she had not far to go, when she met an officer in the blue uniform of the RAF. There was nothing very odd about this, for, owing to the proximity of the airfield, the town was full of Air Force officers and men, but this particular officer engaged Tonia's attention because he seemed, in some way, familiar—almost as if she had met him in a dream. They passed each other and walked on, and then Tonia stopped and looked back. The officer had stopped, too, and was looking back at Tonia. He began to walk toward her and Tonia waited. She saw that his eyes were very brown, so was his hair beneath his jauntily cocked cap, and his teeth gleamed with pearly whiteness in his suntanned face.

“Hallo, Butterfingers!” he said.

“Bay!” exclaimed Tonia in amazement.

Bay laughed. “You've missed your cue. You ought to say, ‘You didn't do it!'”

“But I know you didn't, so I don't need to ask,” replied Tonia smiling.

“Everyone else was sure I did it.”

“They were silly. It was quite a different sort of thing.”

“Not funny?”

“Not a bit funny,” said Tonia firmly.

He took the basket from her and they walked along, talking as they went.

“Who did it?” Tonia asked. “Do you know who did it?”

“Yes, it was Nita,” replied Bay. “I knew it was Nita because it was purple ink—the kind she always used.”

“Nita!” said Tonia. “Goodness, how horrible! I wonder why she didn't put it in your bottle, Bay. I suppose she thought you would be blamed—how disgustingly clever of her.”

“It wasn't cleverness. Dear me, no, Dr. Thorndyke. She didn't put it in my bottle because I had a case with a lock—funny how well I remember that case. It was the pride of my heart. I spent hours locking and unlocking it.”

“Why didn't you tell them?”

“I wonder,” said Bay thoughtfully. “I believe I was too proud. They thought I did it so I let them go on thinking it—that was my attitude as far as I can remember. Wasn't I a little beast?”

“Oh no,” said Tonia hastily.

“Oh yes,” returned Bay. “I certainly was. I remember putting fluff on the nib of your pen—”

“And a piece of wood under the leg of my desk.”

“Why did I?” Bay wondered.

“I expect you hated me.”

“No,” said Bay, thinking back. “No, that's the queer thing. I believe I liked you quite a lot, but I didn't
want
to like you. I wanted to be bold and free like the Sea Hawk or some such blood and thunder fellow…and all the time I had a sort of sneaking affection for you. I don't suppose anybody on earth could understand it.”

Tonia most certainly could not. She was no psychologist. But after all what did it matter…

“Come in, Bay,” said Tonia, opening the door.

“Is this your house?”

“My very own. I'm living here by myself.”

“It's nice,” said Bay. “I've always admired this house. I find its crookedness very intriguing.”

“Homemade,” said Tonia, wondering if he would understand.

“Yes,” said Bay, nodding. “Houses were homemade in those days, not turned out by the gross. They were solidly made by people who took a real interest in their work and laid every stone as well as they could do it. There's a different sort of feeling in a house built like that—I can't explain it.”

He did not need to explain it, for it was exactly the feeling she had herself.

“Will you have some beer?” she asked. “You must have something to celebrate the occasion and beer is the only thing I've got.”

Bay said he liked beer.

“Are you married or anything?” he inquired when she brought the tray into the drawing room.

“I was…he died. No, he wasn't killed in the war. What about you?”

“Engaged,” said Bay. “Gosh, she's a great girl! As a matter of fact she's coming to Ryddelton for a bit so you'll meet her. I suppose you don't happen to know of any comfortable rooms.”

“Mrs. Smilie would know,” declared Tonia.

“Don't worry, I'll find something,” replied Bay. “She's French, you know. Retta is French, I mean. Retta Delarge.”

“She sounds—interesting.”

“Interesting isn't the word,” declared Bay. “She's tremendously amusing. I met her in France at the very beginning of the war when we were operating from an airfield near Dieppe, and then I lost sight of her completely until she wrote to me from London…but wait till you see her,” said Bay, smiling. “Just wait.”

“I shall have to, I suppose,” said Tonia, smiling in sympathy.

Bay said no more about his fiancée. He had sat down in a chair near the window and was looking around with interest and appreciation, so Tonia told him the history of the house and how it had become hers.

“It
is
nice,” he said. “So peaceful. You get awfully tired of living in a mess with big strong men sitting around and talking shop.”

Now that he had taken off his cap she saw that he looked a good deal older than his years—and very tired. There were lines on his face that had no business to be there, and his mouth (when he was not smiling) was a trifle grim. She saw, too (now that she had time to look at him properly), that he was a squadron leader and was wearing a Distinguished Flying Cross and bar.

“You're Socks!” exclaimed Tonia suddenly.

“How on earth did you know?” inquired Bay in surprise.

“I just guessed,” she replied, laughing.

He held up the glass of beer and said quite seriously, “Here's luck to Butterfingers Thorndyke and her homemade house.”

***

Bay dropped in two days later at teatime and they played “Do you remember,” which is a most enthralling game. Some things they both remembered very clearly: the mole on Mrs. Grant's wrist, which you looked at when she leaned over you to correct your exercise, and the way Miss Mann rapped on her desk and cried, “Now, children,
think
before you answer.” But other things, which Tonia remembered clearly, Bay had forgotten—or thought he had.

“You
must
remember Mrs. Harris!” cried Tonia.

“Come off it,” said Bay. “You're trying to pull my leg but I know that one. Mrs. Harris wasn't real.”

“This one was,” declared Tonia, laughing. “She was the charwoman and she was always washing the passage when we arrived. Mrs. Grant fell over her pail one day—surely you remember that!”

“Of course!” cried Bay. “I remember now. One of my very best jokes was when I put a stone on the floor beside her and took away the soap. You ought to have seen her rubbing the stone on her scrubbing brush.”

“You were awful!”

“She had red hair—exactly the color of carrots—and her teeth stuck out,” continued Bay, determined to show that he really did remember Mrs. Harris after all.

Tonia was enjoying the game for its own sake but perhaps more for Bay's. The lines around his mouth had softened and his laugh came more often and more easily. It's good for him, she thought. It's good for Bay to be silly with me.

“Come whenever you like,” she told him as she saw him off at the door.

“Do you mean that? You aren't just saying it…”

“Of course I mean it.”

“I never know when,” said Bay, lingering at the door. “But if you really mean it, I should love to drop in. You get awfully tired of a mess.”

It was getting dark. There was a pale green light in the sky. Between the houses the gloom seemed to lie in pools of darkness. It was very quiet and peaceful, and the sound of footsteps going past—click clack, click clack—on the other side of the street seemed to intensify the stillness rather than disturb it.

“Wooden soles,” said Bay softly. “We're funny, aren't we? It's no wonder our enemies don't understand us.”

“If we can't get leather we just wear wood—and wood becomes the fashion.”

“That's what I meant,” said Bay in a voice of surprise.

He still lingered, and Tonia did not mind, for it was pleasant standing at the door and watching the darkness deepen.

“Oh, look here,” said Bay in a sudden sort of voice. “I nearly forgot, which seems odd because I came specially to ask you. We're having a sort of party at the mess; somebody's managed to raise some booze—don't ask how. You'll come, won't you? It's tomorrow. And could you possibly lend us a few glasses? I'll send for them, of course.”

“Yes,” said Tonia, a trifle breathlessly, for she was not used to such speed. “Yes, of course…glasses…sherry glasses, you mean.”

“You don't have any flowers, do you? No, hold on, it doesn't matter about flowers; they're sending flowers from Dunnian.”

“Dunnian!” cried Tonia. “Did you say Dunnian? Who lives there now?”

“The Dunnes,” said Bay. “There's an awfully decent old admiral—and young Mrs. Dunne and her baby—and Celia, of course.”

“Celia!”

“Nice,” said Bay, nodding. “Not terribly young (she must be over thirty) but full of life and go. You'd like her. I must go, Butterfingers.”

“Must you go? Are you flying tonight?”

He hesitated. “Don't ask me that,” he said. “I mean, I should have to lie to you and I don't want to.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Oh, I know, but it's just one of those things.”

Soon after that he went away, and Tonia had supper and thought about his visit and chuckled to herself at some of the foolish things they had said. And she thought of Celia Dunne and wished she had asked Bay more about her. It was odd to think that there was another Celia at Dunnian and another Antonia at Melville House. Perhaps I shan't like her
at
all,
thought Tonia.

Presently Tonia went upstairs to bed and lay awake a long time, listening, but she heard no planes that night.

***

The mess was decorated with flags. Flowers in tall glasses stood on tables in the corners of the room. They had been crammed into the glasses in tight bunches, and Tonia could not help wondering which of the sturdy red-faced mess waiters had been responsible for their arrangement. She was a little late and the room was crowded, but Bay saw her almost at once and pushed his way toward her with a glass of sherry in his hand.

“I began to think you weren't coming,” said Bay. “Here's some sherry in one of your own glasses. I'll be back in a minute…”

Bob was the next person to speak to her. He appeared at her elbow with a plate of cookies. “Have a cracker, Mrs. Norman,” he said, adding rather hastily, “I mean, a cookie. We call them crackers at home.”

“Crackers is rather a good name. They crackle, don't they?” said Tonia, smiling. “You haven't been to see me yet, Bob.”

“We've been busy,” he replied. “We're coming all right. Here's Teak.”

They chatted for a few minutes and then moved on and left her. She listened to the chatter all around her, the tinkle of glasses, the gay laughter. On the surface it seemed as if these boys had not a care in the world, yet every night (or nearly every night) they braved the elements, the crash of guns and shells, and played hide-and-seek with death.

Somebody behind her announced in a very English voice,
“Il n'est pas tout a fait juste dans la
tète.”

There was a roar of laughter at this sally and Tonia looked around, smiling.

“He thinks he's funny, you know,” explained a very young officer, smiling back at Tonia.

“He
is
funny,” declared a girl who was one of the group, a small, neatly made girl dressed in tweeds, with dark hair and sparkling brown eyes. “He's very funny indeed. If he wants a job after the war I'll take him on as my jester.” She did not wait for her offer to be accepted but pushed her way between the men who surrounded her and reached Tonia's side, smiling in a friendly manner. “I'm so glad you're here,” she declared. “I wanted to meet you. We were all quite thrilled when we heard that a Melville had come back to live at Melville House.”

Tonia liked the girl at once, and oddly enough she was not in the least surprised when the girl added, “I'm Celia Dunne.”

“I thought you might be,” Tonia said.

“Why?” inquired Miss Dunne. “Of course I knew you, because I know everybody else—if you see what I mean.”

“I had heard about you.”

“Nice things, I hope?”

“Very nice things,” said Tonia laughing.

“Good,” said Miss Dunne, giving a sharp little nod.

They chatted for a few minutes. “Dad knew your father,” said Miss Dunne. “They met when they were boys, and he remembered Miss Antonia Melville very well indeed, so of course he wants to meet you. We should love to have you to lunch but it's rather a long way unless you have a bicycle.”

Tonia had never bicycled in her life. She said rather shyly, “Perhaps you could come to lunch with me some day.”