Listening Valley (23 page)

“Oui,”
replied Mr. Phillips solemnly, adding with an atrocious accent.
“Défense de cracher. Défense de se pencher sur la rampe quand l'ascenseur est en
marche.”

They all laughed at this essay, and Retta inquired where he had learned it. She inquired in English, for it was obvious that Mr. Phillips's knowledge of her native tongue was extremely limited.

“I learned it in Paree,” replied Mr. Phillips, who had begun to enjoy himself tremendously. “It was written up in the lift at the hotel where I used to stay when I went to see my daughters at their finishing school.”

“Do you know any more, sir?” asked Bay.

“Deux bouteilles de Veuve Cliquot,”
replied Mr. Phillips promptly.
“J'ai
faim. Où est le cabinet de
toilette?”

When the laughter had subsided Mr. Phillips remarked that they could laugh if they liked, but with these three phrases at one's command it was possible to travel in comfort all over France—before the war, of course.

Retta said she would come with him if he liked—after the war, of course—and Mr. Phillips accepted the offer rapturously.

It was now discovered that Mr. Phillips had missed his train, and, as he had an appointment in the afternoon, he was very much disturbed about it. His round pink face, which a moment ago had been wreathed in smiles, was suddenly creased with frowns, so that he looked exactly like a very large baby about to burst into tears. Fortunately, however, Bay came to the rescue, saying that he had to go over to Timperton immediately to see a man at the hospital, and he would take Mr. Phillips, and Mr. Phillips could catch the express and be in Edinburgh in half no time. He rose as he spoke, and Mr. Phillips rose too—all smiles again—and they all went into the hall and opened the front door. A very large and extremely powerful-looking motorcycle with a sidecar attached to it was waiting in the street.

“In that?” asked Mr. Phillips, somewhat doubtfully.

Bay did not hear. He was rooting about in the sidecar and now he produced a leather helmet, an extremely old trench coat covered with oil, and a pair of dark goggles. “I'm afraid you must,” said Bay apologetically. “You see we aren't allowed to take civilians, not really…”

Mr. Phillips hesitated. But his appointment was important and this seemed the only way. He allowed himself to be attired in the evil-smelling garments and climbed into the sidecar.

“This is a beastly old bike,” declared Bay, kicking the self-starter violently. “It isn't really meant for a sidecar and has a sort of list to port…as a matter of fact I hate driving on the roads. Damn, why won't it start?”

“Why do you hate driving on the roads?” asked Mr. Phillips a little anxiously.

“They're so dangerous,” complained Bay, taking out a wrench and tinkering with the engine. “I mean, compared with the air. You come zooming around a blind corner and find yourself bumping into a tank or something. There aren't any blind corners in the air, of course. The percentage of collisions in the air is infinitesimal,” added Bay gravely.

Mr. Phillips opened his lips to say that after all his appointment was not so very important and he would put it off by wire and take the afternoon train, but at that moment the engine burst into life, stuttering like a machine gun, and Bay leaped into the saddle and they were off.

Retta and Tonia were having breakfast together in the dining room, for since the arrival of her guest Tonia had abjured her luxurious habit of breakfasting in bed. Mrs. Smilie still came in every morning, but it was too much to expect her to carry up two trays.

“My brother is coming,” said Retta, looking up from a letter that had just arrived by post. “He is going to Glasgow to do some business and he will pass here on the way. It would be so very nice if he could be here for a night.”

Tonia did not rise. Somehow or other she did not want Retta's brother at Melville House. She had not wanted Retta, of course, but she had been forced to ask her.

“Perhaps he could get a room at the Rydd Arms,” suggested Tonia. “Or perhaps they could take him at Mrs. MacBean's—”

“Of course!” cried Retta, simulating delight. “How clever you are,
chère
Antonia! Those rooms that Bay found for me will be the best for Henri. I will see about it at once. Henri will not give a sou for the so lumpy bed and the sloping down roof—he has been sleeping in a lot worse places in his life. Ah, poor Henri, what he has suffered before he has escape from
La
France!
He has been sleeping in a pig house and a stack of hay and
le
bon
Dieu
knows where. And then at last he escape at night in a little boat no bigger as this table—and the waves as big as mountains.”

“How dreadful!” said Tonia, who was convinced that Henri's sufferings were being exaggerated in order to melt her heart.

Retta sighed and gave up the attempt. “But I must not waste time,” she declared. “You will excuse me that I go and leave the breakfast dishes to be washed, for it is necessary that I talk to the big fat woman with the beard and the glassy eyes so she have the room prepared for my Henri.”

“Is he coming today?”

“Tonight,” replied Retta, rising and making for the door. “I will take your coat off the hall peg—
n'est-ce pas?
—and run across the street.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Tonia, by this time thoroughly ashamed of her inhospitality to Retta's brother. “Of course you can wear my coat, and you must ask him to come over and have supper with you. I shall be out.”

“You will be out!” exclaimed Retta incredulously.

“It's that whist drive tonight,” Tonia reminded her. “You said you didn't want to come, but I had to take a ticket for it, because it's for the Red Cross.”

“Of course! It did go out of my mind—so you will be out.”

“Yes.”

“And you will win the prize—and I will have my dear Henri and make an omelet for him.”

“Yes,” said Tonia again. “At least you will have Henri and you can make anything you like for him. There isn't the slightest chance of my winning a prize.”

Mrs. Smilie was in the kitchen when Tonia carried in the tray of breakfast dishes, and they greeted each other in a casual manner that hid a very real affection.

“How long is
she
staying?” asked Mrs. Smilie as she began to wash up.

“Her brother is coming,” said Tonia, without answering the question. As a matter of fact she could not answer it, for Retta had made no reference to her future plans.

“He's not coming here, I hope!”

“No…I suppose I should have asked him.” She took up a dish towel as she spoke and began to dry the plates, which Mrs. Smilie was piling on the board.

“Why should you? It's your own house,” returned Mrs. Smilie grimly. “Maybe you're forgetting it's your own house—”

“I don't mind having her,” protested Tonia.

There was a silence for a few moments, broken by the chink of crockery; it was a friendly sort of silence.

“She'll be having him to supper,” said Mrs. Smilie at last. “And you're going out to the whist drive, so the two of them will be here alone.”

“It will be nice for them. They can talk much better if I'm not here.”

“So they can,” agreed Mrs. Smilie thoughtfully.

“You're coming to the whist drive, of course.”

“Well, I don't know. Maybe I will and maybe I won't.”

Tonia laughed. She was always amused when Mrs. Smilie became enigmatic. “I expect you will,” she said.

From the very first moment Mrs. Smilie and Retta had disapproved of each other. They did not understand each other and made no attempt to do so. Tonia had tried to persuade Mrs. Smilie that Retta was really very good-natured, but without avail; she had tried to explain to Retta that Mrs. Smilie was not a servant and must not be ordered about.

“Mrs. Smilie is a friend,” Tonia had said. “I don't pay her anything. She comes in to help because she is so kind.”

Retta had replied, “She loses nothing, that one. She has her pickings.”

“Oh no, Retta—”

“But yes, my dear little cabbage. You are too innocent, too trustful. She come in and out and who knows when she is there and when she is not!”

***

Henri had not appeared at Melville House when Tonia was ready to go out to the whist drive. He had arrived at Ryddelton about five o'clock and Retta had met him at the station and settled him in his rooms. Retta was now in the kitchen, and savory smells came wafting through the house whenever the kitchen door was opened. It was obvious that Henri was going to have a most enjoyable repast.

“Dear one,” said Retta, appearing at the kitchen door as Tonia came downstairs. “Dear one, you will come home very late, isn't it?”

“I expect so,” replied Tonia.

“You will be late, and Henri and I we are early worms. He will be tired after his so long journey and he will go back across the street to his little room with the lumpy bed. Very early, he will go, so you will not see him.”

“No, of course not. But I shall see him tomorrow.”

“But that is the trouble; he must go away by the early train!”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Tonia, trying to sound suitably disappointed.

“What a pittee, indeed,” agreed Retta in sorrowful accents. “
Le
pauvre
Henri,
he will be desolated, but what can we? It is this so annoying wheest that has upset the apple tree.”

“Yes,” said Tonia, but she said it doubtfully, for it was not the whist drive that had upset their plans. To be strictly accurate, no plans had been upset and everything was for the best. Retta was delighted at the prospect of having Henri to herself and Tonia was more than reconciled to the fact that she would not meet him…but this was just Retta's way. She had a habit of turning things around and presenting them in a false light.

“It cannot be helped,” continued Retta, heaving a tremendous sigh. “I have hoped and prayed for you and Henri to meet, but it cannot be—not this time. So Henri and me will spend the evening—brother and sister together—and Henri will go away early, and I will go to bed. I will be fast asleep when you come home from the wheest—and the house will be very quiet.”

“I shan't disturb you,” promised Tonia, who had grasped the point.

“Ah, dear one!” cried Retta. “So always considerate for other peoples!”

“You have everything you want?” asked Tonia, preparing to go.

“But
everything
,” declared Retta. “The supper is almost ready and I have nothing more except to powder my nose.”

Tonia smiled. It was obvious that Retta had put on her best clothes to do honor to her brother and had taken extra trouble with her hair. Although she was in the midst of cooking the supper she looked cool and
soignee
—fit for a mannequin parade.

“Bonsoir,”
said Tonia. “Have a good time.”

“Et toi, chère petite,”
replied Retta, kissing the tips of her fingers. “We meet at breakfast,
n'est-ce
pas
?”

***

There was plenty to talk about when they met at breakfast next morning, for they had both enjoyed themselves. Tonia was cajoled into giving an account of the “wheest” and did so amusingly, for Retta was an appreciative audience. An aircraftsman had won the prize, which was just as it should be, and Tonia had escaped winning the booby prize by a few points. This had not surprised her, for she had never played whist in her life until she came to Ryddelton. The Smilies had invited her to supper on two occasions and had instructed her in the rudiments of the game.

“And Mrs. Smilie was there?” asked Retta casually.

“No, she wasn't,” Tonia replied. “I thought she was going, but she must have changed her mind.”

“How odd!” said Retta with a thoughtful look.

“And your party, Retta. How did your party go off?”

“It was nice,” declared Retta. “Henri was so pleased at his supper and send a thousand messages to his kind hostess he has never seen. We talk and talk about when we were little children and
La
France
was free and happy. O, what happy times! How much one wish that one was a little child again!”

Tonia had never wished that, for her childhood had not been particularly happy. When she looked back it was her married life with Robert that seemed her happiest time. The voyage to India and the visit to Jack and Lou shone with bright colors in her memory. She explained this, somewhat haltingly, and was surprised to find that Retta understood.

“O, yes,” cried Retta, alight in a moment. “But it is true—those first days of being married to the dearest one, those are the wonderfullest days of all! The sunsets so gay with all the colors of the artist's palette, the food tasting so good! It is my sister tell me all this, of course. For me, I have never known it yet…for me the first days of being married are in the future.”

“Yes, but I didn't know you had a sister, Retta.”

“I do not speak about her,” said Retta in a low voice, taking out her handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. “Yes, she is…dead. I cannot speak about her, no, not even to you,
chère petite.
It make me too sad to think about her…and the little baby that is dead, too. No, we must speak of something else…”

“I'm so sorry, Retta—”

“
Mais
non, mais non
—I am foolish, that is all. Look, Antonia, I will take the tray and wash all the dishes and be so busy I will not think about it anymore.”

“Wait, Retta, Mrs. Smilie will be there.”

“But what matter? I will be very nice to Mrs. Smilee,” said Retta, nodding gravely. “It is necessary for me to speak to Mrs. Smilee for I gave her my slacks to press and she has not brought them back.”

“Oh, Retta, I would have done them for you! I wish you wouldn't ask Mrs. Smilie—”

“But she will do them so much better, dear one,” laughed Retta. “She will not make the two railway lines down the front. And they needed to be pressed after my long walk up the hill and through the woods…so do not disturb yourself.”

Tonia followed Retta into the kitchen, for she did not want Retta and Mrs. Smilie to be alone. Someday there would be a flare-up (she was sure of that), but there would be no serious trouble as long as she was there to smooth things over.

Today things were worse than usual; in fact, there was an undercurrent of real hostility in the kitchen. Mrs. Smilie was quite unlike herself; her eyes smoldered when she looked at Retta and she seemed on the verge of an outbreak.

“I'd like to speak to you for a moment, Miss Tonia,” said Mrs. Smilie in an undertone.

“Later on,” replied Tonia, who was all for peace and hoped that Mrs. Smilie might settle down and become more amenable to reason.

“Have you pressed my slacks yet?” asked Retta, in the haughty tone she always affected when she had cause to address Mrs. Smilie.

“No, I've not ironed your trousers yet,” was the uncompromising reply. “I've ironed men's trousers often enough but I've never ironed trousers for a woman…I'll
do
them for you,” she added in grudging tones. “I said I'd do them and so I will when I can find the time. You'll get them this afternoon, or maybe in the morning…”

“We can manage now, Mrs. Smilie,” said Tonia, interposing before Retta could speak. “Thank you so much for your help. You know how much I appreciate all you do.”

When she had gone Retta danced around the kitchen. “O, what relief!” she cried ecstatically. “That so dreadful woman with her self-righteous face! How can you bear her is what I cannot understand. How can you
bear
her?”

“She's so kindhearted. If only you would try to understand her instead of rubbing her the wrong way!”

“But it is she who rubs me the wrong way—
vraiment
—she gives me the
creeps
,” declared Retta earnestly. “There is something about her…yes, there is something…and I cannot bear that she come out and in as she will, with her red and blue carpet shoes that make no noise.”

“Why should I mind?” asked Tonia in surprise. “I don't mind her coming in and out. I've nothing to hide.”

“To hide—no. One has nothing to hide…but you would do well to look to your purse when that one is about.”

This accusation was so utterly ridiculous that Tonia laughed; she would as soon have suspected the Archbishop of Canterbury of rifling her purse!

The morning passed without incident worthy of note and immediately after lunch Bay appeared, for they had arranged to walk over to Dunnian House to tea, with Bay as escort. Retta had been the instigator of this expedition (she wanted to see Dunnian), but the day had clouded over and the skies were heavy and Retta was as allergic to rain as a tabby cat.

“You two can go,” declared Retta. “The English are so hardy and do not care a sou if the wet rain pours down their necks. For me, I shall remain by the fire and mend my delicates that are falling into pieces because I have worn them so long and have no coupons for new ones…and there will be no need to hurry back, for I will be happy and warm and comfortable, and I will make me the five o'clock when it is time. So then you two will go…and you will put on your thick shoes,
chère
Antonia, and your old skirt and a mackintosh and on your head a beret, and the rain will not bother you at all—no, not one little bit.”