Mistress of the House (3 page)

“Hallo,” she said, spontaneously and naturally.

He turned and smiled at her.

“Hallo,” he said. She joined him at the gate.

“I’m sorry to hear,” he said, “that we owe you an apology for Jess.

“Oh, don’t think any more about it. It doesn’t matter. She isn’t used to me yet.”

“Whether she is used to you or not, she should have better manners. I’ll speak to her.”

“Good heavens, no. Don’t do that; it would make matters much worse. Just let it rest, please.”

“Don’t think too hardly of us.”

“I won’t. I was just thinking what a really lovely place this is.”

“Yes,” said Max.

“But a lot of hard work?” queried Laurie.

“Farms always mean hard work for somebody; but there’s nothing against hard work.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t agree with you.”

“Perhaps not. I often wonder why work is so generally disliked. After all, most people don’t do much with their leisure when they get it. Personally, I enjoy doing a good job of work.”

“Well, that’s good,” admitted Laurie, “as long as you don’t despise leisure. One’s as good, and as necessary as the other.”

“We see eye to eye about it,” he told her, smiling.

“Leaning on the gate, like this, for instance, doing nothing. It’s very nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very nice.”

They leaned in silence for a while, then Max stood up.

“It must be time for supper,” he said.

They began to walk back to the farmhouse, side by side, Laurie with her carefree swing, Max with his uneven, limping stride. It was too dark now to see the various farm buildings; they were a dark patch against the less intense darkness of the surrounding fields. But Laurie said how comfortable and appropriate they had looked, nestling into the hollow as if they had grown there.

“I’ll show you over the place, if you’d like,” offered Max.

“I should like it, very much. I’m looking forward to tomorrow afternoon. I don’t go to the Humphries’s then. I intend to walk to the village and make its acquaintance.”

“It won’t take you long to do that,” he said. “You can see all there is to see in a quarter of an hour. But it’s a pretty walk. There are four or five shops; the grocer, the little draper, the ironmonger, and the teashop and the inn. If you want anything that they don’t supply, you have to take the bus into town. That’s seven miles away, and it’s the usual Saturday jaunt for most of the villagers.”

“It’s everyday, for you, but it sounds delightful to me,” said Laurie.

“Most people find it delightful for a short stay, but they soon tire of it. They miss their cinema and their shop-gazing and so on. And they hate the place in wet weather; they say there isn’t anything to do.”

“Which you can’t understand, I suppose?”

“Yes, I understand it. For a visitor there isn’t much to do, but if you live and work in a place, there’s always plenty to do.”

They came to the house.

“You won’t forget, will you, that you’re going to show me over the farm?”

“Certainly not. I shall look forward to it.”

She laughed at him; and still laughing, they went together into the kitchen, coming into its warmth and brightness from the cool dark outside. For a moment, the light dazzled Laurie and she screwed up her eyes, and did not see that Jessica spun round from the cupboards her hands holding a pile of plates, to stare at them with a surprise that rapidly changed to hostility. Laurie pulled off her gloves and slipped out of her tweed coat, and ran up to her room with them. Jessica put the plates on the table, and looked at Max. He was knocking out his pipe on the grate, and looked just as he always looked. He showed no particular pleasure in his face. ‘Don’t like her, Max,’ was the thought that ran again and again through Jessica’s mind. ‘Don’t like her. Don’t take notice of her. Don’t let her come into this house and upset us all.”

She went to his side, standing with her back to the fire. “Max.”

“Mmmm?”

“There’s a good film on to-morrow at the De Luxe. I suppose you wouldn’t like to take me?”

He was about to refuse, as nicely as he could, but something in the tone of her voice stopped him. What was it? Something forlorn? Something that expected a refusal? He turned his head and looked down at her, and he hadn’t far to look for she was almost as tall as he was. He smiled—his natural, charming smile.

“And why do you suppose I wouldn’t like to take you?” he asked.

“Will you?” Her voice light, her eyes shining.

“Of course I will, if you want to go so much.” Should he suggest that there would be room in the car for Roger and Miss Giles? No—let that wait for another time. Jess, waiting for this suggestion from him, was delighted when it did not come out. She stood beside him, happily reading the news over his shoulder, and when Laurie came downstairs again, her hair tidy, her hands washed, she saw them there together. Max was very handsome, she thought; and Jessica, very like him. Jessica could be handsome too, if she took care of herself, but she seemed to have no vanity, and no interest in her appearance. Roger came in through the back door, and they gathered round the table for their supper.

* * *

On Saturday, Laurie walked over to White Lodge for her morning’s work, which she thoroughly enjoyed, walked back again through the sunlit copse, picking primroses on her way, to lunch at the farmhouse; sat down to write a long letter to her mother, and then walked down to the village to post it, and to see what the village had to offer her that was interesting.

She soon discovered the truth of what Max had said about it. When she had walked round the triangular village green, admiring the picturesque small cottages and the lovely Georgian houses which stood haphazardly together, when she had looked into the windows of the grocer, draper, ironmonger and teashop, and strolled round the churchyard and peeped into the church, there was nothing more to do, especially followed, as she was, by the curious eyes of the old men who sat on the circular seat round the old oak on the green, and young men and women who waited for the Saturday afternoon bus. So she went into the grocer’s and bought some sweets, then into the draper’s and bought some stationery, and started on her homeward way. She was lured into a narrow side lane, which climbed steeply upwards and brought her to a sweep of upland which afforded her a lovely view of the village nestling among its trees, the spire of the church serving as a signpost for miles around. She sat on the short grass and let the wind blow through her hair. It was very satisfying to feel the warmth of the spring sun on her face, and she closed her eyes and daydreamed. Later she went back to the farm, to find that there was no special Saturday-feeling here. Mrs. Lorney was preparing the tea, her only concession to the weekend being a black silk dress with a tiny apron.

“Well, and what did you think of the village?” she asked Laurie.

Laurie sank down into the big chair by the fire where Max usually sat.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m weary. I liked it very much; it’s an awfully pretty place. I should imagine you get lots of trippers in the summer.”

“A fair number. Of course, we never see them as far out as this—only occasionally, a car will come down the lane thinking it leads somewhere. I’ll make you a cup of tea right away.”

“No, please don’t bother, I can wait for the others.”

“You must be thirsty after that long walk. I know I always want my tea. How about a glass of milk?”

“That would be lovely,” said Laurie and was presented with a glass of rich, creamy milk. It was cool and smooth and delicious. When she had drunk it, she went upstairs with her coat, and put away her purchases. She stood at the window, looking out and wondering what she would do with all her evenings and week-ends. Never had she lived in such a remote place, and it was difficult to see just how she would occupy her time. ‘Well, anyway, tea first,’ she thought, and went downstairs again.

Jessica was at the fire, toasting scones. She was wearing a tweed suit, and this was the first time that Laurie had seen her out of breeches and jersey. She could look quite striking, thought Laurie, if she tried—in the tall, somewhat commanding way—but it was obvious that she never tried.

There was ham for tea, a large plateful of it for each one of them, and it transpired that this was because Max and Jessica were going to miss their supper. They went off soon after tea, in the car, Jessica having added a battered country felt hat to her suit Laurie helped Mrs. Lorney to wash up.

“This isn’t as it should be at all,” said Mrs. Lorney. “You mustn’t feel obliged to help with the dishes.”

“I don’t feel obliged. I don’t mind wiping up, and it helps you. You must get thoroughly bored with it.”

“No. You get used to the jobs that must be done, that you reach a stage where you do them almost without noticing—but I think it must be dull for you here. What will you do with yourself?”

“Well, I like to read, and sew, and play the piano.”

“There’s a very nice piano in the sitting room. You must use it whenever you like.”

“May I, this evening?”

“Certainly. I’ll light a fire there.”

So Laurie, having taken a walk in the garden and over the fields by herself, in the dusk, went into the sitting-room for the first time, to find a fire burning in the brick fireplace, the plush curtains drawn against the cold spring evening, a small grand piano opened hospitably for her, and a standard of comfort which surprised her a little. She had yet to recognize the utilitarian standards of farming people who were quite comfortably situated. There was no point in lighting fires in sitting rooms, when these rooms were so infrequently used, and when there must always be a large and cheerful fire in the kitchen.

Here, however, Laurie felt rather more at home. The furniture was old, solid and good, the carpet excessively flowered but thick, the side table heavy with old-fashioned silver plate, shining in the firelight. The lamps were turned very low, and Laurie, who was not used to lamps, left them for Mrs. Lorney to see to. She sat down at the piano and began to play. It was a good piano, but sadly out of tune. Perhaps they wouldn’t object if she had it tuned—if she stayed here any length of time.

The door opened and Mrs. Lorney came in. Laurie dropped her hands and turned.

“Don’t stop. It sounds very nice.”

So Laurie played while Mrs. Lorney listened. And then they sat opposite each other at the fireside, and Laurie read her book while the minutes of the evening ticked slowly by. As she read, she paused at times to ponder on the strangeness of finding herself here. On Wednesday evening she had been in the flat with her mother, rushing round to pack everything she would need, and Ferdie and Beryl and Tony had come round to wish her an affectionate godspeed, bringing with them the wherewithal to drink her very good health. They had stayed late, until her mother had insisted that, as she had an early start next day, they must leave, and had shepherded them out of the hall. And now, Saturday evening, she was in a remote farmhouse in the country, where the silence was deeper than she had ever known, sitting in the light of oil lamps and a log fire, opposite a strange, elderly woman, who had not existed for her before Thursday afternoon.

CHAPTER THREE

Dear Mother,

Did you get my first letter? I haven’t had a reply, so if it isn’t already crossing this, please sit down and write at once. I feel very much a stranger in a strange land, and the sight of your handwriting on an envelope would be a most cheering sight. Tell me how you are, and what you are doing with all your time now that you haven’t me to look after, and if you decide to have Beryl in the flat for a few weeks, please put away my clothes and my bath salts and so on, as she has simply no scruples about such things.

Life is very interesting here, but oh, so different. I haven’t adjusted myself yet, but I think I shall like it very much later on. The farm itself is a lovely place and in a lovely place. The house is oldish, red brick and quite good looking in a simple dignified way; but what I like is the way the farm buildings cluster round, and their lovely shapes; you know, sloping roofs to the barns, and the pointed oast-houses. They look as if they’re gathering round the farmhouse like children round their mother. And the country is decidedly wavy, up and down in all directions, like the woodcut in my bedroom.

I think you’d like Mrs. Lorney. She’s about sixty, I suppose, very active and energetic, and sensible. And the way she works! She doesn’t seem to expect or want any leisure. She’s up early, cooking a staggered breakfast, and washing and house cleaning (and it’s a big house for one person to keep clean). Five separate bedrooms to do! A hot midday meal, and a hot supper, loads of washing up, lots of mending and ironing; cooking up chicken food, and washing out milkcloths. Of course, Jessica helps her.

Jessica is a strange person. She’s taken a positive dislike to me. I can’t account for it. I don’t expect everybody to like me, but
she
hasn’t any reason for her dislike. She doesn’t say a word to me if she can possibly help it, and when she has to, it’s brief and disagreeable. She didn’t give me a chance; the first time she saw me she was rude. And they’re such nice people, otherwise.

Roger is twenty-eight. He’s nice looking and tallish. They’re all nice looking, even Jessica, but she doesn’t make the most of herself. Roger is very agreeable, but not too efficient, I gather, at his work. Brother Max has to keep an eye on him. He (Roger) has a girl who lives in the village; a farmer’s daughter, but apparently the kind that doesn’t work on the farm. He went off on Sunday, looking very smart in riding clothes, to go riding with her, and we didn’t see him for the rest of the day. Max stayed at home to do the work.

Max, it seems to me, is the guiding spirit of the place. He has his heart in it. He’s up first in the morning, and out in the milking sheds before the cowman gets here. And he is usually the last to finish at night. I don’t wonder that he just wants to sit by the fire and read the day’s papers and smoke his pipe. He’s always pleasant to me. A bright smile and a cheery word every time he sees me. I think I told you that he is lame. His mother was telling me that he had an accident about eighteen months ago, and smashed his ankle. He was in hospital for months, because it affected the muscles in some queer way. Mrs. Lorney didn’t seem to know exactly what happened, but anyway, the net result was that Max had one leg shorter than the other and consequently limps rather badly. Mrs. Lorney says he feels it badly, but you’d never be able to tell. I imagine Max keeps his feelings pretty well under his hat. Roger ran the farm, mismanaged it and had a disastrous harvest. One way and another Max came back to a lot of trouble.

He took me round the farm on Sunday and was very kind indeed. We talked and talked—at least, as you probably guess without my telling you, I did most of the talking and he was an excellent listener. And when I apologized for talking too much, he said it was refreshing to listen to my chatter! Chatter, indeed. It made me feel about sixteen and hopelessly girlish. Still, we both enjoyed it.

It was really very interesting, Mums; so new for me. Of course, it’s almost spring, and probably a very good time to see everything—it may be pretty bleak in the winter. I think town people like us get quite a wrong impression of farming, a sort of hazy, romantic impression, or else the Mary-Webb, down-to-earth, grim-struggle impression; but going round Max’s farm, I felt that it was an efficiently run business like any other; but you’ve got to have the liking for it.

It’s time for supper, and I must go downstairs. I haven’t told you nearly all there is to tell—about the village, or the Humphries, or the work—but that must wait until next time. Do write as often as you can, love.

Thine,

Laurie.

Dear Mother,

Both your letters arrived safely—many thanks. Yes, I’m sure the flat seems empty and dull—that’s the worst of these away jobs. Why not have Beryl to stay for a while? She would be glad of the change from that criminal landlady, and it would be company for you. And you must come to see me some weekends—there’s quite a nice little inn in the village where I could stay with you, and it’s quite a lovely spot.

Yes, I did mean to tell you about the Humphries, but there was so much to say about the farm. I walk over to White Lodge every morning, over fields and through a very pretty little wood. It seems most unbusinesslike, somehow, to saunter so pleasantly to work. White Lodge is a pleasant house, low and rambling, with a verandah round most of it and a good many precious varieties of climbing plants on its white surface. It’s a more leisurely-looking house than the farmhouse. That doesn’t make sense, probably, but you can guess what I mean. I work in Mr. Humphries’s study. It’s a big room, rectangular, with a huge writing table by the window; a smaller one, complete with typewriter, files and what-not, for myself; and a couple of desks that take the overflow. A thick carpet, comfortable chairs, some very attractive, modern oil paintings, and that’s about all. We haven’t got going on the book yet, as I’m still sorting out vast bundles of notes; and as they are all concerned with bio-chemistry and similar subjects, I spend most of my time wading through technical dictionaries.

Mr. Humphries is big and stocky, with a kind, gentle face, and an occasional saving twinkle in his eye; thoroughly nice. Mrs. Humphries is slight and small, otherwise very much the same, and certainly thoroughly nice. He lives for science and her, and she lives for her garden and him. You can see her most of the day, pottering about in the garden, and there are flowers everywhere—the -greenhouse kinds so far. They have a son and daughter, but not living at home. The daughter is called Diana and is a doctor; the son is Neville and I can’t make out what he does.

I have my lunch by myself in the study. Mrs. Humphries is concerned about it, I think; but I don’t mind at all. They had Denise Scott-Scott living in the house for seven months, poor things, and
you
know what she’s like. Why, we have a complete and very complicated system of dodging her, at the office, as you know; but to have her at breakfast, dinner, tea and supper, brrr! Mrs. Humphries asks me if I will stay to tea about every other day, but usually I refuse. For politeness’ sake, however, I stayed on Wednesday, and enjoyed it enormously.

When I had walked back through the wood and the fields, I came out on to the farm lane just as Jessica came out of her poultry field. She was loaded with buckets, and a basket of eggs, and a little food trough which was broken, so of course, I immediately offered to help her carry it all. She looked me up and down in what was really a quite offensive manner, and said: “No. It would be a pity to get yourself dirty,” and marched off ahead of me. I was wearing my green suit with the wine red jumper and the leather flower, and I’m wondering if it’s simply jealousy that’s making her so rude and so unapproachable. Do you think so? I’m not going to be dowdy simply because Jessica chooses to be.

They have a beautiful piano here at the farm. I wish I had brought my music—they have only elementary stuff and popular songs here. Perhaps you could send me the Chopin Ballades and the Mazurkas for a start. I had quite a long session the Saturday evening that Jessica went to the pictures, but I was a bit timid about playing when the family was around. The other afternoon, however, Mrs. Lorney and Jessica had gone to the women’s institute, or something like that, and were having tea out; so when I got back I thought I’d play for a little before tea. Max was doing the poultry for Jess, and the tea was all laid and ready. I only had to make the tea. So I slipped into the sitting room, which was full of afternoon sunshine, and began to play. I hadn’t been playing long when I heard the door open, and it was Max. He said: “Don’t stop,” so I went on to the end of the movement. It was that lovely Beethoven sonata with the long ninny bit in the middle—the one you like. Of course, my fingers were all thumbs as soon as I knew I had an audience, but when I closed the piano, he said: “Oh just a little more, please.” And when I reminded him of tea, he said he would sooner listen. So I opened it again and played a few other things, and he sat down in an armchair by the piano and listened, with his eyes shut, and his head back. And when we were going into the kitchen for tea, he said: “I wish you’d do that often, Miss Giles; it’s such a rare treat for me.” And so of course we got on to music, sitting alone at the big kitchen table having our tea. You don’t expect a farmer to know about music, or care about it—at least, I didn’t. We forgot time altogether, till suddenly Max said that Reg (the cowman) would be fuming at having to finish the milking alone, and he went out, and I washed up our tea things and cleared the table. We haven’t had any more music since, but I’m looking forward to the next time.

This is all for this time, as it’s getting too dark to see now. Will write again soon.

Much love,

Laurie.

My Dear Mums,

Thank you for the parcel. It arrived quite safely and nothing was broken. And what I did mean to ask you to include was my camera. There are such beautiful places and things here that I feel I must have pictures of them, to look back on when this job is over and done with. The other day I was watching the lambs frisking all round an old farm cart, and wished I had my camera with me. And I’m sure that when the chicks start coming out of their shells, I shall want it, so when you have a minute to spare, darling, do register it for me and send it on.

I’m afraid I have given you rather a wrong impression of the farm. It isn’t grim and it certainly isn’t inhospitable. Only Jessica, and I know that the rest of the family is very cross with Jessica for the unreasonable stand she is taking. The others are kindness itself. Mrs. Lorney is hardworking and severe with herself, but then she looks upon that as a natural way of life, and has plenty of good humor and cheerfulness as well. I feel sure you would like her. Of course she lives quite a different life from you, but you both have that nice common sense attitude to life.
She
makes a wholetime job of housekeeping. All the jams and preserves are homemade; they wouldn’t have a shop cake in the house either; and Mrs. Lorney has no use for laundries. She copes with a simply enormous wash each week.

Roger, and Max too, seem to want me to like it here and to stay here. Roger is pleasant but not personal. He quite obviously has his thoughts elsewhere. His mind is always straying. He likes to go out in the evenings, although it means changing and going off after a real hard day of it; and he goes off on Sundays, too; and has a hankering for fresh fields and pastures new. Of course, Max is the boss here, and I think it irks Roger a bit. He’d like to be boss somewhere. Max is really very nice; he seems to have taken me under his wing. I think he probably does it to counteract Jessica’s unaccountable rudeness.

The other evening, for instance, I had written one or two letters, and found that I was out of stamps, so I asked Mrs. Lorney if she had any. Well, apparently, here you buy stamps from the postman when he delivers letters at about ten in the morning—and I, of course, am usually at White Lodge by then. But she said that Max would have some in the office, and that he was there busy with his correspondence if I liked to go along. So along I went, tapped at the door and went in. The office is quite a bare little room, anyway, and in the evening, without a fire and with rather an inferior oil lamp, it looked quite cheerless. Max didn’t seem to notice it. He said he could let me have stamps, and opened a small drawer to get them out. I saw that he was typing, and it seemed an odd thing for him to be doing. I asked him if he always did it “Yes,” he said, “but probably not at all professionally. And only with two fingers, you know.” So I told him that with an expert the house, he should make use of her. “I shouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You have one job to do.” So we argued back and forth, pleasantly and politely, and the upshot of it was that I sat down at the typewriter (a battered old warrior that hadn’t been oiled for years) and Max sat in the desk armchair and dictated. He said it made him feel very plutocratic, and a little embarrassed, but we knocked off his correspondence very quickly, and I rattled off the envelopes and stamped the lot; and we leaned back in our chairs, very pleased with ourselves. He said: “Miss Giles, you’re a revelation to me. I never before knew anybody who combined efficiency with beauty, and both with such charming naturalness.” Well, that was a bouquet, wasn’t it? but of course I disclaimed the beauty part of it. Don’t imagine, though, because he talks like that, that he is getting fond of your daughter, Mrs. Giles. I think he likes me, but it’s a most impersonal liking. One thing he said, however, I really did like. He said the house was a brighter place for my being in it.

Well, when we had talked for a while we went back into the kitchen. I’d like you to see this kitchen as it is in the evening, when the work of the day is done. The curtains are drawn, and the top of the range is opened so that the firelight spills out into the room, and makes lovely reflections in all Mrs. Lorney’s copper pans. She has some beautiful copper; old preserving pans and enormous kettles and queerly shaped jugs; and they all shine spotless on a dark, carved dresser which they have to themselves. There are several chairs of varying degrees of easiness which are gathered round the fire in the evenings, and we sit round in a circle, such of us as stay at home, reading or sewing or talking. It’s very pleasant On this particular evening, Mrs. Lorney was in her special big chair, and Roger was sitting opposite, smoking and listening to light music from the battery radio. Jessica was tackling some of the ironing. They all looked at us as we came into the room. We were laughing about something, and Mrs. Lorney gave us an indulgent smile in sympathy, and Roger gave us a queer look, teasing. But Jessica glared, as she always does. Max just put his hand under my elbow, in the most impersonal of polite gestures, saying: “Come over to the fire and warm up. It’s cold in the office.” And Jessica banged her iron down on the table, with baffled fury, as if she wished she had me there under it I pretended not to notice. I sat down and picked up my book, and she came over to the fire to change her iron (they have the old flat-irons which are heated on top of the stove), and went back again. Max took up the paper, the radio poured out its soothing syrup, Mrs. Lorney darned, everything seemed very peaceful. Then suddenly Jessica exclaimed, and there was a nasty smell of burning. “Hallo,” said Max, “something gone west,” and we all looked over to the ironing table. Well, there it was, my latest and prettiest nightie, with a huge hole in the shape of the iron right through the back and front Mrs. Lorney said “Jess,” in a very sharp tone, and Jessica said: “Well, I couldn’t help it. The iron’s not so very hot. It’s the stuff.” She didn’t apologize. For a moment I was so angry I couldn’t speak. It was so obvious to me that she had done it on purpose. And then I thought that I simply would
not
let her goad me. I said: “What a pity. Of course, you need a warm iron for that kind of satin, not a hot one. She stood with the nightdress in her hands, the lovely stuff spilling out in folds and the ribbons hanging down, and the huge, ugly burn in the middle of it. “Well, it’s no good now,” she said, and there was a queer note of satisfaction in her voice. “Oh, I’ll make something out of it,” I said, and went and took it out of her hands. Mrs. Lorney went to the table, and picked out all the things that belonged to me and put them aside, saying that she would do them herself another time. Max looked at me, and looked at the stuff and said I must let them get me another to replace it. “Certainly not,” I said. “Please think no more about it. I’m sure it was an accident. These synthetic materials are awkward to iron.” And Jessica gave me such a smug little smile that I knew definitely it was no accident.

She’s the only fly in the ointment here. She seems to
want
to dislike me, but I’m not going to allow her to spoil the rest of the family for me.

My hand aches with writing, so I must stop. Max says I can use the typewriter any time I please, so perhaps, when I have a lot to tell you, I will type my letters in future. Don’t forget the camera, will you, and write to me soon. Give my love to Beryl. I’ll send you both some cream for the weekend.