Celia's House (22 page)

“You're sure you can spare her?”

Alice nodded. “Just for a few days. Don't keep her too long. She's such a comfort to me, Mark. Of course, if she was going to be married it would be different.”

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“I should
have
to do without her then,” Alice said, smiling at him.

“But Deb isn't going to be married, is she?” Mark asked in alarm.

“No, of course not,” said Deb, smiling.

The plan was discussed and arranged. Deb took no part in the discussion; she let them arrange it as they pleased.

• • •

The next day was fine and sunny. Mark and Deb went back to Timperton together, taking their luggage with them in the car. Mrs. Craig was waiting for them on the doorstep, and soon all three were hard at work putting the house in order.

“Which room are ye having, Miss Dunne?” asked Mrs. Craig, coming into the scullery where Deb was scouring pans. “If ye tell me which room I'll take the luggage up the stair.”

“The smaller room,” replied Deb, “and, by the way, I'm not Miss Dunne. Miss Halley is my name.”

“I thocht ye would be his sister!”

“No, I'm his cousin. Don't forget to put that hot-water bottle I gave you in his bed. You had better do it now in case the bed is damp.”

“I'll see to it,” replied Mrs. Craig.

Mrs. Craig left early and Deb and Mark got their own supper. There was cold ham and boiled eggs and a crisp lettuce from the garden, and bread and butter and honey. Deb made the salad dressing and the coffee.

“I hope you've had enough to eat,” she said, looking at him anxiously.

Mark laughed. “If I never fare worse I shall be lucky. It was a lovely supper, Deb.”

They washed the dishes together, laughing over the unaccustomed task.

“It's fun,” Mark said as he dried them carefully and put them away on the shelf. “It's tremendous fun washing dishes, isn't it? I like to see them all nice and clean and shining…all the cups hanging on their own little hooks.”

Deb agreed. She stoked the fire so the water would be hot for Mark's bath and followed him into the sitting room. It was dark but warm and still; they sat at the open windows and looked out at the stars. They did not talk much, for they were both weary. It was lovely to sit and rest after the day's work.

“Bed early,” Mark said at last, rising and knocking out his pipe. “I've got to be up early tomorrow. I'll lock up now, I think.”

Deb liked her little room and the bed was comfortable, but she lay awake for a long time listening to Mark's footsteps going to and fro. She heard him in the bathroom, splashing in his bath, and then she heard him in his bedroom next door. He was moving about unpacking his things. The wardrobe door creaked and the drawers scraped as he opened and shut them. Deb was happy to be here, helping Mark, but she was a little unhappy too. She wondered what Henrietta would say if she knew about it. Deb had tried not to be too like a doormat—but so far she had not tried dynamite.

Mark went off next morning looking very smart in his new tweed suit. When she had said good-bye to him at the gate Deb started work; the house was clean now, but there was still plenty to do: curtains and cushion covers to be washed and hung out to dry, brasses to be polished. Mrs. Craig cooked the lunch—it was midday dinner really—and soon after one o'clock Mark returned.

“How did you get on?” asked Deb, meeting him at the door. “Was everything all right? Were they nice patients?”

“I got on quite well,” Mark replied shortly.

He said no more, and he seemed so withdrawn and preoccupied that Deb did not bother him with questions. She glanced at him anxiously several times as they ate their dinner together, and she saw that his brows were knitted in a frown. Mark was not worried; he was
angry
—whatever could it be? After they had finished their silent meal Mark rose and took out his pipe and began to fill it carefully.

“Mark, is something wrong?” asked Deb.

“Yes.”

“What is it, Mark?”

“It's the most awful nonsense I ever heard in all my life,” Mark declared emphatically. “I wish I'd never come to this damned place! They're nothing but a lot of gossiping old women, that's what they are.”

Deb looked at him in dismay.

“It's—it's an insult really,” Mark continued heatedly. “It's made me feel—feel that I don't want to stay here at all—if that's what they're like—narrow-minded, bigoted old women!”

“What is it all about?” Deb asked in bewildered tones.

“About you,” he replied savagely. “Mrs. Craig has been talking; apparently it's not ‘the correct thing' for me to have you here.”

“Oh, that's what it is!” Deb exclaimed in great relief.

“Yes, that's what it is. Dr. Anderson spoke to me about it. He was quite nice, as a matter of fact. I explained to him that you were my sister in all but actual fact, that we had been brought up together and that you were one of the family. He understood, of course, but he said other people might not understand and that it would lead to a lot of talk; people had already started to talk, he said. Isn't it absurd?”

“Yes,” said Deb, smiling.

“You seem amused!”

“Yes. You said yourself it was absurd.”

“It's sickening,” declared Mark, frowning more than ever. “Fancy those brutes
talking
about
us.
I wonder how Mrs. Craig guessed you weren't really my sister—nosy old thing! We were having such a happy time together, weren't we?”

“What will you do?” asked Deb.

Mark looked at her sharply. He was surprised at her attitude, surprised and a trifle hurt. He had expected her to be surprised or angry or embarrassed or distressed. He had expected her to say, “Oh, Mark, how silly of them. I've always been your sister, haven't I?” or words to that effect, but, instead of that, Deb seemed rather amused. She was taking it very calmly; she did not seem to be worrying about it at all. “What will you do?” she had said in a casual sort of voice as if it did not matter very much what he did.

“Fortunately,” Mark said in a solemn tone. “Fortunately the Misses Anderson have managed to arrange with the two maids to come tomorrow instead of next week. I must manage tonight as best I can.”

“That's splendid, isn't it?” Deb said cheerfully. “I had better go pack. Perhaps you would ring up Dunnian and arrange for Downie to come over and fetch me.”

• • •

That evening, when Mark returned, there was no Deb to greet him at the door. The house was empty. He found the key under the mat—where Deb had left it for him—and opened the door and went in. He was alone in the house. It was rather an odd feeling to be quite alone. Mark had never been alone in a house before. The clock in the hall was ticking loudly; the stairs creaked as he went up to take off his shoes. He could hear a window blind flapping—a maddening sound—and he traced it to Deb's room and went in and shut the window. Deb's room! She had slept in it for one night and nothing remained in it to show that she had been here, but somehow the room seemed full of Deb. That was odd, wasn't it?

His supper was ready for him on the dining room table—the same kind of supper as last night, ham and salad, honey and brown bread. All Mark had to do was heat the coffee and boil an egg and he accomplished this not very onerous task without any difficulty. Supper over—and over in record time—Mark removed the dishes to the pantry and proceeded to wash up. He had enjoyed the task last night, but tonight it was no fun at all; in fact, it was an unmitigated bore. One of the cups slipped through his fingers and fell with a crash on the floor and Mark was so angry with the beastly thing that he kicked the pieces under the sink and left them there.

It was a still, dark night and the stars were shining, but Mark drew the curtains and lit the light. You couldn't sit and look at the stars all by yourself. He took up a book and began to read. Every now and then he looked up and his eyes strayed to “Deb's chair,” the chair in which Deb had sat last night. It was an old-fashioned chair with an upholstered back, rather straight, and it had wooden arms ornamented with carving. Not a pretty chair, not even a very comfortable one, but Mark decided there was something rather nice about it. He went on reading, but the words did not make much sense… He found himself listening…

Curse those old busybodies
, thought Mark. If it had not been for them Deb would be here now, sitting in her chair, talking to him. How utterly ridiculous it was! He wanted Deb—he really needed her—and Deb liked being here, but just because she was not really his sister he could not have her; she could not come. How small-minded people were! How dense and stupid and unreasonable!

Mark had worked himself up into such a state of fury that he lay in bed for a long time before he could get to sleep, and when his alarm went off at seven o'clock, he felt as if he had had no rest at all. However, it was no use grumbling. He rose at once, boiled an egg, made himself some tea, and ate his breakfast at the kitchen table, drinking out of a cracked cup, which he found on the shelf in the kitchen. He did not make toast nor heat up the porridge (it was too much trouble), and he did not wash the dishes. The maids would be here today—they could wash up.

At one o'clock when Mark returned, expecting to find the maids installed and his lunch ready, he found instead an empty house. He ate some bread and cheese and drank a glass of water. They did not arrive at teatime, nor at supper time either. The scullery sink was full of dirty dishes waiting to be washed and the larder was almost bare. Mark had not thought of ordering in any food from the shops; he was not used to housekeeping. There was a little milk in the larder and a crust of stale bread and a tin of beans. Mark took these not very delectable viands into the kitchen and ate them without much appetite. He was too angry to be hungry and too much alarmed—supposing the maids did not come at all! What on earth was he to do!

At ten o'clock the garden gate creaked and the two maids walked in; they were a curious pair—or so Mark thought—blowsy-looking girls, dressed up in shabby finery and not particularly clean, but, for all that, Mark was delighted to see them. He opened the door and let them in; he showed them around. They were not very pleased when they saw the dirty dishes (in fact, it was touch and go whether they would turn around and walk out), but Dr. Dunne seemed a nice gentleman, so they decided to stay.

Mark went to bed in high glee, for he thought his troubles were over, and so they were in some ways. His bed was made, his meals were prepared at the right hour, and there was always plenty of hot water, but in spite of these creature comforts, Mark was not happy. He was restless, he could not settle down to read, he could not sleep properly…and the odd thing was that although there were now two females in the house, swishing about with dusters and mops and conversing with one another from room to room in raucous voices, the house still felt empty.

Jean was not really a bad cook, but she was careless and uninterested. She gave Mark mince and potatoes, followed by a stodgy rice pudding and somewhat wizened prunes…and the next day there was stewed steak and potatoes, sago pudding and rhubarb…then it was Irish stew and apple dumpling…then it was mince again. There was nothing to complain of really, but still…

Mark put down his knife and fork and looked at his plate with positive loathing.
I'm ill
, he thought in alarm.
The food isn't bad—I've eaten far worse in the hospital and never given it a thought—it's me.
He knew so much about the frailties of the human frame and especially of the digestive organs, and, in the last few days, he had seen so many people suffering from faulty digestion that he was ripe for alarm.
Yes
, thought Mark,
yes, that's what it is. I can't sleep properly. I feel restless. I loathe the sight of food…

Two more days passed and Mark was no better. He felt tired and depressed; he was beginning to lose weight.
I mustn't worry about myself
, he decided.
Worry is the very worst thing
…and he worried all the more.

On the third day he returned from his afternoon round in a very dejected condition and, calling to Clara that he wanted his tea at once, he opened the door of the sitting room and walked in…and there was Deb sitting in the armchair by the window with a pile of socks and a work basket beside her on the floor.

“Deb!” Mark exclaimed in amazement.

“Hello!” she said, smiling at him across the room. “Aunt Alice was worried about you, so I thought I'd come over and see how you were getting on. It's just as well I did, for you haven't a whole pair of socks to your name… Look, Mark!” She held up a sock as she spoke and waggled a finger at him through the toe.

“It's
lovely
to see you,” Mark declared enthusiastically.

“Did you miss me?”

“Miss you! Of course I did. I've been horribly lonely.”

“Nobody could object to your having your cousin to tea, could they?”

“Nobody,” replied Mark. “They'd better try. I shall know what to say to them.” He dropped into a chair as he spoke and feasted his eyes upon her. What a dear she was! How kind and comfortable and companionable! How easy to look at! The sun was shining in at the window and finding lights in her smooth brown hair; her eyes were soft and sparkling.

“It's ridiculous that I can't have you here,” Mark said in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I've been thinking about it a lot, and the more I think about it, the more ridiculous it seems. It's those old hags—they have nothing to do all day but poke their noses into other people's affairs. If it were not for them, you would come over and stay with me now and then, couldn't you?”

“Yes,” said Deb, but she said it doubtfully.

“I mean, you like being here and I like having you. It's absurd, isn't it? You've always been my sister, haven't you?”

“No,” said Deb.

“No!” Mark echoed in amazement. “What do you mean, Deb?” He looked at her as he spoke and saw that she had raised her head and was looking back at him with a level gaze. Her face was flushed; her eyes were very bright.

“No, Mark,” Deb said steadily. “I haven't been your sister for a long time—not for years and years. I haven't wanted to be.”

“Deb—”

“It's all right, Mark,” she continued. “You needn't worry about it. It's just that I thought it better to tell you, that's all. We've always been able to tell each other things, haven't we?”

“But, Deb—”

“I thought it
straighter
to tell you,” said Deb, picking up another sock and examining it closely. “That's what I thought. It seemed—wrong somehow—to let you go on talking about sisters. It seemed—silly—”

“Oh, Deb, I never thought—”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “I know you didn't. Why would you? It doesn't matter anyway. It doesn't change anything, Mark.”

“Oh, yes, it does—” Mark began.

“No,” Deb said firmly. “No, it doesn't change anything at all. We're friends, Mark. That's better than brother and sister because you choose your friends.”

“Oh, Deb, what a fool I've been!”

“No, you haven't. You mustn't worry! I'm perfectly happy, you see. Perfectly happy and contented,” Deb said, raising her head again and smiling at him cheerfully.

“Deb, darling—”

“No, Mark, please. Please understand—”

“I've been the most awful fool—”

“No, you haven't—”

“Yes, I have,” he cried. “Yes, I've been the biggest fool in creation. Deb darling—dearest Deb, can you ever forgive me for being such a fool? Of course I love you! Of course I want you! I've been wanting you every moment. I've been miserable without you, utterly miserable, and I never realized what was the matter with me. Did you ever hear of a man being such a fool?” He knelt down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her very gently.

“No, Mark,” said Deb. “Please don't…I didn't mean…” And she pushed him away. She had one of his socks over her hand, a gray woolen sock with a large hole in the heel of it. Mark took the hand, sock and all, and squeezed it tenderly.

“It isn't the slightest use saying ‘no' to me,” declared Mark. “Not the very slightest. It isn't any use trying to push me away either. You may as well make up your mind to that.”

“Oh, Mark, I shouldn't have told you!”

“No, you should have let me go on being miserable,” agreed Mark. “Perhaps, in two or three years' time, I might have realized what was the matter with me—unless I had died in the meantime, of course.”

“Don't be silly,” said Deb, smiling through tears.

“I can't help being silly,” Mark replied gravely. “I must have been born silly, I'm afraid. Fancy being madly desperately, crazily in love and treating yourself for indigestion! I can't think of anything sillier, can you?”

“Oh, Mark, aren't they feeding you properly?” Deb asked with sudden anxiety.

At this moment, before Mark could reply, there was a thump on the door; it sounded as though some heavy wooden object had been thrown against the panel. Deb looked up in alarm, but Mark knew what it portended; he sprang to his feet and stood with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. “Yes, it's a beautiful afternoon,” Mark said loudly.

In came Clara with the tea tray; she shut the door behind her with her foot and dumped the tray on the table, breathing heavily the while.

“The milk's not come,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Will ye wait on it or take yer teas noo?”

Mark was about to reply that they would wait, but Deb got in before him.

“Bring a lemon, please,” Deb said sweetly. “Dr. Dunne likes his tea with a slice of lemon in it…and please change your apron; it's very dirty.”

She saw that Mark was laughing silently, his shoulders heaving with the stress of emotion, but she managed to keep a straight face until Clara had retired. Then they both laughed together, uproariously, and they were still weak and hysterical when Clara returned, clad in a clean apron with a teapot in one hand and a lemon in the other. She put the lemon and the teapot on the table, side by side, and went away.

“I really don't know what we're laughing at,” Deb said at last, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief.

Mark gasped. “Don't you? The answer is a lemon—that's all.” And he laughed again, louder than before.

After a little while they became more sensible. They drank their tea with slices of lemon in it and talked of all sorts of things: of the time when they were children together and of all the things they had done and said. Deb reminded Mark of their first walk in the woods when they had seen the ruined cottage and found the silver spoon. She still possessed the spoon; she had cleaned it and hidden it away in a drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. It was one of her greatest treasures and always would be.

“We loved each other then,” declared Mark. “We've always loved each other, Deb, only I never knew it. The maddest thing I ever did was to try to persuade you to marry Oliver. It was a crazy thing to do. The fact was I wanted you to be settled near Dunnian so I could see you sometimes—”

“No, Mark,” said Deb, interrupting this ingenious explanation with a decided air. “No, Mark, that wasn't the reason at all. Why should we invent things? You didn't love me then; you were fond of me, of course, but it was Tessa you loved. Don't let's pretend; let's face it, Mark. As long as you're sure you love me now, that's all that matters.”

“Dearest,” Mark said earnestly. “Dear, dear Deb, I've loved you all the time.”

“No, Mark.”

“Yes really. It was poppy dust in my eyes that made me think I loved Tessa—just poppy dust.”

• • •

It was time now for Deb to go home. Downie was waiting for her with the car and Deb was too considerate to keep him waiting long. She picked up her hat off the chair and Mark helped her on with her coat.

“I'm afraid Clara will leave,” Mark said apprehensively. “I could see she was annoyed…”

“Of course she'll leave,” Deb said calmly, “and the cook can go too—those scones were a perfect disgrace. It will be better to have one really experienced maid; we shall be much more comfortable.”

Mark saw her off in the car and then he went upstairs; he took the bismuth mixture off the shelf and emptied it into the sink, then he stretched his arms above his head and laughed for sheer happiness. His supper was ready by this time and he ate it with relish; he ate it thinking of Deb. Dear Deb, how sweet she was, how pretty and kind! He had always loved Deb; he was sure of it. They suited each other perfectly. There was nothing in Deb to excuse or overlook; he knew her to the depths of her soul and she was pure gold all through. Every now and then during the evening, Mark raised his head and looked at Deb's chair…and smiled happily. He was still restless, but it was a different kind of restlessness. He was restless because he was full of joy. Mark felt he wanted to sing and dance, he wanted to rush out into the garden and shout at the top of his voice…but he managed to curb these peculiar impulses. He sat and looked at the fire, thinking of Deb and smiling fatuously—then he thought of himself, and of what a fool he had been, and chuckled aloud. Mark was still chuckling when he went upstairs to bed.

But after he had been lying there for a little while, an uncomfortable thought crossed his mind. He and Deb had talked of all sorts of things. They had straightened things out between them and cleared up every vestige of misunderstanding, but he could not remember asking Deb to marry him. He had never once put the all-important question into plain words. Did Deb
really
understand? Did she realize that he wanted to marry her at once, as soon as possible, that he could not possibly live without her? Mark sat up in bed and tried to think. He went back and tried to remember all that had been said…

Yes, it was all right, thought Mark with a sigh of relief. Yes, it was perfectly all right. Deb had used the word
we
. She had said, “We shall be much more comfortable.” Mark lay down and went straight off to sleep.