Listening Valley (26 page)

Tonia did not know what was the matter with her. She felt rather miserable, that was all.

“I want to tell you something,” Celia had continued. “It's about Courtney and me—we're going to be married quite soon.”

“Celia!” cried Tonia in delight.

“Yes,” said Celia, nodding. “Yes, Courtney has changed his mind; he seems to understand my feelings. It's all
your
doing,” said Celia, squeezing Tonia's arm. “It was you who gave him the diary…”

They had talked a lot more about it as they walked along, and Tonia had felt a good deal cheered, for it was so nice to think that she had been able to smooth Celia's path and make her happy. So much for the walk home, and now Tonia's thoughts moved on; she saw herself entering the house and reviewed her conversation with Retta. The mystery of Retta's flight was cleared up now, for Mrs. Smilie had discovered her secret, but the accident to the Chinese jar was still unexplained; it seemed unimportant compared with the other occurrences.

Tonia had gotten thus far in her reconstruction of the day's events when she heard a very timid knock on the door and in answer to her invitation to enter a voice said humbly, “But it's me.”

“Come in, Bay,” said Tonia cheerfully. “I'm in bed, but you can pretend you're the doctor. I must hear what happened. What was Willie like?”

Bay entered and shut the door. “Willie was grand,” he said. “Willie understands the whole thing and he's willing to cooperate. He's coming up to headquarters with me.”

“Will they catch Retta?” asked Tonia anxiously.

“They'll catch her if they want to,” replied Bay. “Willie seems to have no doubts about that, but he thinks the London people will put someone on to shadow her. He says she's very small fry but she might be the means of catching a bigger fish.”

“She's rather silly in some ways,” said Tonia. “I don't think she can have had much experience. She made several slips talking to me.”

“I feel such a fool,” declared Bay. “I feel… Gosh, I can't tell you what an idiot I feel!”

Tonia was glad to observe that whatever else he might feel he was not heartbroken. “You didn't tell her anything,” said Tonia comfortingly.

“Not a thing,” agreed Bay. “I really am careful. I don't even tell
you
things, do I?”

This remark pleased Tonia a good deal, but she hid her pleasure. “You were sorry for Retta,” she pointed out.

“Yes, and of course she
was
attractive. I mean, when I first met her at Dieppe I fell for her with an almighty crash…and then, afterward, when I began—began—well, it sounds frightfully caddish, but I began to—to—”

“Yes, but you couldn't let her down.”

“That was it,” agreed Bay with a sigh of relief. “I simply couldn't. She had lost everything, her parents and her home and her country, so how could I possibly let her down?”

“You couldn't,” agreed Tonia. She hesitated and then asked, “What will they do to her?”

“Not much, unless there's something else against her. It would be difficult to prove that she intended to hand over the information to the enemy.”

“Why did she?” asked Tonia, frowning. “It seems so extraordinary. She hated the Germans, didn't she?”

“I'm not sure about that,” he replied in a thoughtful voice. “She hated the Germans, but I believe she hated us even more. I've been thinking back and remembering things she said—nothing definite, you know, just odd remarks. She thought we had deserted France and left her to face the music; she thought we were taking things too easily…I remember one day we were talking about Vichy and she got quite rabid on the subject and stood up for Pétain like anything. I didn't think much of it at the time, because she often gets excited and says things she doesn't mean, but it all comes back to me now and it all fits in.”

“I know,” said Tonia, who had had much the same experience.

“I want to find out how she got the information,” continued Bay. “That's the important thing. She asked
me
about it, of course, but I was jolly careful not to tell her anything. Somebody must have told her. We keep all our bombs in an underground store near a little cottage—a perfectly innocent-looking little cottage—and there's enough stuff there to blow the whole of Ryddelton sky-high. It doesn't matter telling you now, because we shall move it, of course.”

“The cottage was marked with a cross?”

“Yes. I can tell you it gave me a shock when I saw that sketch with the cross on it. A well-aimed bomb would set off the whole bag of tricks.”

“I'll tell you all I know,” said Tonia, and she began to tell Bay about Retta's expedition to the woods.

Celia's wedding was to be “very quiet.” Everyone said so. Admiral Dunne said so, and young Mrs. Dunne (who was Mark's wife) and Courtney Dale and Celia herself.

“
Quite
quiet,” said Celia. “But we must have Tonia, of course—and Bay Coates.”

“I'd like to have Bob,” said Courtney a trifle diffidently.

“Of course!” cried the others. It was natural that Courtney should want his fellow countryman to keep him in countenance.

Bill was coming on leave, but not Mark. Then there was Mrs. Rewden (who was Celia's eldest sister) and her husband and their two girls, and there was Joyce (another sister) and her two boys. There was Mrs. Raeworth (their nearest neighbor) and Mrs. Murray from Timperton. The list grew and grew (for if you asked one person it seemed that you must ask another); it grew to alarming proportions—alarming because of the food question and the lack of domestic staff.

“What on earth are you going to give them to drink?” asked the admiral anxiously.

“Coffee, I suppose,” said Celia after a moment's thought. “We can't give them wine of any sort. We can't make lemonade, nor tea.”

“They'll have to drink their coffee without sugar,” added Deb, who was the housekeeper.

“We'll give them sandwiches,” put in Celia.

“I might raise some beer,” suggested Courtney.

Admiral Dunne shuddered. He remembered Edith's wedding, a tremendous affair with champagne and wedding cake and the whole county invited, and the more he thought about it the more he disliked the idea of marrying Celia on coffee and sandwiches. Nobody else seemed to be worrying about it, but they were all young and therefore more adaptable; he, alone, was old and tired and sad.

Dunnian House had been shrouded in dust sheets for several years, but now it was being spruced up for the great occasion and decorated with late chrysanthemums and shiny rhododendron leaves in tall vases. It was Deb who was the prime mover in all these activities. Perhaps Deb was thinking of Edith's wedding, too, thought the admiral as he watched her at work and helped her to polish the brasses and to move the furniture.

“It can't be the same, of course,” said Deb suddenly, looking up into her father-in-law's face and smiling gravely.

Admiral Dunne was a little startled, but he need not have been, for Deb had always possessed the faculty of reading one's thoughts.

“It seems—shoddy,” he said unhappily.

“Oh no,” replied Deb, shaking her head. “Not shoddy, really. Celia and Courtney have the principal thing—champagne and wedding cake are just unimportant details.”

The admiral was comforted, for of course it was true. Celia and Courtney had the principal thing, the thing upon which marriage ought to be built, the thing he had shared with Alice—now long dead—which Deb shared with Mark, but which had been totally lacking in the marriage of Edith and Douglas Rewden.

The day was fine and clear and frosty, and when the wedding party arrived at Ryddelton Church they found it full of people. Everybody in the town knew Celia and everybody wanted to see her marry her American. Mrs. Smilie was there in her best hat—a fearsome concoction—and Mrs. Wilson (who kept Rhode Island hens) and Mrs. MacBean and a host of others. Of course everybody had heard the romantic story; people said to one another, “He's a Dunne, really. He's no stranger. He's Miss Mary Dunne's great-grandson, and they'll be living at Dunnian after the war so we'll not be losing Miss Celia…”

The Air Force was well represented, not only Bay and Bob had turned up, but Mannering and Jeefer and dozens of others. Some of them knew Celia and thought Dale was a lucky fellow and others knew Dale and thought Celia a lucky girl. The wedding went off well—as weddings always do—and the congregation emerged from the church and stood about in the street. There was one taxi in Ryddelton, and this had been engaged to convey the bride and bridegroom home to Dunnian for the reception. Their immediate relatives climbed in beside them and filled the taxi to bursting point.

“It's frightful,” declared the admiral, looking out of the window at the crowds of people in the road. “How on earth are they going to get to Dunnian? We ought to have engaged a bus.”

“I tried,” said Bill. “You can't engage buses.”

“They'll find their way out, somehow,” declared Deb.

“I don't see how—without wings,” said the admiral with a sigh.

Tonia had no wings, she had not even a bicycle, but she managed to get a lift to Dunnian House in the baker's van. Bay had borrowed MacLean's motorcycle, which was strictly illegal, of course. He took Bob on the pillion and Mannering hung on with his arms around Bob's neck. Some of the guests bicycled. Some walked. Jeefer and Douglas-Begge got a lift in a tank that happened to be going in the right direction.

It was quite amazing how many people had managed to make the grade (as Bob put it). They trickled into the house and, far from being annoyed at the discomforts they had endured, they seemed proud of themselves for having overcome the difficulties of wartime transport. Even Bob, who had attached himself to Tonia, could find no fault with the appearance of the guests. It was obvious that they had put on their best clothes for the occasion.

“Maybe she's a duchess,” remarked Bob, pointing out an elderly lady who was wearing a magnificent diamond brooch and a cloak of Russian sable.

“She may be, for all I know,” replied Tonia with a smile.

At this moment another old lady bore down upon Tonia with a purposeful air. “You're Mrs. Norman,” she said. “I know everybody else, so you must be Mrs. Norman. I'm Mrs. Raeworth. I would have called but I'm seventy-six and I can't walk as far as I used to… Yes, I know everyone. I could tell you who everybody is and who married who—and why. I could tell you quite a lot of things but I'm not going to, because you would be horribly bored.”

Tonia smiled. She introduced Bob to Mrs. Raeworth and explained that he was anxious to know whether the lady in the sable cloak was a duchess.

“No,” replied Mrs. Raeworth. “There's only one duchess here and she's wearing a WVS uniform…there she is, talking to the admiral. Perhaps you'd like to be introduced to her, Captain—er—”

“Me?” exclaimed Bob. “I wouldn't know what to say!”

Mrs. Raeworth laughed at this and assured him that he need have no qualms, adding that she would make the introduction presently when she had finished talking to Mrs. Norman.

“I wanted to ask you about the Skenes,” she continued. “Edmund Skene's son married a Melville.”

“My sister,” said Tonia, nodding.

“I thought it might be. I shan't say it's a small world because that would be tiresome of me. Edmund Skene was a nice creature but deadly dull. As a matter of fact, I never blamed his young wife for going off with Philip Halley. It created a bit of a stir at the time, but Edmund behaved very sensibly and people soon forgot about it. What is the son like?”

Tonia told her about Jack and Lou.

“Very interesting,” said Mrs. Raeworth, nodding. “Very interesting to me because I used to know old Lady Skene. She was a great character. She was at Edith's wedding and I sat beside her and told her what everybody was doing. She was very shortsighted, but she kept tabs on everything that was going on. Some people were frightened of her but she was a good friend to me. Edith's wedding was a marvelous affair. The whole county turned up in its best clothes and the drive was packed with cars—but I don't believe the guests enjoyed themselves any better than today. Their clothes look just as nice in spite of the fact that they had to come on bicycles. I can't bicycle so I came in the laundry van. The man was most kind and said he would pick me up on the way back. I wonder what Lady Skene would have thought of it,” added Mrs. Raeworth thoughtfully.

“And old Miss Celia Dunne,” suggested Tonia.

“Did you know her!” cried Mrs. Raeworth. “No, of course you couldn't have known her. She died long before you were born.”

“Did you know her?” asked Tonia.

“Very well indeed. She was a delightful old lady, full of life and energy and interested in everyone and everything. I did a portrait of her once—I used to paint when I was young. It was the best portrait I ever did. Perhaps you'd like to see it.”

Tonia said she would.

“This house is full of ghosts,” continued Mrs. Raeworth. “Nice friendly ghosts, you know, and it seems to me that they're all here today. The Dunnes have always liked parties. Dunnian House likes parties; it welcomes you when you come in at the door.”

The drawing room had filled up rapidly and the buzz of talk had grown louder. A young man appeared suddenly at Tonia's elbow with a tray of cups. He was a very nice-looking young man and was wearing a naval uniform, so there was not much doubt as to his identity.

“Do you know Bill?” asked Mrs. Raeworth.

“Not really,” replied Tonia, smiling at him. “I've heard about him, of course.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Norman,” said Bill. “Will you have coffee in a white cup or a blue one? The white cups are bigger but the blue ones aren't quite so thick.”

Tonia smiled and chose a blue cup, but Mrs. Raeworth took a white one, remarking that coffee tasted better in a thick cup. She had brought a small bottle of saccharine tablets in her handbag and she offered one to Tonia. “I never go anywhere without them,” she declared. “It's positively criminal to eat people's sugar and I like sweet things…”

“Look at Monkey-Face,” said Bill. “She's happy, isn't she?”

“Monkey-Face!” cried Mrs. Raeworth. “How often have I told you to stop calling Celia by that absurd name?”

“Dozens of times,” admitted Bill with a grin. “But she
is
like a monkey. She's like a very pretty little monkey, of course…”

“You're incorrigible,” said Mrs. Raeworth. “I shan't waste my time upon you. I shall find that nice young American and introduce him to the duchess.”

“She's a dear, isn't she?” said Bill, looking at Mrs. Raeworth's retreating figure. He added, “Well, everyone seems to have coffee now so my job's finished. Come and sit on the stairs.”

They sat on the stairs together and watched the people. There was an odd sort of feeling about this party, Tonia decided. She felt as if it had all happened before and she had watched it happening, but there was a difference, for this time it was happening right—the right people had been married to each other. There was no doubt of that. Celia and her husband had begun to move about among their guests; Celia's face was shining with happiness, and Courtney bore himself like a conqueror. He bowed and smiled as he was introduced first to one person and then to another (and he seemed to have the faculty of saying exactly the right thing), but his eyes always strayed back to Celia and dwelt upon her with almost incredulous joy.

“It's nice,” said Bill, after a little silence. “But it's sad, too. Sad for me, I mean. Celia and I have always been very special friends.”

“It will make less difference than you think,” replied Tonia in a thoughtful voice. “One kind of love doesn't interfere with another.”

He looked at her in surprise, for he had not expected that she would understand, still less had he expected grave words of wisdom from her. She was so very young and so exceedingly pretty, and Bill (who was a connoisseur of pretty girls) had formed the opinion that if a girl was easy on the eye she was performing her role in life. You could not ask for more—even if you asked for more, you seldom got it.

“I say, that's interesting,” said Bill, moving a step nearer to her and beginning to get down to it in a workmanlike fashion. “You seem to have thought out things…”

They were still talking, comparing notes on the things they thought of, when Bay came out of the dining room with Jim Mannering and found them sitting there.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” declared Bay, frowning.

“It's nice and cool here,” replied Tonia, making room for him on the step.

He sat down. So did Mannering and Jeefer and several others who happened to come along. There was quite a crowd—and a gay crowd at that—sitting on the stairs or leaning against the banisters before many minutes had passed.

***

Tonia had hoped that Bay would walk part of the way home with her, but when the time came to go home he had disappeared so she walked home by herself feeling a little flat after all the excitement. She made an omelet for supper—as Retta had shown her—with dried eggs and mixed herbs. And as she ate it she thought of Retta and wondered where she was and what had happened to her, for since her disappearance nothing had been heard of her and even Bay did not seem to know anything about her. Tonia had not asked Bay, for she felt it was better to leave the subject alone, but she had a feeling that Bay would have told her if he had had anything to tell.

After supper Tonia took the last installment of Great-Aunt Antonia's diary and settled herself comfortably in front of the drawing room fire. There was just a chance that Bay might come in and see her, but it was no use expecting him because he never knew whether he could come or not. It was difficult not to expect him, of course, and every time she heard a step on the pavement she found herself listening and wondering if it was Bay. But the diary was very interesting, and presently she became absorbed and the time passed without her noticing it.

This last book of the diary was more modern in tone, and there were little touches of humor in it—as if Miss Antonia had recovered from the sorrow of her youth and made friends with life. It had been written by an old woman, but a woman who had moved with the times and was vitally interested in people and affairs. There was a short account of the relief of Mafeking and Miss Antonia's reaction to the wave of excitement that had swept over the country.
People seem to have gone mad. They have made the occasion an excuse for a riot of pleasure. There is shouting and singing in the streets and much drunkenness. Is this the way to celebrate the relief of that handful of brave men who have held out for seven long months against hunger and their enemies?
Too
much excitement and too little gratitude to God,
wrote Miss Antonia, underlining her verdict with a firm hand.