Listening Valley (27 page)

There was a great deal in this diary about the people in Ryddelton and their affairs. It was obvious that Miss Antonia was a confidential friend and had a beneficent finger in many pies; and her great-niece decided—after reading some of the entries—that this particular book must not be shown to anybody. Later on, among the chronicles of everyday life, which included details of jam making and lists of shrubs being planted in the garden, Tonia came upon her father's name.

Henry came to see me,
wrote Miss Antonia.
He has grown a great deal and is a very good-looking young fellow, but I can see evidences of a hasty temper I fear he has inherited from his father. Henry is too old now to be offered sugar cookies. He took a glass of sherry with me and accepted a “tip” with evident pleasure. There is no nonsense about Henry—that is one thing in his favor—I look forward to his next visit in the summer
holidays.”

And now Tonia came upon another name she knew.
Jean Smilie is unwell so I went in to see her and took her a book and some calves' foot jelly, which Mrs. Fraser made this morning. Jean is a dear, good creature and her heart is in the right place, but she has not learned tolerance. She expects her neighbors to live up to her standards and judges them by the shine on their brasses.
Tonia laughed at this, for Jean Smilie had not altered much in the forty odd years since this little character sketch was penned.

“Celia” figured largely in this diary. There were constant references to her:
Celia came to tea but could not stay long because it was so cold for the horses. Thomson walked them up and down the streets for half an hour… I drove over to Dunnian to see Celia. She has been ill but is much better and Becky says she will be allowed up tomorrow… Celia came to lunch. She arranged for Thomson to put up at the Rydd Arms so that we might have longer together. We talked of old times. We are both so old now and it is quite true that old people remember their youth clearly and in detail. I asked Celia if she ever heard from Courtney Dale and she replied that she had lost touch with him since Mary died. I told her I had always known that she and Courtney were fond of each other: Celia did not deny it but smiled and said it was a very old story. My poor little romance is a very old story, too. Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would have been if Arthur had lived and we had been married and if Celia had married Courtney Dale and gone to America with him. How strange to think of these “might have beens” and what small incidents shape one's destiny! I can look back and see the gay colored pictures of my childhood, and the dark tunnel through which I wandered after Arthur's death. It was a long tunnel, but I came through it and emerged into the sunshine, the mellower sunshine of the afternoon…and Celia has suffered too, perhaps in a harder way, though it is difficult to measure suffering. Here we are, two old ladies who sit and talk in the firelight. We have been friends all our lives, nearer than sisters. We have lived long and seen much. Some people might think our lives dull and uneventful, but it does not seem so to us. We talked of this and agreed that it is not travel and adventure that make a full life. There are adventures of the spirit, and one can travel in books and interest oneself in people and affairs. One need never be dull as long as one has friends to help, gardens to enjoy, and books in the long winter evenings. “And the hills!” exclaimed Celia. “The hills are always different. I could look at the hills forever, and I thank God every night that I can still see them clearly.” I could not help laughing at this. Celia's bright brown eyes see most things—I remember her annoyance when she was forced to take to spectacles for
reading…

It was at this moment that Tonia heard the planes. So that was why Bay had not come! It was still early, which probably meant they were going far afield—perhaps to Berlin. She sat and listened to them, zooming over the town, the heavy beat of their engines sounding loud in the stillness. She heard them pass and the sound of them die away as they flew over the hills.

Tonia rose and went to bed. She decided not to think about the planes, not to think of Bay. She would think about the wedding and go over every incident, and that would send her to sleep. But somehow or other it was more difficult than usual to get off to sleep, and, when at last she slept, her dreams were troubled and uneasy.

Mrs. Smilie appeared at the usual hour with Tonia's breakfast, for now that Retta had gone they had returned to this pleasant custom. She settled the tray upon Tonia's knees and turned to go without saying anything…and this was so unusual that Tonia was quite startled.

“Is anything the matter?” inquired Tonia.

“What should be the matter?” said Mrs. Smilie, making for the door.

“Mrs. Smilie,
please
!” cried Tonia. “Please don't go away. Have I done something—something to offend you?”

“It's nothing like that,” said Mrs. Smilie, and she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Tonia pushed aside the tray and leaped out of bed and was out on the landing in a moment. “Wait!” she cried. “Please wait, Mrs. Smilie. You
must
tell me what's the matter. Come up here at once. There's something wrong and I must know what it is.”

“It'll do after you've had your breakfast—or later.”

“It won't,” declared Tonia. “I shan't start my breakfast until you've told me.”

Mrs. Smilie hesitated on the stairs, and then came up slowly…and now that Tonia could see her face clearly she knew it was something serious.

“It isn't—” began Tonia, holding on to the banisters. “Oh no, it can't be—it can't be—Bay.”

“Now don't take on, Miss Tonia,” said Mrs. Smilie, seizing her arm and leading her back into her bedroom. “We don't know anything. He may be perfectly all right…and that's why I wasn't wanting to tell you.”

“Missing!”

“Not really,” declared Mrs. Smilie. “They didn't come back, that's all. Maybe they've had to come down somewhere else; that's what's happened, you may be sure. Mr. Coates is a very clever pilot. The Germans are not likely to get
him
in a hurry—”

“They didn't come back,” said Tonia, interrupting the babble of talk. “I suppose the postman told you.”

“That was all he knew—just that they didn't come back. Now, don't worry yourself, Miss Tonia. There's time enough to worry when—”

“I'm all right,” declared Tonia, sitting down on the stool in front of the dressing table. “I'll come down soon. Don't wait, Mrs. Smilie.”

“You'll take your breakfast?” asked Mrs. Smilie anxiously.

“Yes, of course. Don't wait.”

Mrs. Smilie went to the door, somewhat reluctantly. She paused and looked at Tonia, and then she went away.

“They didn't come back,” said Tonia to herself. She leaned her elbow on the dressing table and her cheek on her hand. She had no inclination to cry. She just felt a sense of utter desolation. I might have known, she thought. I did know, really. I knew this would happen some day. Oh, Bay, where are you! What has become of you! Oh, Bay!

It was harder because she knew so little, and because she had no right to know. She had no right to grieve for Bay—except as a friend. She had no right to ask for news of him, to ring up the airfield and find out what was known. They would tell her later, perhaps. Somebody might think of telling her. Some of the others might have seen what had happened to Bay's plane. Bay had seen the end of O for Orange and had told her about it, and so it was possible that one of the other pilots had seen what had happened…and would tell her about it.

She rose and began to dress. It was impossible to think of eating anything, but she poured out a little tea and drank it thirstily. Presently she was ready to go downstairs. She went down and sat in the drawing room. Somebody would come; somebody would come and tell her. She would have to wait.

Mrs. Smilie came in from the kitchen and looked at her and repeated all she had said before. Mr. Coates was very clever—everybody said so. He had come down somewhere; there was no need to worry.

Tonia nodded and agreed with all she said.

“Maybe you'd do the silver this morning,” suggested Mrs. Smilie. “The silver needs doing and I don't have the time.”

“I cleaned the silver yesterday,” replied Tonia, trying to smile.

“You could cut up the vegetables for the soup.”

“Yes, I will—presently,” said Tonia.

Mrs. Smilie went away and Tonia sat quite still and waited and thought about Bay. She remembered the first day she saw him, here, in Ryddelton and how they had passed each other and then turned back. She thought of the evening they had stood at the door and watched the light fade and the darkness gather in pools of gloom upon the street, and a girl had walked past on the other side, and Bay had said, “Wooden soles!” Such a trifle to remember, but it was trifles like this that made up your life, and if there was somebody who could share them with you, understandingly, it made your life a paradise. She remembered other things: Nita's visit and how Bay had come into the kitchen and announced with satisfaction that he had sent her away.” She remembered Bay humming “Listening Valley” in his clear, deep voice and saying, “It's a lovely tune. Let's play it again, shall we?” and she remembered him singing “I'll Walk Beside Thee” and the strange pain she had felt in her heart… Then Retta had come, but even Retta had not spoiled the queer companionable feeling that existed between them, for Retta had been outside it and had not understood. Last, but not least, Tonia remembered Bay saying in a serious voice: “I really am careful. I don't even tell
you
things, do I?”

Tonia had been happy here, but now that she looked back she saw that all her happiness had come from Bay. Yes, every bit of it, for even when Bay was not with her the thought of him made a pleasant warmth in her heart. She knew him so well, inside and out, that she could guess his thoughts, and when she shut her eyes she could see his tall, loosely built figure lounging in a chair; she could see his long-fingered hands that looked big and clumsy but were really neat and capable and well controlled she could see his bright brown hair and his clear-complexioned face and his straight lips that suddenly curved into smiles.

If that had gone—all of it, suddenly and completely—would she be able to bear it? Could she go on without it? Antonia had faced the same ordeal when Arthur was drowned and had struggled through and come out at the other end of the tunnel with her courage and sweetness and kindness unimpaired. Antonia had made friends with life and had been able to say at the end of it, “One need never be dull as long as one has friends to help.”

Tonia twisted her hands together and looked at them…useless sort of hands, but Bay liked them. It was because he liked them that he called her Butterfingers—it was just a silly, tender joke.

***

It was four o'clock and Tonia was making herself a cup of tea when the front doorbell rang. She had almost ceased to expect news by this time, and the bell scared her so much that it took real courage to go and open the door.

It was Jim Mannering.

“Hallo, Tony!” he said with a false jauntiness that was somehow very pathetic. “Hallo, old thing, I thought I'd look in and see you—”

“But how—” began Tonia. “Weren't you there? What happened?”

He came into the hall and threw his cap on the chest, and now she saw that he was very pale, with dark shadows around his eyes.

“Of course I was there,” he said. “At least I suppose you mean in the plane.”

“But it didn't come back!” cried Tonia.

“How on earth did you hear that? Gosh, how extraordinary! Everybody seems to know everything in this blinking place.”

She tried to frame the words, to ask him about Bay, but she couldn't.

“How beastly for you!” added Mannering, looking at her sympathetically.

“It was, rather,” said Tonia in a faint voice.

“Coates is OK,” said Mannering. He was hanging up his belt as he spoke and, very carefully, did not look at her.

Tonia heard someone say, “Oh, that's good!” and realized afterward it was herself.

“Yes,” said Mannering. “He's perfectly all right. He asked me to tell you. He couldn't come himself because he's broken his arm.”

“Oh!” said Tonia. She sat down on the stairs, chiefly because her legs felt so very peculiar.

“But there's no need to worry,” continued Mannering in the same casual sort of voice. “Socks said I was to tell you not to worry. He'll be out of the hospital in no time.”

“Really?” asked Tonia. “I mean, you aren't just—just breaking it gently or something?”

“Good Lord, no,” replied Mannering in horrified tones. “What a frightful idea! He's broken his arm, and of course he got a bit of a shake, but he's absolutely OK.”

“You had better tell me the whole thing,” said Tonia.

“There isn't much to tell. We had a forced landing, that's all.”

“Go on, Jim.”

“Socks said not to tell you too much,” said Mannering doubtfully. “It's all over and he's perfectly OK, so why worry? It was quite an ordinary sort of thing—not even a crash.”

“But it might have been—”

“If you begin to think about what might have been—”

“That's just why you must tell me exactly what happened,” said Tonia earnestly. “We'll have tea, shall we? As a matter of fact the kettle is boiling and it's all ready if you don't mind having it in the kitchen.”

Mannering was only too pleased to have tea in the kitchen; it was warm and cozy and, to tell the truth, he was not feeling too good. They sat down opposite one another at the table and began their meal. Tonia was extremely anxious to hear the story, but she noticed that her guest seemed hungry. He cut a large chunk off the loaf and spread it with honey.

“I hope I shan't eat you out of house and home,” he said, smiling at her. “As a matter of fact I didn't know I was hungry or I'd have had a snack at the mess before I came.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

“Yes—well, so am I. It's nice here,” he replied. She waited as patiently as she could and presently Mannering began to talk. He started somewhat lamely, for he was hampered by the fact that he was talking to a person who did not know the first thing about flying, but after a bit he warmed up to the tale. They had dropped their bombs on the target, Mannering said. There was a good deal of flak but nothing out of the ordinary; in fact, it had been rather a dull sort of trip until they were well on their way home. One of the engines packed up, and this slowed down their speed so that they dropped behind, but that was nothing either; it just meant they would be late. Then, quite suddenly, somebody called out that there were bandits coming up from the south. The moon was pretty bright, but they had been lurking in an innocent-looking cloud—four Me 109's—nasty brutes to encounter without fighter protection. They made a determined attack, coming in from both sides at once but Socks jinked pretty successfully and the port gunner gave them a burst and sent one down. There were only three now, but they came on again. It was a pretty hectic moment, said Mannering. Tracer bullets whizzing past and cannon shells exploding all around. The Halifax shuddered all over when the shells got her but no real damage was done. Socks was dodging about all over the sky in his usual masterly style and puzzling the Jerries a lot. In fact, they were beginning to get a bit sick of it—a bit halfhearted. Most people would have left it at that, said Mannering, but Socks liked to down all the bandits he could. “I know Socks,” explained Mannering. “So I wasn't surprised when he played his little trick; he's done the same thing before.” Sock's little trick consisted of side-slipping and dropping like a stone for several hundred feet. It gave you a bit of a scare if you weren't prepared for it, but it usually worked.

“It worked all right,” said Mannering, smiling reminiscently. “Jerry thought we were done for and came after us, careless-like, to finish us off—but it doesn't do to be careless. Jenkins put in some pretty useful work with the tail gun and they decided to call it a day. Two of them were smoking nicely as they made off. I put them down as probables.

“We had lost a good deal of height and the plane felt a bit sluggish. I looked down and saw we weren't more than thirty feet above the sea. The wireless gear had been damaged but I managed to work out where we were, more or less, and I told Coates. He chirped back that some of the controls had come unstuck so we'd better set a course for the nearest coastline, and he had to make enough height for the crew to bale out. I said why bale out and he said, have a look at the undercarriage. Gosh, I got a bit of a shock when I looked. It was hanging down all tangled and twisted… It wasn't too cheerful inside the plane. It had started to rain pretty hard and the rain was blowing in through the smashed windows. The second pilot was wounded and we were all feeling pretty blue, but we felt a good deal better when we began to climb and better still when we saw the English coast. Dawn was breaking now. It was a gray sort of light and hadn't much effect upon the visibility, but still it was dawn. It meant that if we could struggle on we'd soon have a bit more light. Well, we had no sooner crossed the coast than Socks gave the order to bail out. I was a bit doubtful about Peters—I told you he was wounded, didn't I? But he wasn't too bad and he thought he could make it, so we got him ready and dropped him out. The others all dropped too—except me. I thought I'd stay put.”

“
Why?” asked Tonia, who had been following the story closely.

“Oh, well,” said Mannering. “There were several reasons, really. Socks and I have flown together for ages. I mean, if he was going down the drain I'd just as soon go too, but as a matter of fact I was pretty certain he'd bring it off all right—I know him, you see. Besides, it isn't much fun baling out on a cold dark morning, or at any time for that matter. Anyhow, I made up my mind that if he was going to stick to the old crate so was I.”