Listening Valley (28 page)

“I see,” said Tonia.

“You see,” agreed Mannering. “Of course I didn't think it all out at the time, you know. One doesn't, really. The plane was a good deal lighter when they'd gone. It made quite an appreciable difference and another thing happened—it was our first bit of luck; there was a horrible sort of tearing sound and the Halifax gave a bound. I tell you what it was like,” said Mannering. “It was like the feeling when you let your bombs go and you're too low and the blast gets under your wings. Or, look here, it was like when you're in a lift and it starts to go up with a jerk. I couldn't think what had happened and then I saw that the whole undercarriage had gone. It had just dropped off and disappeared. That was all to the good. You see that, don't you?”

“Not really,” said Tonia doubtfully.

“Oh yes, because it made it easier to land, because there was nothing hanging down to catch on to things. I was so bucked that I hooted down the intercom. Quite forgetting I was supposed to have baled out. Socks sounded a bit snooty. He wanted to know why the devil I hadn't gone. I said I was frightened. I hated baling out at the best of times—he knew that. He said I'd be more frightened before he'd done with me. We were losing height rapidly now, and the country didn't look too good. There were a lot of trees about. But on the other hand it had stopped raining and was quite light—the sun was coming up behind us. We scraped over a thick wood—yes, literally scraped; I could hear the top branches scratching against the plane—and then, suddenly, there was a meadow full of sheep. We had to land, of course. There was no choice and we were lucky it wasn't plow. Socks stalled and pancaked. There was a frightful jerk. The plane seemed to stand on her tail (just for a moment I thought we were going to flip over), but she came down right side up… It was pretty good work, you know. I don't believe anybody else could have done it with the controls all anyhow and no undercarriage, but Socks is pretty good—I told you that, didn't I?

“That's all, really,” said Mannering, helping himself to another cup of tea in an absentminded manner. “Except that Socks had gotten a bullet through his arm. He'd gotten it in the scrap but he hadn't said a word, just tied his handkerchief around it and carried on. He'd lost a good deal of blood and he was pretty well all in. I got him out of the plane and tied him up as best I could and left him in a sheltered sort of place while I went to the farm to get help. I was glad I'd stuck to Socks. All the way to the farm I kept on feeling pretty glad about it. The farmer was a decent soul; he took Socks to the hospital while I phoned up headquarters and told them what had happened. As a matter of fact they knew a good deal about it already because Jenkins had phoned. They're all right—I mean, the rest of the crew—except Willard who broke his ankle…Well, I've told you now,” said Mannering after a pause. “That's absolutely all. Socks is absolutely OK so you needn't worry about him. We'll be phoning up the hospital tonight—it's in Yorkshire—and I'll let you know what they say. You aren't worrying, are you?”

It was a cold frosty night in December; Tonia was sitting reading by the fire when the door opened and Bay walked in.

“Bay!” cried Tonia in amazement.

“Yes, it's me,” declared Bay. “I got out of that bl-blinking hospital this morning, and here I am. Lord, I was tired of the place! They've given me three weeks' leave and then I've got to be boarded…”

He looked thinner and paler and was carrying his left arm in a sling, but otherwise he seemed much as usual, quite fit and cheery.

“Come and sit down,” said Tonia, piling cushions into a chair and arranging it near the fire. “I'll make you some tea—or would you rather have hot chocolate? I'm sure you shouldn't be out in the cold…”

Bay laughed. “Don't fuss, Butterfingers,” he said. “I've had enough fussing to last me for years, and I'm perfectly fit now. Let's go out, shall we?”

“Out?”

“Yes, come out for a walk. It's cold but you don't mind that, do you? I've been shut up in that wretched hospital and I want some fresh air.”

“But, Bay—”

“It's all right,” he assured her. “Why shouldn't we go out? I've often wondered why people make a habit of sleeping all night. It seems such a waste. Sometimes you get a soaking wet day followed by a beautiful night.”

“So then you should sleep all day and go out all night,” put in Tonia, smiling. “It sounds splendid, but what about housekeeping? The shops don't remain open all night.”

“They ought to,” declared Bay. “I mean, it's an idea. It has tremendous possibilities. If half the population were night birds the British Isles wouldn't be so overcrowded.”

Tonia got her coat and wrapped a scarf around her head and they went out together, locking the front door behind them with the enormous iron key.

“It's like the key of a jail,” said Bay, looking at it with interest. “And what a weight it is! Cast iron, I suppose.”

“I like it,” said Tonia.

“I like it, too. I like everything about your house.”

The moon was almost full, sailing placidly in a cloudless sky, and there was a crispness in the air, a touch of frost, but it did not feel very cold, for there was no wind. Tonia and Bay turned up the steep lane that led to the woods and began to climb. They said very little to each other but there was no constraint about their silence. It was quite different from the day they had walked over to Dunnian together.

Quite soon they reached the woods, and the woods were silver with moonlight and dark where the shadows fell. The firs had a light sprinkling of frost upon their fanlike branches. The bare branches of the chestnuts seemed to be hung with stars. If Tonia had been alone she might have been a little frightened, for there was something very eerie about these black and silver trees, and it was so still—not a sound broke the stillness except the soft thud of their footsteps on the bone-hard ground. They had come pretty fast, and Tonia was quite breathless when they reached the little quarry on the hillside. Bay spread his waterproof and they sat down and looked across the valley without saying a word. The valley looked quite different tonight—all black and silver, with the river and the little lochs shining like pieces of looking glass.

“Listening Valley,” said Bay, in a low voice. “Are you listening tonight, Butterfingers?”

“Not really,” she replied—nor was she, for her thoughts were too full of Bay.

“I'm listening,” he said. “But I only hear things secondhand. I don't have words for them myself. So I have to use other people's words.”

“Tell me, Bay.”

He hesitated and then said, “‘How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here let us sit and let the sound of music creep in our ears.'”

“It might have been written especially for us!” exclaimed Tonia.

“I think it was,” said Bay, and he put his arm around her.

She leaned against him without speaking.

“Tonia, I love you awfully,” said Bay.

“I know, darling.”

He kissed her.

***

Quite a long time after that Bay said, “Let's be married soon.”

“Why?” asked Tonia.

“Because—oh, well, there are several reasons. First of all, you're such a darling.”

“And second?”

“It would be sensible,” said Bay in a thoughtful voice. “We've got to face things, Butterfingers. I might have another crash and I might not be so lucky.”

“Bay!”

“It's no use shirking, darling. If we were married you would get a pension—see?”

Tonia clasped her hands together. She said in a carefully controlled voice, “But you aren't just marrying me for
that
—to protect me? No, listen, Bay. I've got quite enough money to live on comfortably,
more
than enough, so—”

“Oh, Butterfingers, do be quiet!” cried Bay. “How silly you are! I've been in love with you since I was seven years old.”

They laughed then, both of them—it was a relief to laugh—and Tonia declared that she did not believe him. If he had loved her when he was seven years old he had shown it in a funny way.

“That's the way it took me,” replied Bay. “I was a wild little devil. Of course I didn't know what was the matter with me.”

“When did you know?”

“Not until that night when I sang ‘I'll Walk Beside Thee,'” replied Bay promptly. “I knew then, quite suddenly. I knew I wanted to walk beside you for the rest of my life…
and
there
was
Retta!
But let's not talk about that. Let's talk about getting married. When shall we put up the banns? That's the first thing to do, isn't it?”

“No,” said Tonia, firmly.

“No?”

“We can get a special license and be married next week.”

“Butterfingers!” exclaimed Bay incredulously.

“Oh, this is awful,” said Tonia, turning her head away. “It sounds so—so queer, doesn't it? I ought to be like dear old Antonia, all coy and maidenly—”

“And I ought to come riding up to Ryddelton Castle on a white horse to ask Papa's consent,” added Bay, laughing.

“You can laugh if you like, but there was something
nice
about it, Bay. Honestly there was. I would much rather have it like that, with everything done slowly and in proper order…but there isn't time, nowadays. We have to take things when we can get them. We have to gulp them down instead of sipping them.”

“I know,” said Bay, tightening his arm around her.

“It spoils the flavor,” declared Tonia with a sigh.

“No—no I don't think so.”

“I think it does, a little, but we can't help that. You see, Bay, if you're having three weeks' sick leave we could be married and spend our honeymoon at Melville House.”

“It's a marvelous idea!”

“And quite sensible?”

“Very sensible.”

“Bay, listen. Perhaps you would rather wait…wait till after the war,” suggested Tonia anxiously.

“Perhaps I wouldn't,” replied Bay in firm accents. “You can't do that, you know. It isn't fair. You can't offer a man a piece of cake and then snatch it away again. It just isn't done. Your idea is the most marvelous and sensible idea I ever heard in all my life. I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. Of course it would be a frightful waste not to get married…but perhaps you're regretting it,” continued Bay, thoughtfully. “You may have changed your mind, suddenly, and decided you don't want me to come and hang up my Sam Browne on the peg in your hall.”

“Oh, Bay, you know perfectly well—”

“Darling,” said Bay.

***

“There's just one other thing,” said Bay after a little silence. “I hope you don't mind my asking. It's about—Robert.”

“Yes,” said Tonia slowly. “No, I don't mind. In fact, I'd like to tell you. I've been thinking about Robert a good deal, myself, wondering whether I had been—well, unfaithful, if you know what I mean. But I believe Robert would be glad about us. I believe he
is
glad. Robert was a splendid person. He was wonderful. When I married him I was a miserable sort of object—scarcely human, really,” said Tonia smiling rather sadly.

“Butterfingers, surely—”

“Honestly, Bay. I was all tangled up inside and frightened of everything…almost frightened to
breathe.
I don't know what Robert saw in me, I'm sure. He undid all the tangles and showed me how to live. He loved me and believed in me. I loved Robert very, very dearly, and I shall always love him, but that doesn't interfere with what I feel for you.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bay anxiously.

“Quite sure, because it's a different feeling—not less nor more but just completely different.”

“I think I see.”

“You
must
see,” urged Tonia. “We're partners, Bay. I'm your Mrs. Dundas. I'll go out with you in any weather.”

“Oh, darling, that's perfect!” he exclaimed. “You're always doing that—saying things that I feel but can't express. I'll go out with you in any weather, too.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dundas,” said Tonia, smiling at him, her small face very white in the moonlight.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dundas,” repeated Bay.

They shook hands quite solemnly—and then laughed.

***

Bay had to go back to the airfield, so they walked as far as the gate together and there they said good night. There was a little shower as they came through the woods, a silvery moonlit shower, very beautiful, and then the cloud passed and it was fine and clear. Tonia paused at the gate, for she need not hurry. Nobody was waiting for her. She could stay here all night if she liked. The moon had moved across the sky and was setting behind a group of pine trees. It looked like a big lantern hung upon the branches. The silver light flooded the whole land; trees and walls stood out dark against its brightness. The roofs of the little town were silver too, for they were still wet from the shower. She leaned her arms upon the gate and looked down. Dear friendly little town, thought Tonia.

She was happy, and yet she was sad; for Bay loved her and she would have him for three weeks. He would be perfectly safe for three weeks, and her very own. After that…but some people didn't even have three weeks. She ought to be grateful. She
was
grateful. But if only the war could end, thought Tonia, pressing her hands against the rough, wet surface of the weathered wood. If only something could happen now, this very minute, so that the war would be over and all the misery of it; so that you could enjoy the beauty of the world without this burden of sadness, this racking anxiety that turned your bones to water; so that you could go to bed and sleep in peace without wondering how many splendid men had been killed today, and how many more would meet their deaths tonight, and how many mothers and wives would be carrying hearts of lead in their bosoms. It was not only on Bay's account that she feared and sorrowed—though of course Bay was nearest to her. It was not for Courtney, either—though Courtney meant everything to Celia, and Celia was her friend. It was the sorrow of the whole world that moved Tonia's heart tonight. It seemed to her that the world was tired and sick, that the whole of creation was suffering.

The clock in the town struck ten and immediately a bugle rang out, playing the Last Post. The silver notes floated in the air, clear and cold and otherworldly—silver notes in the silver moonlight. It was unbearably perfect. As the last questioning notes died away in the stillness (whither, whither, they seemed to ask), Tonia's eyes were full of tears. Her cheeks were wet.