Listening Valley (3 page)

There was a small kindergarten school at the end of the street, run by a maiden lady and her married sister, and every morning at nine o'clock Nannie took the Melville children to the door and left them there, calling back to fetch them at twelve o'clock precisely. Miss Mann and Mrs. Grant were quite unlike each other, the former was tall and thin and extremely conscientious, the latter round and fat and easygoing. Unfortunately neither lady had a way with children, so the school was noisy and ill-disciplined. It was not so bad when the small scholars were anchored safely to their desks, for Miss Mann was a good teacher and able to hold their interest, but when the break came the children spent their time chasing each other around the classroom, shrieking and yelling like maniacs, or ran helter-skelter to the changing room where they had left their schoolbags. These schoolbags contained a bottle of milk and some cookies that were consumed by their owners halfway through the morning—and to see the children fighting and jostling one another in the doorway in the effort to get the food, one might have imagined that they had come to school without any breakfast.

The Melvilles did not take part in this melee but stood aside and waited quite patiently until the coast was clear. They were not used to other children and disliked being jostled, and they found the noise and bustle somewhat alarming. Tonia was more alarmed than Lou. She had envisaged school as a place full of people like herself, but she soon discovered that she had nothing in common with her fellow students—nothing except size.

“Antonia and Louise
look
on
,” said Miss Mann to her sister. “They look on at school as if it were a pantomime.”

“They're soft,” replied Mrs. Grant. “But they're no trouble to teach. Antonia learned to read in six weeks. Her concentration is remarkable.”

“They're too good!”

“I wish some of the others were like them. Bay Coates, for instance.”

“Bay
is
a problem,” sighed Miss Mann.

Bay was the worst boy in the school. He was a rebel from the top of his bright brown head to the tips of his toes. His eyes were bright brown, too—the color of an autumn beech leaf—and his teeth were very white and pearly in his suntanned face. He was small but sturdy. He wore a red kilt and a brown tweed jacket, and his knees were usually adorned with sticking plaster. Bay lived in the country—which accounted for his tan and perhaps also for his independent spirit. His people lived at Drumford, some miles out of Edinburgh, and Bay drove in with his father every morning. He usually arrived before the other children, which fortunate circumstance gave him the chance to prepare his jokes in private before lessons began. Bay's jokes were always different, for he had a fertile imagination. He brought frogs in his pocket and hid them in people's shoes. He substituted a white stone for Mrs. Grant's chalk (this was a great success, for it was most amusing to see the good lady trying to write with it on the blackboard). He produced a false nose and put it on when Miss Mann's back was turned and sat there, perfectly solemnly, while the whole class giggled and sniggered and could not do its sums.

Lou disliked Bay intensely, but Tonia had a sneaking sort of admiration for him. She did not admit it, of course, but there it was. Bay was brave, and he was very funny. You never knew what he would do next, and it was delicious to be shocked.

“Isn't Bay awful!” she would say to Lou as they walked home to dinner.

“He's simply frightful,” Lou would agree. “He ought to be smacked, I think.”

Perhaps she was right; perhaps Bay ought to have been smacked, but neither Miss Mann nor Mrs. Grant had the courage to attempt such drastic measures. They made him stand in the corner, of course, but this had little or no effect upon him; Tonia felt certain that the time he spent standing in the corner was used by the culprit to plan more subtle forms of mischief.

One morning Tonia discovered something wrong with her desk. It rocked backward and forward in the oddest manner whenever she leaned upon it. At first she could not imagine what had happened, but presently she found a little square of wood under one of the legs of her desk. She removed it surreptitiously and looked at Bay across the room. It was obvious, by the mischievous glance he gave her, that this was another of his jokes.

Quite early in their acquaintance Bay had discovered Tonia's weakness, and he made good use of this discovery. “Here, catch!” he would cry and throw something at her—a rolled-up pair of socks or a rubber ball. Tonia would grab at it feebly and it would slip through her hands and fall on the floor, and then he would laugh uproariously and call her “Butterfingers.” But strangely enough, Bay's teasing did not distress Tonia; in fact, it gave her a feeling of importance when she found that he teased her more than the other children.

Nita's teasing was a different matter, for Nita had a different technique. She was past master in the art of getting others into trouble and remaining out of it herself. Nita was that shameless recreant, the teacher's pet; Miss Mann and Mrs. Grant liked her and praised her and she was held up as a pattern to her fellow students. “Look at Nita!” they would say. “Why can't you behave like her!” and the other children would look at Nita with something approaching hatred in their souls. There she sat, smug and complacent, enjoying the approbation she ill deserved. She was not very nice to look at, anyhow, for she was tall and very thin with a pale face and a self-assertive nose, and she wore her mouse-colored hair in two long plaits tied with green ribbon.

One day when the children arrived at school, they found that Bay had been up to his tricks again. Two figures had been drawn on the blackboard, one short and fat, the other tall and thin, and (so that there should be no mistake as to their identity) he had written beneath them in large letters: “MRS. CANT and MISS CAN.”

The children were enchanted with this effort, but their teachers were not amused. Oddly enough Miss Mann was more upset than her sister. She made Bay stand in the corner for half an hour.

“He's getting worse,” said Miss Mann to Mrs. Grant when the children had gone.

“Oh, I don't think so,” replied Mrs. Grant comfortably. “It was just a joke—and rather funny, really. He's quite right, you know. I'm not a good teacher; I can't hold the children's interest like you can. Of course they know that, the little wretches.”

“He ought to respect you. How are you going to keep order if the children don't respect you?”

“Bay respects nobody.”

“That's just it!” cried Miss Mann. “We can't manage Bay. He's too much for us. We shall have to ask his father to take him away.”

“Oh no, Margaret. His father is such a delightful man.”

“That may be,” said Miss Mann grimly. “But Bay is an imp. I'm terrified of what he will do next.”

Several days passed without incident, and then something really terrible occurred, something none of the children would ever forget. It was eleven o'clock and the usual scrimmage took place in the changing room, the children searching for their schoolbags containing their lunches, but when the bottles of milk were produced, it was found that the bottles had been opened and topped up with ink that had seeped all through the milk in violet streaks. Bay's bottle was the only one that had not been tampered with, so there was no doubt as to the culprit.

“You wicked boy!” cried Miss Mann as she collected the bottles and emptied them into the sink. “You naughty, wicked boy. It's the most dreadful sin to spoil good food. Don't you know that there are children starving, children who never get milk like this to drink! There are children here, in this city, who would be thankful for milk like this—and you've ruined it. I can't deal with you, Bay. I shall take you around to your father's office—that's the only thing I can do. He'll have to deal with you; he'll have to take you away. You're too naughty for me.” She was trembling with rage and fright—almost weeping—for it seemed to her that this was something abnormal. This was no ordinary childish prank.

Miss Mann could not take Bay to his father at once, for the other children must be considered, so she sent him into the back room to wait for her until she was ready. The half hour seemed very long, and not very much work was done, for teacher and class alike were upset and restless. Everybody was relieved when the time came to go home; hats and coats were put on with unusual quietness and rapidity.

Tonia was the last to leave (she always was, for it took her such a long time to button her coat and tie her shoelaces), and as she was hurrying after Lou she passed Bay in the passage. He was waiting for Miss Mann, standing there with his legs apart and his hands in his pockets and a scowl of bravado on his small brown face.

Tonia looked at him and hesitated. “Did you do it, Bay?” she whispered.

He made no reply, but his scowl became fiercer and he gave Tonia a little push that sent her stumbling against the wall… Tonia recovered her balance and ran on down the stairs after Lou.

“It was awful, Nannie,” Lou was saying. “Miss Mann was terribly angry. Wasn't it a wicked thing to do? Miss Mann said, ‘You're a wicked boy. I can't deal with you.' D'you think he'll be sent to prison?”

“I shouldn't wonder,” said Nannie, hurrying them along.

“To prison!” exclaimed Tonia in dismay.

“Well, why not?” said Nannie. “Prison is the best place for wicked people, isn't it?” She smiled as she spoke, but Tonia did not see the smile and, as Bay disappeared from school and nobody knew what had happened to him, it was only reasonable to suppose that he was languishing in prison.

“With bread and water to eat,” said Tonia to Lou in horrified accents.

“Well, he
deserves
it,” replied Lou.

Tonia did not agree. The very idea of Bay in prison appalled her. She visualized him sitting upon a bench in a dank cell with bars across the window, and for several nights she dreamed of Bay and awoke in a cold sweat of terror. Fortunately this period of anxiety and misery came to a sudden and entirely satisfactory conclusion. Tonia had been to the mailbox at the corner to post a letter for Nannie. She was walking back to the house when she saw Bay coming toward her. Yes, it was Bay, and he looked exactly the same as usual. He was brown and fit, and his kilt swung from his hips with a jaunty air. The two children passed each other without stopping…and then Tonia paused and looked back. Bay was looking back, too, and when he saw that she had stopped, he began to walk toward her.

“Hallo, Butterfingers!” said Bay with a defiant air.

Tonia had one foot on her own doorstep, and this gave her confidence. “You didn't do it,” she said.

“How d'you know,” he demanded.

“Because,” said Tonia, searching for words. “Because it wasn't funny.”

Bay's toe was drawing circles on the pavement, and he was watching it intently. “I never said I didn't,” he mumbled.

Tonia was silent, but her eyes had begun to smile.

“Well, is that all?” inquired Bay.

“Yes,” retorted Tonia with unaccustomed spirit. “Yes, that's all—except that you're a very silly little boy.”

She ran up the steps without a backward glance and slammed the door. She had gotten even with Bay.

The years passed quickly. Lou and Tonia left Miss Mann's and were taught at home by a governess. Miss Fraser was conscientious and kind and saw to it that the children were well grounded. She taught them French and music as well as ordinary subjects. Tonia loved music and had a small sweet voice, tuneful as a bird's, but piano lessons were mixed pleasure. She was very anxious to learn to play the piano, for it seemed to her that to play the piano really well would be to attain the height of bliss, but, although she could learn the theory of music and could pick out any tune by ear, her hands were too small and feeble to compass the notes. Lou had practically no ear for music and—to tell the truth—did not care for it much, but she soon learned to play “The Joyful Peasant” and “Träumerei” and had gone on to Songs from Schubert while Tonia was still struggling hopelessly with five-finger exercises. Fortunately Tonia had a refuge from the trials and troubles of life. It was a place inside herself—a listening place—and when life pressed upon her too strongly, she could hide from her troubles and enjoy peace and quietness there. When Tonia went into her listening place, her small face became utterly blank and the sights and sounds of everyday life faded away into the distance. She had not much control of her comings and goings—that was the odd thing about it—and sometimes when Mother or Nannie was speaking to her, she would feel herself slipping away and the voice of authority would grow dim.

“That imbecile expression!” Mrs. Melville would complain. “Really, one would think the child was half-witted.”

Nannie was a trifle more patient, but only Lou understood; for Lou was the only person who had been allowed into the secret.

“I can't help it, really,” Tonia would explain. “I don't
want
to help it, of course, because I like going there; but, even if I wanted to, I couldn't.”

“What do you see there?” Lou would inquire.

“Nothing—I listen,” said Tonia vaguely. “It's sort of music—”

“Like Joan of Arc?”

“No, not like that a bit.”

Lou sighed. She was a trifle jealous of the listening place, for it was the only thing they did not share. She had tried very hard to make a listening place for herself but without much success.

They shared everything else—lessons and walks and reading. They worked their way through Mr. Melville's library like a couple of bookworms. Mrs. Melville was one of those curious people who believe that any book bound in leather is a classic and that all classics are suitable for the young, so she put no constraint upon her daughters' activities. “My girls are tremendous readers,” she would say as she shuffled the cards in her strong white hands and prepared to deal. “Dickens and Scott, you know…” She was still as keen as ever on bridge—they were playing auction now, of course.

***

“Reading again,” said Nannie one day as she came into the nursery. (They had tried to call it the schoolroom but without much success.) “Reading again—and in this light, too. You'll ruin your eyesight. That'll be the end of it.”

Lou was curled up in the big basket chair and Tonia was stretched full length upon the hearth rug—these were their invariable positions—for Tonia's hands soon tired of holding a book and she found it much easier to lie facedown with the book on the floor.

“What else should we do?” asked Lou, stretching her arms above her head. “We don't know anybody to talk to. Why don't we know people, Nannie?”

“Why don't you know people?” said Nannie in a doubtful tone.

“Yes. Other girls know lots of people and go to parties.”

Nannie was silent. She knew the answer, of course, but she had a queer feeling of loyalty to Mrs. Melville, and she would not criticize her. If Mrs. Melville had bestirred herself and asked the children of her own friends to tea, it might have helped a bit. As a matter of fact, Nannie had suggested this several times, but the suggestion had borne no fruit.

“Yes, Nannie. Yes, we'll see…” Mrs. Melville had replied in a vague sort of tone, and she had hurried off to her club.

“We don't know anyone,” said Lou, thinking it over and looking rather surprised. “It seems odd, doesn't it?”

“We don't
want
other people,” declared Tonia, raising her head from her book. “I think it would be a frightful bore if we had to go to parties.”

Nannie looked at her. Nannie was not particularly clever, but she was sensible enough in her own way, and she felt certain that Tonia's attitude was unnatural. Tonia ought to want friends; she ought to want to go to parties like other girls. It wasn't—healthy, thought Nannie vaguely.

“It would be different if we lived at Ryddelton,” said Nannie, thinking aloud. “You'd know everybody, and you'd have lots of friends. There are several nice families with children that live roundabout Ryddelton and have Christmas parties and Halloween parties—ducking for apples and all that. There would be tennis, too,” added Nannie. “Tennis in the summer. But of course it's quite different in town. Nobody knows who you are—or cares.”

“I wish we lived at Ryddelton,” said Lou.

“So do I,” agreed Nannie. “But we don't—and not likely to. The only way is to make the best of what you've got. Mrs. Melville knows lots of people and we could have a party. You ask her, Lou,” suggested Nannie guilefully.

“It wouldn't be any good asking her,” replied Lou with a sigh.

After this conversation Nannie worried more than ever, for she was aware that she would have to leave them soon, and what would happen to them, then? They did not need her as a nurse, for Lou was nearly eighteen, but they did need somebody to look after them and love them. I'll stay on as long as she'll keep me, thought Nannie (“she” was Mrs. Melville, of course), and as a matter of fact, thought Nannie, I'm pretty useful to her. She'd notice a difference if I wasn't here to look after things when she's out. Who'd see to the linen and do all the mending and wash the woollies and handkerchiefs, thought Nannie as she bustled about, doing all these things and a good many other things besides.

Soon after this incident Mrs. Melville was looking about for some way to economize, and her eye fell upon Nannie.

“It's ridiculous,” she said to her husband. “The girls don't need Nannie any longer. Lou is eighteen.”

“Nannie does quite a lot in the house,” replied Mr. Melville.

“We can easily get on without her,” said Mrs. Melville firmly. “I can raise Maggie's wages, and she can do the mending and look after the girls.”

“Maggie is a bit of a fool,” said Mr. Melville dubiously, but he might as well have saved his breath.

“And Miss Fraser can go, too,” said Mrs. Melville in a thoughtful voice. “Yes, we shan't need Miss Fraser. We can spend the extra money on classes for the girls. They must learn dancing—and Lou is quite good at music. I shall arrange singing lessons for Lou.”

“Tonia is only seventeen—” began Mr. Melville.

“She can have cooking lessons.”

“It seems a pity,” said Mr. Melville—quite patiently for him.

“Nonsense, Henry, it isn't any use bothering with Tonia. She's hopeless. She can't do anything well. She can't even pass a teacup without spilling it all over the floor, and the more I tell her to be careful the worse she is.”

“But, Ella—”

“Besides,” said Ella, continuing firmly. “Besides, you said yourself that you wished the girls weren't always poring over books. It will be good for them to go to classes and meet other girls.”

Mr. Melville walked off to his club and spent the evening there. It was no use talking to Ella when she had made up her mind, but he was upset about Nannie. Nannie was the one remaining link with Ryddelton: she had been with the family for years, and her mother before her. They were old friends. He would give Nannie an annuity, of course, and she would go home to her mother. He would miss seeing her bustling about the house.

Lou and Tonia sat on the window seat in the nursery and saw Nannie depart. Their eyes were swollen with tears, and Nannie had forbidden them to come downstairs, for she knew that Mrs. Melville would be annoyed. It was Nannie's last injunction to her charges. “You can wave to me from the window,” she said in a trembling voice—and hurried away.

“There she is,” said Lou hoarsely.

They saw her black sailor hat disappear into the waiting taxi, and a white handkerchief waved wildly from the window as the taxi drove away.

“What are we going to
do
!” wailed Tonia, throwing herself into the old basket chair.

“I'll take care of you,” said Lou. “I'll do up your shoes and everything. Don't cry, Tonia.”

“You're crying yourself.”

“I'm stopping,” declared Lou. “It isn't any use…there now, I've stopped.”

Lou was quite as fond of Nannie as her sister, but her nature was independent and resilient; besides, she had a plan that had come to her suddenly in the watches of the night. She had realized that when Nannie left she and Tonia would have complete liberty of action. Maggie was easily managed.

“Listen, Tonia,” said Lou. “We can do anything we like. What do you want to do? I know what I want. Let's go about and
see
things, Tonia.”

“What kind of things?”

“Places we've read about. Oh, I know we can't go far, but we don't need to. There are hundreds of interesting places at our very door.”

This was an exaggeration, of course, but not a very serious one, for the stones of Edinburgh are steeped in history and romance. And Lou and Tonia, having read so much and discussed their reading together, were admirably equipped for a historical pilgrimage. At first they were a little frightened of their newfound liberty, but this phase was quickly over, and they spread their wings and wandered far afield.

Their first expedition was to the castle, and here they saw the small room where James the Sixth of Scotland was born and the window from which he was let down in a laundry basket. They visited St. Giles Cathedral—where Jenny Geddes had thrown her cutty stool at the bishop because she disapproved of his sermon. They discovered, among the grim buildings in the Royal Mile, narrow wynds that led to ancient mansions of graceful architecture, once occupied by Scottish nobility but now sadly degenerate. They saw Boswell's Court, where Dr. Johnson stayed, and they were interested in St. John Street, for it was here that James Ballantyne lived—James Ballantyne who printed and published the Waverley Novels. The novels had been written in a certain room in 39 Castle Street. Lou and Tonia stood for a long time gazing at this house with awe and were jostled considerably by the passersby, who had no idea what they were staring at.

They went and looked at Moray House, not far from the Tolbooth; it was strangely modern in architecture, though dating from the seventeenth century. From the balcony at Moray House, Argyll watched Montrose ride past on his way to his death and jeered at his fallen enemy. Perhaps Holyrood Palace was the most interesting of all; it was full of ghosts, some sad and some gay. They saw Queen Mary's small room, where Rizzio was murdered by the barons; they remembered the revels that had taken place in the big ballroom when Prince Charlie had stayed here on his way south.

These were only some of the places they saw and some of the things they remembered during this orgy of romance and history in which they indulged. It was Lou who grew tired of it first and began to look about for something different to do. “Do you remember Liberty Hall?” she asked Tonia in a casual sort of voice.

Tonia had almost forgotten, but not quite, and now the memory of that summer afternoon—so long ago—returned to her, and she saw in a flash the dazzling garden with its waterfalls of gay flowers.

“Why shouldn't we?” said Lou, coaxingly.

“Do you want to?” asked Tonia in some surprise.

“Yes,” said Lou firmly. “Yes, I do. I want to go just once, and it wouldn't be doing anything wrong. How could it be wrong? He said we were to come back, didn't he?”

Tonia was sure it was wrong, but if Lou was determined to go it was not much use making objections. “Well, of course, if you want to,” said Tonia.

“Maggie says she was divorced,” continued Lou in a low voice. “Maggie says that's why Mother—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tonia, opening her blue eyes very wide.

“Tomorrow,” said Lou. “I don't have singing tomorrow, and you don't have cooking. It's a free afternoon.”

Tonia had been hoping for another tour of Holyrood, but she gave it up without a murmur, and when tomorrow arrived, the two girls put on their best clothes and sallied forth to call upon Mrs. Halley.

On this occasion the brown door was opened by a maid in a white muslin apron, and Lou inquired a trifle breathlessly if Mrs. Halley were at home.

The garden looked quite different today, and Tonia was unreasonably disappointed (unreasonably because it was February, a month when no garden can be expected to look its best). But the house satisfied her completely, which was saying a good deal, for Tonia had expected the house to be perfect. They were shown into the lounge, a large, long-shaped room, with tall windows and a parquet floor covered with Persian rugs. The walls were cream colored and hung with mirrors that added to the almost dazzling brightness, and there were flowers everywhere, arranged with artistic effect in tall vases. The chairs and the large, comfortable sofa were covered with cretonne, and there were colored cushions—pink and green and brown. Last but not least a log fire burned briskly in the grate, sending long tongues of golden flame leaping up the chimney.

“Lovely,” breathed Tonia, looking about her with interest.

“Like
her
,” agreed Lou in a whisper.

They were silent after that, and presently Mrs. Halley came in. She looked almost exactly the same, for the years had been kind to her. Tall and slim and dark and perfectly dressed in a close-fitting frock of deep wine color, she could have passed for a woman of forty.