Listening Valley (6 page)

“That's quite different from going to his house.”

“Nonsense. It will do Tonia good to go out a bit.”

“I don't prevent her going out.”

“Well, don't prevent her, then,” returned Mr. Melville tartly. “Norman is a very good fellow and useful to know. His sister lives with him—if that's any comfort to you. See that Tonia has something decent to wear.”

“I hope to goodness you'll behave yourself properly,” said Mrs. Melville as she saw her daughter ready to go to the tea party. “Don't sit and dream and forget to talk, and don't spill your tea—you're so dreadfully clumsy—and, whatever you do, don't stay too long.”

“How long?” asked Tonia meekly.

“You had better be home by half past five, but come away earlier if you see them getting bored…Oh dear, I'm not sure that hat suits you after all!”

“Shall I change it?”

“No, the green one is worse. I don't know why we can't find a hat to suit you. It's your hair, or something.”

Tonia could not change her hair, so she sighed heavily and started off. She had been looking forward to seeing Mr. Norman again, but now she wished with all her heart that she had refused his invitation. As she walked down the street and across the Dean Bridge—where as usual a stiff breeze was playing tricks with the hats of the passersby—Tonia tried to think of things to say, but she could think of nothing that would not sound trite or absurd. Her hat was new. It had been purchased that morning, and Tonia had not liked it from the first. It was a different shape from her other hats and did not suit her at all, and it was tight and uncomfortable to wear. By the time she reached Mr. Norman's house she was so wretched, and so alarmed at the ordeal confronting her, that she hesitated upon the doorstep and contemplated flight. I could ring up and say I was ill, thought Tonia.

At this moment the door opened and a lady came out. She was “quite old” in Tonia's estimation, but she was extremely good-looking and smartly dressed.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking at Tonia in surprise. “Oh, are you…”

“Antonia Melville,” said Tonia faintly.

“Goodness, you look about sixteen! I thought—but do come in. My brother is expecting you.” She turned into the house and called out, “Robert, here's Miss Melville! I shall have to fly—”

Almost immediately Mr. Norman appeared from a doorway on the right of the hall, and Tonia was so thankful to see him that she ran forward holding out her hand.

He took her hand and drew her into the room. “This is delightful,” he declared.

“But I didn't say good-bye to—to the lady,” said Tonia, hanging back.

“She's in a hurry,” replied Mr. Norman, smiling. “My sister, Janet, is usually in a hurry. She hasn't much idea of time.”

The room was a perfect example of a bachelor's den; it was paneled and hung with sporting prints and furnished with large leather-covered chairs. There was a nice warm fire and a tea table in front of it.

“Do you like it?” inquired Mr. Norman, who saw her looking around.

“It's just right for you,” replied Tonia thoughtfully. “I mean, it's big and comfortable.”

“Big and comfortable,” repeated Mr. Norman, laughing. “I knew I was big, and I'm very glad I'm comfortable. Would you like to take off your hat?”

Tonia was only too pleased to comply with this suggestion. She removed it and threw it onto a chair and gave her head a shake so that her dark curls fell into their natural positions.

“Now we're both comfortable,” said Mr. Norman.

Tea was ready so they sat down, one at each side of the fire, and Mr. Norman poured it out. She had been afraid—just for a moment—that he would ask her to manage the teapot, but apparently he was quite used to managing it himself. A spaniel was lying on the hearth rug; he got up and sniffed at Tonia and wagged his tail in a friendly fashion.

“Gruff likes you,” said Mr. Norman. “He doesn't approve of everybody. Janet says he's a most unfriendly dog.”

“Does she live with you?” asked Tonia—meaning Janet, of course.

Mr. Norman understood. “Most of the time,” he replied. “She and her daughter come and go as they please. Their spiritual home is London.”

“She's a little like you.”

“So people say. It's our noses, I suppose. Noses run in families, you know. Nita, my niece, has the Garland nose—quite a different variety of beak.”

“Nita?” said Tonia. “There was a girl named Nita at school with me.”

“Miss Mann's? Yes, that must have been my niece.”

Tonia hoped Mr. Norman would not ask if she had liked Nita (I shall have to say yes, thought Tonia, gazing very hard at the fire), but fortunately he did not ask, and the moment passed and it was quite comfortable again.

The tea was extremely good, and Tonia did full justice to it. There were hot buttered scones, jammy cookies, and rich plum cake. Mr. Norman did not eat much himself; he talked and plied his guest with food and seemed perfectly happy. When they had finished they looked at the bottles, which were arranged in a big shallow cabinet with glass doors. There were dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, and they had come from all over the world. Their owner took them out, one by one, and told their history, and Tonia listened enthralled.

“You've been everywhere,” she said at last, looking at him with something like awe.

“I like traveling,” he replied. “I travel whenever I can get away from business.”

“I've never been
anywhere
,” said Tonia with a sigh. “I've read about places and sometimes I think I can imagine them…”

He was still taking down the bottles and showing them to her. There was one that was supposed to have belonged to Prince Charlie; he had found it in Skye. There was another that Dr. Johnson was said to have used when he visited Scotland. The bottles were all old and queerly uneven in shape, bulging in the wrong places. Some of them had crooked necks; others had bubbles in the glass.

“They look homemade,” declared Tonia.

“They are, really,” replied Mr. Norman. “They are handmade—not turned out of a factory by the thousand. Janet thinks I'm mad to collect them, but they fascinate me. Take it in your hands,” he added, holding out the gem of the collection, a squat gin bottle with a rakish lopsided appearance. “I like the feel of the glass; it's quite an unusual sort of feeling—”

“Oh no, I might drop it,” said Tonia, putting her hands behind her back.

“Nonsense!”

“It isn't nonsense. My hands are no good.”

“No good?” asked Mr. Norman in surprise.

“None at all,” said Tonia, shaking her head sadly. “They're silly hands. I can't hold things with them, and I can't knit or sew or play the piano properly.”

Mr. Norman put down the bottle and took her hands in his, examining them carefully and flexing the fingers. They were small and frail and rather stiff, but they were beautifully made. There was something very pathetic about these silly hands. Perhaps that was why Mr. Norman dropped them so hastily.

“There doesn't seem to be much the matter with them,” he said. “I'm not a doctor, of course.”

“A doctor!” said Tonia in amazement. “Why should you be a doctor?”

“A doctor would know what to advise. I suppose you've tried massage and electric treatment.”

“I haven't tried anything.”

“But your parents—”

“Oh, they don't know,” said Tonia. “I mean, of course they know my hands are silly, but…” she hesitated, for it was difficult to explain. She was just beginning to realize that it needed explanation. The fact was her parents had not bothered. Nobody had bothered. Everybody had just taken it for granted that she was clumsy and inept.

“How extraordinary!” exclaimed Mr. Norman, who seemed to understand things without being told. “Your hands ought to have been attended to when you were a child.”

“Could anything have been done?”

“Of course. Far more wonderful things are done every day.”

Tonia was silent. How wonderful it would have been if her hands could have been improved, if they could have been made into useful hands. “You know,” she said slowly. “You know, I don't think I should be nearly so silly if my hands were like other people's.”

At this moment the clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Tonia looked at it in dismay. “It can't be right!” she exclaimed.

“I'm afraid it is, but time was made for slaves—and Cinderellas,” replied her host with a smile.

Tonia did not return the smile; she was pulling on her hat and tucking her curls away with complete disregard for her appearance. “Oh dear!” she cried. “Mother said I wasn't to stay too long—”

“You haven't stayed too long.”

“She said I would bore you,” declared Tonia, wrestling with the handle of the door.

Mr. Norman said no more, for he saw it was useless. His guest was far too upset to listen. He came with her into the hall and let her out into the street. She was too upset to remember to shake hands with him or to thank him for her entertainment in the conventional manner. She just rushed wildly down the steps and made for home.

For a few moments Mr. Norman watched the flying figure, and then he shook his head very thoughtfully and went back into the house.

***

It was a wet afternoon. Mr. Melville was hurrying home to tea and was thinking with pleasure of his comfortable chair and his nice warm fire and of his daughter—who would be waiting for him. Since the ball (which was now about a fortnight ago) Tonia had been different, “more human” as Mr. Melville put it to himself, and this only went to show how right he had been to make her go to the ball and to give her a new dress for the occasion. Ella had actually begun to grumble because she said Tonia was getting her horns out and was being difficult about her clothes, refusing to wear some hat that Ella had bought her and insisting on having a new coat and skirt. A little while ago Ella had been complaining that Tonia took no interest in clothes—some people were never satisfied.

Mr. Melville was thinking of these domestic problems and hastening along with his umbrella cocked at exactly the right angle to ward off the rain when he felt a hand on his arm, detaining him, and was surprised to find that the owner of the hand was Mr. Norman.

“Hallo, Norman!” he exclaimed. “What a hellish evening! Come and have a cup of tea—or something stronger.”

“Come and have a cup of tea with me—or something stronger,” suggested Norman smiling.

Mr. Melville accepted the invitation (for there were several things he wanted to know and Norman was a good fellow to keep in with), and the two men walked on together through the rain. The house in Belgrave Crescent was warm and comfortable, and Mr. Melville was favorably impressed with Norman's “den.” It was exactly the sort of room he would have liked to have, thought Mr. Melville looking around, but it was not likely he would ever be able to afford it. Unlike his daughter, he made no comment but accepted a glass of whisky and soda and a very fine cigar and took up his position on the hearth rug. The fire warmed the back of his legs in a very comforting manner.

“Appalling weather,” said Mr. Melville cheerfully. “The middle of March and still as cold as winter… By the way I bought those shares. It was good of you to give me the tip.”

“They've done pretty well, haven't they?”

“They have, and they're still rising. I suppose I should hold on?”

“I should sell now if I were you. They won't go much higher.”

“Think so?”

“Yes, take your profit and clear out. If you want another flutter, you might do worse than Warden and Miles.”

“Warden and Miles,” repeated Mr. Melville, nodding, “I'll see about it tomorrow. It's very good of you, Norman. Wish I could do something in return.”

“You can,” said Norman quickly.

Mr. Melville was slightly taken aback. He had made the statement in a vague sort of way, and the last thing he had expected was to be taken literally. Besides, what on earth could he do for Norman? The fellow was rolling in money.

Norman was pouring out a drink for himself and making it a stiff one. “It's like this,” he said at last. “I don't want you to feel you're under any sort of obligation to me…just because…because I gave you the tip to buy those shares.”

Mr. Melville looked at his host in amazement. Norman was usually so sure of himself, so reserved and dignified and aloof. All sorts of odd ideas flashed through Mr. Melville's mind in the silence that ensued.

“I'm fifty-nine,” said Norman at last, raising his eyes and looking back at his guest. “I'm perfectly fit, of course, and I don't really feel my age.”

“I'm fifty-five,” replied Mr. Melville, who was under the impression that this was the correct response.

Unfortunately Norman did not seem pleased with the response. He sighed and said regretfully, “Yes, I was afraid of it. I'm older than you are, Melville.”

“But not much,” said Mr. Melville kindly. “I mean, four years is neither here nor there.”

“It's a good deal less than forty,” agreed Norman.

Mr. Melville was even more bewildered now. He searched for something to say but could find nothing. The only thing he could do was to wait and see what Norman would say next…and Norman seemed in no hurry to say anything. He was lighting a cigarette and his hands were shaking.

At last, after a silence that seemed unduly long, Norman shook out the match and tossed it into the fire. “I had better tell you,” he said. “It's no good beating about the bush. I want to marry Antonia.”

“You want to—to marry—
Tonia
?”

“Of course I'm too old. I'm much too old and she's much too young. If you tell me I'm a fool I shan't blame you. The fact is I love her—I enjoy her—and I'm pretty certain I could make her happy. I know as well as you do that there are all sorts of things to be said against it. I've said them to myself much more strongly than you're ever likely to say them, but there are several things to be said in favor of it. Antonia isn't an ordinary girl. She's mature in some ways and she's very adaptable. She has a beautiful nature, unselfish and sensitive. Life might bear upon her pretty hardly unless she finds someone who can understand her properly—she has no confidence in herself. Of course you know all this as well as I do.”