The Two Mrs. Abbotts (2 page)

Sarah had resumed her seat at the table and was pouring out another cup of tea. She was enjoying her chat with Simon; his questions did not worry her at all for she was used to her own children. They were a good deal older than Simon now, but they still asked questions—children could not learn unless you answered them sensibly, or so Sarah thought. Simon had perched himself on the end of the sofa with one leg tucked beneath him; he looked more than ever like Sarah's conception of the Golden Boy. All gold, he was. His hair and skin were different tones of gold, and his eyes were flecked with the same precious color. His face had a slightly impish look and his small flat ears were just a trifle pointed. How odd that Barbara should have produced a real live Golden Boy!

“Tell me about it,” said Simon eagerly. “Tell me the story.”

“It's a grown-up story,” said Sarah after a pause. This was true, of course, but not entirely true, for, as a matter of fact, it was a story her own children had always adored and Sarah had told it so often in simple language that she could have told it to Simon very easily. It was the story of how the Golden Boy came dancing into Silverstream, playing on his pipe and stirring up trouble, bringing life and movement into the sleepy place…so that even the buns on the baker's counter began to hop about. Of course Simon would like it—Sarah had no doubt of that—but she felt she had no right to tell Simon Abbott this particular story. Only one person had that right.

“I think it's just a little too grown-up,” said Sarah firmly. “I'll tell you about Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp.”

Sarah was enjoying her tea and forging ahead with Aladdin when the door opened again and her hostess appeared. She came into the room uttering apologies in a conventional manner and then, with her hand of welcome still extended, she suddenly stopped. “Sarah!” she exclaimed.

The voice was so surprised, the expression was one of such utter amazement that Sarah could not help laughing.

“Sarah!” said Barbara Abbott again.

“Yes, it's me,” nodded Sarah (who, although aware that one should say “it is I,” could never bring herself to utter the words because for some reason or other it sounded as if one were God).

“Oh, Sarah!” cried Barbara. “This
is
a lovely surprise! It's ages since I saw you—simply ages. How nice of you to come! You'll stay to dinner, won't you? I mean supper, of course—we don't have a proper dinner now, because—”

“I think you are expecting me to stay the night,” said Sarah somewhat uncomfortably.

“Of course,” agreed Barbara hospitably. “Of
course
you must stay the night…Oh dear, what a pity I've got that tiresome woman coming! We could have had such a nice chat about old times. It's most unfortunate.”

“I'm the woman,” said Sarah, her voice shaking with laughter. Somehow this misunderstanding was “so like Barbara.”

“Isn't it unfortunate,” repeated Barbara, wrinkling her brow. “I'm afraid I can only give you a very small room—just a dressing room with a bed in it—because of this Red Cross woman, you see. Or perhaps I could put the Red Cross woman in the dressing room…or perhaps the Marvells would have her. No,
that
won't do because she's arrived. There's a frightful shabby old suitcase in the hall—I saw it when I came in—so I shall have to put her somewhere. I wonder where she can have gone,” added Barbara, gazing around as if she expected the Red Cross woman to be hiding behind the sofa.

“Barbara…it's me…” gasped Sarah, between her spasms of laughter.

“It's you?” asked Barbara in bewilderment.

“I am the Red Cross woman,” declared Sarah.

“You are? Do you mean you're going to give the lecture?”

“Yes,” said Sarah, taking out her handkerchief and mopping her eyes. “Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Barbara. “But of course you always
were
clever…”

“There's nothing clever about giving a lecture on bandaging. It's much more clever to write books.”

Barbara made no reply to this. She turned to Simon and told him to go to the nursery and have his tea.

“But Mummy—”

“It's tea time, darling,” said Barbara firmly.

Sarah's first impression of her old friend was that she had changed a good deal, but after a few minutes she had decided that “changed” was not the word. Barbara had developed, that was all. She was still the same natural creature, interested in other people and unconscious of herself. She was still humble-minded and sincere. She had filled out a little, of course, and she was better dressed and more assured in her manner—but these were merely surface changes. Sarah had time to notice these things while Barbara argued with her son and finally bribed him with a chocolate biscuit to depart in peace.

“I suppose I shouldn't,” said Barbara, sitting down.

“We all do,” replied Sarah comfortingly. “It's so much the easiest way.”

“But it isn't the right way,” said Barbara. “I know it isn't but I do it all the same. I do it and then I'm sorry…and the next time it's even harder.”

“Why didn't you write to me, Barbara?” asked Sarah, who thought the subject unlikely to bear fruit. “Why on earth didn't you write and tell me where you were? It was really very naughty of you. You could have trusted me not to give you away.”

“Oh yes, I knew that. I knew I could trust you, Sarah.”

“Why didn't you write?”

Barbara smiled affectionately. “I meant to write but all sorts of things happened. I got married for one thing.”

“You married your publisher?”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, blushing. “Yes, I married Arthur. He had been so kind to me about the books.”

“When everyone else was unkind.”

“But it wasn't only that,” said Barbara hastily. She hesitated and then continued, “Really and truly I meant to write and tell you all about it, but I thought I'd wait for a little…and then I waited too long and that made it difficult. It wasn't that I didn't think about you,” explained Barbara. “I thought of you a lot, and I thought of Silverstream. I even thought it would be rather fun to go back to Silverstream and see what everyone was doing, but Arthur wouldn't let me.”

“He seems to have some sense,” said Sarah dryly.

“I should have had to be disguised, of course,” added Barbara in a thoughtful manner.

“Disguised!” exclaimed Sarah, laughing.

“Well, of course,” said Barbara. “They didn't like me, did they?”

“No, but really,” began Sarah who had had a sudden vision of Barbara wearing a black beard and dark blue spectacles.

“Oh, it was just an
idea
,” said Barbara apologetically. “I knew it was silly all the time…I shall never go back, now. It seems like a past life—Silverstream and Copperfield and all that. Tell me about everyone, Sarah.”

Sarah complied with this comprehensive request to the best of her ability, and recited the chronicles of Silverstream in her usual fluent and slightly racy manner. It was a chronicle of births, deaths, and marriages interspaced with items of gossip and reports of internecine feuds. The Hathaways had got a new baby. Mrs. Carter had got a new wig, Mrs. Greensleeves had got a husband at last—such was the burden of her tale. She was in the middle of her story and Barbara was listening with all her ears when Arthur Abbott came home.

“Oh Arthur!” cried Barbara, jumping up to greet him. “This is Sarah, Mrs. Walker, you know. She's come to give the bandaging lecture—isn't it a nice surprise?”

“Very nice,” said Arthur, shaking hands with his guest. “But hardly a surprise. We were expecting Mrs. Walker, weren't we?”

“But I expected a
woman
,” cried Barbara, laughing delightedly.

“Yes,” agreed Arthur. He looked at Mrs. Walker again in a puzzled manner.

“We knew each other long ago at Silverstream,” put in Sarah.

“Oh, I've got it now,” said Arthur. “It certainly is a delightful surprise to expect a stranger and find she's a friend.”

Barbara nodded with a pleased expression on her face, for Arthur had done it again. He could always be relied on to unravel her tangles and put things clearly and concisely. She was all the more pleased with Arthur for she wanted Sarah to see how clever he was—he had played up splendidly.

Arthur was quite glad to sit back in his chair while his wife and her friend chatted to each other about old times and mutual friends. Their voices had a soothing effect upon him, and he needed soothing for he had had a troublesome sort of day. Publishing was never a plain sailing sort of business but in war-time the waters were rougher than usual. He thought about a book his firm had just published—
Her
Loving
Heart
by Janetta Walters—and wished that the firm of Abbott and Spicer was rich enough, and haughty enough, to refuse that sort of book, though as a matter of fact there were precious few publishing firms who would refuse a book by that well-known lady. Her books sold in scores of thousands, her admirers were legion. “High-powered tushery,” murmured Arthur Abbott to himself and all at once he chuckled because he had found such an apt description of her work.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Barbara with interest.

“At the idea of a book we have published.”

“I like funny books,” said Sarah, pricking up her ears.

“But this is not a funny book in
that
sense,” said Arthur quickly. “In fact it isn't a funny book in any sense. It is—er—sentimental and romantic. I was merely—er—smiling to myself because I had found the right words to describe it.”

“For the blurb,” said Sarah complacently. She was rather pleased with herself for having remembered the right word.

“Er—no,” replied Arthur, smiling broadly. “Just for my own satisfaction. This particular author writes her own advertisements—or at least her sister writes them. Her sister manages all her business affairs.”

“I wish there were more funny books,” said Sarah, looking at her hostess as she spoke, for the two funniest books Sarah had ever read had been written by Barbara Buncle.

“No,” said Barbara firmly. “I'm too busy, now. I mean my mind is too busy, isn't it, Arthur? There are the children, you see, and the housekeeping—and of course the war.”

Arthur smiled at his wife. “But afterwards, when the war is over and the children have gone to school, Barbara will write another book, better and funnier and more successful than the other two put together.”

Barbara blushed and said, “Oh, Arthur!” in a voice that showed how truly delighted she was.

The following morning at approximately ten o'clock Sarah was sitting in Arthur Abbott's study reading the paper and enjoying herself immensely; not that there was anything very enjoyable in the paper, of course, for the news was indifferent to say the least of it, but because it was such a treat to sit down like this at ten o'clock in the morning instead of having to wash up the dishes and dust the rooms and rack one's brains over housekeeping. It was not that Sarah disliked housekeeping, she was interested in it and did it well, but it is pleasant to have a holiday even from something one likes—so Sarah discovered—it was even pleasant to have a holiday from John.

Sarah was quite horrified at
this
discovery, for she adored John…she was trying to persuade herself that she missed John dreadfully and was longing to return to him when she heard steps in the hall and a girl suddenly appeared in the doorway. The girl looked about twenty-eight (Sarah thought); she was small and slight and was clad in riding breeches and a dark green pullover. She had no hat, and her thick, silky brown hair was blown about by the wind. Her eyes were gray and unusually wide apart and her fair skin was powdered with golden freckles. Sarah liked the look of the girl—or rather the young woman—so she smiled at her.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the young woman in surprise.

“I'm Sarah Walker,” said Sarah Walker.
“
An old friend of Barbara's.”

“Oh good! I mean I'm awfully pleased to meet you. I'm Jeronina Abbott—Jerry for short. It's rather a blot to be called Jerry these days but it was too much bother to make everyone change. My husband is Barbara's husband's nephew so I'm really Barbara's niece. Silly, isn't it?”

Sarah hesitated. She realized what the girl meant, of course. Barbara was a babe in some ways, she was the sort of person who never seems to grow old, so it seemed silly that she should have a grown-up niece—but really and truly Barbara was not so very young in years (she must be over forty, thought Sarah, calculating rapidly). Fortunately there was no need to reply to young Mrs. Abbott's question, for she came over and stood on the hearth rug and began to chat in a friendly fashion, and while she chatted Sarah had time to look at her more carefully and to mark with interest that although she was slim and small she looked tremendously strong…she looked tough—if that was not too uncouth a word to apply to an extremely attractive young person.

“I rode over from Ganthorne across the moors,” said Jerry. “It's such a lovely ride. Do you like riding? Where's the woman who lectured last night at the Red Cross meeting?”

“I'm the woman,” said Sarah, who was getting a little tired of describing herself thus. “I lectured to the meeting and I'm also a friend of Barbara's. I combine the two roles in my own person.”

“Goodness!” said Jerry. “The last woman was frightful.”

Sarah accepted the compliment without remark.

“Positively frightful,” repeated Jerry. “She squashed everybody the moment they opened their mouths—Barbara was terrified of her.”

“Does Barbara always put up the lecturers?”

“Nearly always. Of course the committee is supposed to take it in turns but the others find excuses and Barbara is so good-natured that she's left to hold the baby. The Marvells
always
manage to get out of it. Have you met the Marvells?”

Sarah had been introduced to a great many people at the Red Cross meeting but she could not remember the Marvells.

“You haven't met them, then,” said Jerry confidently. “You wouldn't forget the Marvells. He's a great big bounding buffalo of a man with a booming voice and an odd sense of humor. He paints, of course, and I believe he's quite good in his way—at least a friend of Sam's says so. I wouldn't know. Mrs. Marvell is the sort of woman who strews herself on the sofa and makes everyone slave for her,”

“You don't seem to like them,” commented Sarah.

Jerry laughed. “You've noticed that, have you? It's because they batten on Barbara. I can't bear people to make use of Barbara—she's such a dear, isn't she? So good-natured and kind. As a matter of fact she's my very greatest friend,” said Jerry earnestly. “We seem to understand each other so well…but we were talking about the Marvells, weren't we?”

Sarah nodded.

“The parents are bad enough but the children are
worse.
They were like savages when they were young, rushing about the garden and laying booby traps.”

“They sound uncomfortable neighbors!”

“They are,” said Jerry, nodding vigorously. “Of course they're grown up now so they don't lay booby traps, but they make themselves unpleasant in other ways.” She hesitated and then laughed. “I always get worked up about the Marvells—let's change the subject, shall we?”

“With all my heart,” agreed Sarah.

“How did the lecture go?” asked Jerry in quite a different voice.

“All right, I think. There were a lot of people there, and they listened quite peacefully—or at any rate they gave one the impression of listening. I don't flatter myself that they'll remember a word of it, of course. I showed them a Pott's Fracture and—”

“Oh Jerry!” cried Barbara's voice from the door. “Jerry, I'm so glad you've come. I wanted to see you because—”

“I've been talking to Mrs. Walker,” began Jerry.

“I've been trying to ring you up,” declared Barbara, hugging her niece-by-marriage in an affectionate manner. “They rang and rang and of course there was no answer because you were here.”

“And Markie never hears the phone.”

“I've got a letter from Sam.”

“So have I, darling!” cried Jerry, diving into her pocket and producing a sheaf of thin gray envelopes with dark blue airmail stamps on them. “Look, Barbara, eight all at once!”

“Oh, Jerry, how lovely!”

“No letters for seven weeks,” continued Jerry. “I was nearly crazy—and now eight all at once. I feel like a different woman.”

“Of course you do!”

“He's perfectly fit and full of beans,” said his wife proudly. “He's enjoying himself—I can tell that by the way he writes. Of course he can't tell me much about what he's doing. He just says they are in the desert now, and he's been given command of a small detachment—four tanks, he says.”

“Jerry, how splendid!”

“I was reading them all night,” continued Jerry, putting the letters back in her breeches pocket and patting them lovingly. “Or at least I was reading them until Markie came in and took away the lamp…we have lamps at Ganthorne Lodge,” explained Jerry, turning to Sarah as she spoke, for it had suddenly struck her that Barbara's friend was being left out of the conversation.

“Markie was quite right,” said Barbara firmly.

“Well, I don't know,” returned Jerry in a thoughtful voice. She had perched herself on the arm of a chair and was swinging her leg and gazing at the toe of her beautifully polished chestnut-brown boot. “I mean why should we do things at the right hours? Why should we go to bed at ten and get up at seven? There doesn't seem much point in it, really.”

“Arthur has to catch—”

“Oh, of
course
! It's
quite
different if you have someone coming and going and wanting meals and catching trains. I mean us.”

Sarah blinked for she found the conversation a little difficult to follow but apparently Barbara found no such difficulty.

“We must, darling,” Barbara told her. “And all the more if it isn't necessary—just like a man changing for dinner when he's in the jungle and there's no other white person for miles. I don't mean we always change for dinner, because now that Arthur is in the Home Guard we've given it up—and anyhow it's only supper, but that
is
a reason, isn't it?”

“Oh definitely,” replied Jerry without turning a hair.

“But Barbara,” began Sarah in bewildered tones.

“
And
doctors, of course,” added Barbara, turning to her old friend with a brilliant smile.

Sarah was stricken dumb.

“I believe you're right,” declared Jerry with a serious air. “I mean about keeping to proper mealtimes and all that. Markie and I have been getting awfully slack lately and feeding just when we felt inclined—at least that was the idea. As a matter of fact it doesn't work out that way, because quite often we don't feel inclined to feed at the same moment. For instance I come in ravenous after exercising the horses and find Markie in the middle of turning out the linen cupboard…You see,” continued Jerry, turning back to Mrs. Walker and smiling in a friendly fashion. “You see, I keep horses and dig the garden so all my work is out of doors.”

“And hens,” Barbara reminded her.

“And hens, of course,” agreed Jerry.

“She used to run a riding school,” said Barbara.

“But it all fell to bits when the war started,” said Jerry. “I've only got two horses left—and a pony, of course. The horses are old and not fit for hard work, you see.”

Sarah saw. She said, “Do you live there by yourself?”

“I've got Markie,” replied Jerry.

“Miss Marks was Jerry's governess,” explained Barbara. “She came to live with Jerry because Jerry couldn't get any servants.”

“Because Ganthorne is an Elizabethan house with all the Elizabethan drawbacks,” said Jerry.

“Ghosts,” said Barbara nodding.

“No electric light,” said Jerry.

“It must be rather lonely for you,” said Sarah, who felt she ought to make some contribution to the conversation.

Barbara and Jerry looked at each other and laughed.

“You had better tell her the whole story,” Barbara said.

“Yes,” agreed Jerry, wrinkling her brows. “Yes, I'd better. It must be awfully muddling for you. It was like this, you see. When the war started Sam joined up at once. He was in Uncle Arthur's office before that, but he had always wanted to be a soldier.”

“He's a born soldier,” said Barbara with pride.

“Yes,” agreed Jerry. “Yes, he is, really. That was why I didn't try to keep him back…so Sam went off and Markie and I were left—not lamenting, exactly, because—well, because—and then I thought I would shut up Ganthorne Lodge and get a job. I was just on the point of signing up when suddenly a whole battalion of soldiers appeared, practically in the night.”

“Like a crop of dragons' teeth,” put in Barbara.

“And there I was,” added Jerry with an air of finality.

“I see,” said Sarah, but she said it without conviction, for why should the arrival of a battalion have prevented young Mrs. Abbott from taking a job?

“It was because Ganthorne Lodge is the only house for miles and miles,” said Barbara. “That was why.”

“I see,” said Sarah faintly.

“Jerry runs a sort of canteen,” added Barbara.

“No, Barbara, not really,” objected Jerry. “They have their own canteen. I just let them come in when they like, that's all. They're in huts, you see, and it isn't very comfortable for them, especially if it's wet. The men come into the kitchen and sit there and have the wireless, and the officers use the dining room. Markie and I live and move and have our being in the sitting room.”

“How good of you!” Sarah said.

“Not really,” replied Jerry. “I do it for Sam, you see. I mean they're all soldiers—like Sam.”

“Yes,” said Sarah.

“Of course I couldn't do it without Markie,” continued Jerry. “Markie looks after them. She's a very special sort of person—isn't she, Barbara? She's terribly clever, you know, and yet she's good at housekeeping, too, and does it well and likes doing it. There's practically nothing Markie can't do if she sets her mind to it. She's
good
,” declared Jerry, nodding gravely. “Markie is good all through and I believe that's why she's so happy in spite of everything.”

Sarah was about to inquire further regarding this paragon of all the virtues, and particularly to inquire what disabilities she suffered from to make her happiness a subject of surprise but she had no opportunity, for Jerry glanced at the clock and said she must fly and was gone in a twinkling.