Westwood (34 page)

‘Margaret! Margaret! Wake up – Mr Fletcher wants you on the telephone!’

Margaret sat up, pushing the hair from her face and repeating stupidly:

‘Telephone! What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Mr Fletcher, I tell you. He wants to speak to you on the ’phone; he’s holding the line.’

‘What on earth does he want me –’ Margaret muttered, getting unsteadily out of bed and putting on her dressing-gown. She was not fully awake.

‘I don’t know what he wants you for. He sounds very upset. Hurry up, do. I’ll go and tell him you’re coming,’ and she hurried away.

‘Hullo? Mr Fletcher?’ said Margaret, struggling with a great yawn as she took up the receiver.

‘Margaret? Is that you? I’m sorry to get you out of bed, but I’m in a hole and I want your help. Can you meet me outside Brockdale Station in half an hour?’

Margaret answered at once: ‘Yes.’

His voice was so urgent and unhappy that the thought of refusing never entered her head.

‘Thanks. It’s awfully good of you. I’ll explain when we meet,’ he said gruffly, and rang off.

Mrs Steggles was hovering in the background, her face alight with curiosity.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t know, Mother. He just said he’s in a hole and wants me to help, and will I meet him in half an hour outside Brockdale Station. I’ll have to hurry. Will you be an angel and make me some tea?’

‘It’s ready – I’ll bring you up a cup while you’re dressing,’ said Mrs Steggles, going into the dining-room. ‘But what an idea, dragging anybody off at eight in the morning! Has his wife turned up again, do you think?’

Margaret was hurrying into her clothes and did not answer. Her thoughts had flown at once to Westwood. She had planned to telephone Zita after breakfast, and ask if she could be of any help during the day (which was fortunately a Saturday) by looking after the children or fetching things from the ruins of Lamb Cottage. Now this plan must be postponed. It was annoying, and she wondered crossly and without much interest what could be the matter with Dick Fletcher? Nothing interesting, that was certain!

Ten minutes later she was hurrying down the long staircase leading into Archway Tube station and feeling as if a strong force were drawing her back to Westwood while she was compelled to go in the other direction. It was a lovely summer morning, and in other circumstances she would have enjoyed the journey, but she was wondering whether Alexander’s picture had been saved from Lamb Cottage and if she would get away from Dick Fletcher in time to telephone Zita before lunch, and scarcely noticed the sunlight and the cloudless sky.

He was waiting for her outside the station, and started eagerly forward as she came towards him. He was very pale and looked as if he had not slept.

‘Hullo, Margaret, this
is
good of you,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry to have got you up so early. I did wait until eight o’clock.’

‘That’s quite all right, it doesn’t matter a bit. Er – I hope it isn’t very bad news?’

‘Oh –’ He hesitated a moment, looking at her and biting his lips and she was just thinking that her mother’s guess must be right and that his wife must have turned up again, when he said impatiently:

‘Oh, it’s nothing serious, it’s only that I’m in a hole, and you’re the only woman I know; well, the only
nice
woman’ – laughing awkwardly – ‘and I want you to help me. Let’s go this way.’ He took her arm and began to walk rapidly away from the station towards the High Street. ‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you in a minute.’

He was suddenly silent. Margaret felt that he was trying to decide the best way to tell her, so she kept silent too, and they hurried along through the sunshine, both frowning and quiet.

She was very conscious of his arm thrust carelessly through her own, like that of an old friend or another girl. Women who are not often touched by men naturally respond strongly when they are touched, however casually, and Margaret was no exception to the rule. She did, however, like his arm thrust through hers. She at once felt closer to him and more friendly and willing to help. A number of miss-ish prejudices seemed to drift away and she glanced at his face and thought, I do like him, really.

‘My housekeeper was hurt in the raid last night,’ he said suddenly, as if her glance had made him decide to speak, ‘and she’s in hospital and likely to be there for at least three weeks. The trouble is, there’s no one to look after my daughter.’

‘Your daughter? I didn’t know –’

‘Didn’t know I had a daughter?’ turning to look at her with a troubled smile. ‘Oh yes, Linda’s nearly twelve.’ His voice was tender as he spoke the name. ‘That’s where I go on Sundays, to see Linda.’

‘Do you?’ said Margaret, in a low tone, much ashamed of her past suspicions.

‘Yes. I’ve got a little house out here where she lives with Mrs Coates, my housekeeper. You see, the trouble is’ – he hesitated, then went on quickly – ‘Linda isn’t quite like other children; not quite up to the standard for her age, and so she doesn’t go to school or anything of that sort or
see many people. I wondered if you could spend the day here, just until I can get a nurse or somebody – she’ll be all right when once she’s used to the new person – she’s very loving, bless her, and gets on with anybody, but I’ve got to find somebody
absolutely
reliable.’

‘Where is she now?’ asked Margaret, feeling revulsion, though her tone expressed only sympathy.

‘At home. Oh, she can be left quite safely for half an hour,’ glancing at her suspiciously, as if trying to detect signs of shrinking. ‘But she doesn’t like being alone for long. She – she’s so gentle. You’ll love her,’ he ended confidently.

‘I’m sure I shall. She sounds –’ Margaret left the sentence unfinished, in a vague murmur. Like most people who worship physical beauty, she had a horror of deformity and her imagination at once began to paint a monster.

‘Could you stay for a bit?’ he said eagerly, as they crossed the noisy High Street and approached a quieter road. ‘I should be so grateful, and it would be such a weight off my mind.’

‘Of course I will,’ she answered at once, and was rewarded by his look of relief and a smile that made him seem years younger. She put out of her head all thoughts of going to Westwood that day and reluctantly decided that if she refused him or made excuses, she would never forgive herself. Heart and duty both told her clearly what she ought to do. All the same, she was so dreading the first sight of Linda Fletcher that she was afraid he might notice her agitation, and exclaimed, ‘What unusual houses!’ in order to distract his attention from herself.

‘Yes, no two of them are alike. I wanted somewhere really nice for her to live, quiet, you know, and pretty, and we were lucky enough to find one to let here.’

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Ever since I came to London.’

Margaret could not make up her mind if it was a relief that no two of the houses were alike, for they were so ugly that it was as well they should not be duplicated, and yet uniformity must have imposed some of the restfulness of monotony. Each house looked as if it had been designed by a border-line gnome. Towers, gables, rustications, lanterns, dormers and leaded panes abounded, and so did angles, bright tiles and horizontal windows, the gnomes having combined Pseudo-Tudo with Lutyens-Functional. At the end of the avenue there were two houses built of small bricks in a plain Georgian style that looked good enough to eat.

‘Those aren’t so pretty,’ said Dick Fletcher, indicating them as he went down a side turning.

Here the houses were smaller, and so madly fanciful, with their gardens full of fuchsias and pink hollyhocks, that they had lost all contact with reality. The scene made Margaret think of the Lollypop house in the opera,
Hansel and Gretel
, for beyond the gnome-houses the sky was blue as a forget-me-not, and butterflies were fluttering over brilliant flowers still dewy with morning. In the quietness, broken only by the ordinary sounds of a suburban road at nine o’clock in the day, she heard a faint silvery tinkling like water-fairies singing.

Dick Fletcher was smiling. ‘Can you hear Linda’s windbells? She’s got them all over the house. I thought they might get on people’s nerves but no one seems to mind.’

‘It’s a lovely sound,’ said Margaret, nervously biting her lips.

‘Linda loves them. She’s very fond of music, too. Here we are,’ and he pushed open a little blue gate of fanciful design.

The icily sweet noise of the wind-bells was loud here, and Margaret could see the long strings of painted glass dangling at every window. She followed him up a stone path, between two miniature lawns of grass that really were smooth and green as velvet; in the middle of one was a
little pool with two golden fish poised between the dark stems of a budding water-lily, and on the other a bird-bath where some sparrows were drinking and splashing. All was bright, doll-like, delicate, as if nothing ugly or disorderly were ever allowed to intrude here. The name of the house hung above the front door in gold letters. It was Westwood.

Margaret was still recovering from this when Dick Fletcher opened the front door and went into the hall, and she received an impression of sunlight and soft bright colours and flowers.

‘Linda,’ he called, a little anxiously. ‘Darling, where are you? It’s Daddy.’

The noise of the wind-bells died away to the softest tinkling as the wind slowly dropped into stillness. There was a moment’s silence. Then a young voice, not quite distinct and sounding as if speaking to itself, repeated,

‘It’s Daddy,’ and a child came down the hall against the sunlight from the garden.

Margaret caught her breath, but it was with relief. The little face, lifted to her father’s with a smile, was dark and calm, like that of a Japanese. Her dark hair was plaited with red ribbons, and she wore a flowered summer dress. She fixed her eyes upon Margaret, the smile lingering as she gazed at her, but without surprise.

‘Daddy,’ she repeated, and put a soft little paw into his hand, still looking at Margaret.

‘This is Margaret. She’s very kind. She’s come to look after you while Mrs Coates is away, Linda. Say “How do you do, Margaret!”’ he said.

The child came forward and obediently held out her hand. He watched, smiling anxiously, and glancing from one to the other.

‘How do you do, Margaret.’ Her speech was not exactly broken by a lisp but it was not completely clear. Margaret took her hand, and pity and revulsion were so mingled as she touched its cool skin that she had to make an effort to say, ‘How do you do, Linda,’ but she suddenly felt that she
must
make some gesture towards the child that would reassure the father, and she knelt down and put both her hands on Linda’s waist.

‘Where have you been?’ she coaxed. ‘In the garden? What were you doing? Tell me.’

‘In the sun,’ answered Linda, her smile widening, as her small, gentle dark eyes dwelt on Margaret’s smiling face. ‘It’s warm. I was so cold.’

‘We’ll have some tea,’ exclaimed her father, rubbing his hands and hurrying through to the kitchen. ‘Linda and I have had breakfast but you’d like some, wouldn’t you, Margaret?’

‘I’d love some,’ she answered, following him in and shutting the door. She glanced about the hall, which was scented by branches of lilac grouped in a large jar. The few pieces of modern mass-produced furniture and the parquet floor were well-kept and gleaming.

‘Will you show me where the cups are, Linda?’ suggested Margaret, and soon Linda was opening and shutting cupboards and clumsily but carefully putting plates on the table, chattering the while about poor Mrs Coates, who was ill and had to go to bed and be away from home. There was no trace of sorrow on her face and every now and again she gave a little laugh, empty and sweet as the sound of the wind-bells.

‘And the tea you put in
there
, Margaret. Put the
water
on it and make it hot. And then the lid. You put on the
lid
,’ she said, her voice sounding like the copy of an older voice that had said these things to her. ‘Bread and butter. It’s warm to-day, Margaret.’

‘Yes, Linda, it’s lovely. Presently you’ll show me the garden, won’t you?’

‘Yes. It’s nice in the garden. It’s warm.’

The kitchen was painted blue and white, and all the tins and saucepans matched it. A white geranium growing in a blue pot stood on the window-sill, breathing out the faint aromatic scent of its leaves to the hot sunlight. A kitten wandered in from the garden half-way through breakfast,
and Linda went off to play with it. Her father watched her go, then turned to Margaret.

‘Do you think she seems happy?’ he demanded.

‘Completely happy,’ she answered. ‘I can imagine one would get to love her,’ she added – not quite truthfully, for the vacancy in Linda’s eyes and her vague, unfinished movements made her flesh faintly creep. The child was completely unlike the monster of her fancy, but she was very different from a normal child, and the fairy prettiness of this house that was both her world and her prison did not make Margaret feel any less uncomfortable. It had none of the ordinary worn apperance of a London home in war-time, and she knew now why Dick Fletcher’s clothes were shabby and his flat in Moorgate comfortless; every penny of his handsome salary, except what he needed for his bare necessities, went on Westwood for Linda.