Читать книгу Auntie Robbo - Ann Scott-Moncrieff - Страница 3

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Auntie Robbo liked to talk in the evening after dinner. That was why, when Hector had had his bath, he usually went down to the drawing-room in dressing-gown and slippers, and ate his supper of bread and jam and milk off one little tray while Auntie Robbo had her coffee off another. It was a cosy, friendly habit which they both enjoyed. It was supposed to be bad for Hector, for if they got on to an interesting subject they forgot all about bed. Auntie Robbo never sent anyone to bed.

One evening they sat together not saying very much, but content in their comfort and each other's company. It was early in March, and a great fire roared up the chimney in the wind. Rain tattled on the windowpanes, and the trees at the bottom of the garden were threshing and moaning as if they were a giant forest. The noise outside only enhanced the peace of the drawing-room; not a pompom of Auntie Robbo's plush curtains stirred in the storm. And all her furniture and flowered china and bits of silver and satin cushions glowed and winked in the firelight.

Hector sat on the fender, but the heat soon edged him onto the rug—the rug was a woolly white sheepskin one, warm and soft, delicious to dig the bare toes into. Hector dug his in and munched the last of his bread and jam, then he curled over like a comfortable cat, blinking up at Auntie Robbo.

He thought that she was looking nice tonight, the very picture of what an old lady should be. She was sitting up very straight and dignified in her winged armchair. Her hair was snowy and strained neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a black satin gown which flowed in ample sober folds down over her shoes. Her hands lay still as doves on her tight-corseted stomach. A most proper and placid old lady. That's what you or I would have said. But Hector knew better. He knew his aunt was only sitting still and peaceful because of the good big dinner she had eaten, and her hands were folded not in piety but over the fullness of her stomach. Auntie Robbo was in fact thinking of the duckling and roast potatoes and claret and vanilla pudding that reposed beneath them. She sighed, a gentle satisfied sigh.

There's no denying Auntie Robbo was rather a gay old lady, frivolous in some ways. Take the number of ornaments she wore— little gold rings in her ears, a ruby pendant, two diamond birds flying across her bosom, an embroidered pocket, buckles on her shoes, and any number of rings and bracelets. Hector thought them all very pretty, but sometimes he wished she wouldn't wear quite so many. They were always falling off and getting lost.

He gazed up at her now, at her broad good-natured brown face and the creases that had come on it with so much smiling; and he pondered, as he often had before, whether the soul of his aunt had not been taken possession of by some goblin from the hills.

She grinned down at his serious face, and poured herself some coffee.

"I often think, Hector, living with me has made you old before your time." She leaned forward to drop a spoonful of the little brown pebbles of coffee-sugar into his hand.

"M-m-m," was all Hector said, crunching. He sometimes thought so himself, for Auntie Robbo's antics were hard to keep pace with, and it was difficult to stop her when she was going too far and too fast. That was Hector's job.

Hector was eleven, Auntie Robbo was eighty-one. She was not his aunt, nor even his great-aunt; she was his great-grand-aunt, and they got on as well together as any two people possibly could.

"But it's true, Hector. You're becoming quite aged." Auntie Robbo wagged a ringed finger. "Now isn't it about time you went to some school or other——?" Her voice had risen to an affected shriek, for this was the way her niece Mrs. Agnew talked when she came to visit them.

"And made friends with other boys of my own age," finished Hector in the same tone.

She burst out laughing.

"And learned to play the game."

"Cricket," said Hector. "With shiny bats and balls."

"One ball and one bat," she corrected him. "You see how ignorant you are."

"Very well, ma'am. I'll get on the bus at the end of the road tomorrow. They tell me there's some very good schools in Edinburgh."

"Now don't be wilful. Have some more sugar and leave off teasing me."

Hector took a handful of sugar, grinning.

"No, but I wasn't altogether in fun," she went on. "I mean when we started there was something ... what was it that put me in mind of poor Anna Agnew? Now what was it?"

But Hector had rolled over and closed his eyes against the firelight. He was never much interested in Mrs. Agnew.

Auntie Robbo prodded him with her toe gently and absent-mindedly, as if he had been a fat pet dog. Her brow was knitted in thought. It was a few moments before it cleared.

"That's it!" she cried, giving Hector a sharp dig in the with her toe. With a little yelp he sat up.

"It's on account of my not wearing this for so long," said Auntie Robbo, feeling in the embroidered pocket which hung at her waistband. "You know I made this pocket, Hector, when I was quite a girl. Look, the daisies are done with real gold thread. Isn't it clever? I don't believe I've ever sewn anything since. One can't do everything in this life. Now just look what I found when I was dressing tonight." She held up a letter between her thumb and forefinger. "It must have come more than a month ago." She opened her eyes wide and stared at the letter with some distaste, as if it were a fly in her soup or someone creating a scene at a a dinner-party. Hector stared too.

"Is it an important letter?" he asked, impressed by her manner.

"I didn't think so at the time," she explained, "or I would have mentioned it. I just sort of skimmed through it. You know how one does. But when I read it again this evening, I felt it must be of some importance. It's from your stepmother."

"Oh," said Hector, and then added: "I thought I was an orphan.'

"Now don't be stupid. Of course you are. Both your parents are dead—therefore you're an orphan. But you knew you had a stepmother, didn't you? I'm sure I must have mentioned it. When your father went abroad the last time—you were hardly crawling then—well, he got married to a woman he met in Egypt. He was ill even then and he died very shortly afterwards."

"You have told me the story before," said Hector. "The woman was very beautiful——"

"Did I tell you that?" asked Auntie Robbo, looking anxious. "You know, I've never heard what she was like really. But I imagine she must have been very beautiful, don't you? Or perhaps only very kind. However, we'll soon be able to judge for ourselves."

"Are we going to see her?" asked Hector.

"Yes. She wants to come here. I was just going to tell you. It's all in the letter."

"Read it to me," said Hector.

Auntie Robbo shook out the letter, which was written on thin, tissuey paper in thin, sloping writing. "Poof!" she said. "It smells." A thin odour of violets clung to the paper.

"Dear Miss Sketheway," she read,

"You will no doubt be surprised to hear from me after all these years, but you wrote such kind letters at the time of my marriage and the death of my dear husband that I feel I can appeal to you in any difficulty. I have been ill lately; the climate is very trying. The doctors have ordered me to England—for six months at least, they say. I dare say it will make all the difference but I feel rather sad about it, as I have no longer any ties in the dear country—that is, unless I may count you as such. I hope I may. When I have settled my affairs in London, I mean to buy a car and tour the country a little. I should like to come north and pay you a visit. Naturally I am longing to see Hubert's son, my stepson. How much I have heard about him in the dear dead past! And what plans Hubert had for his future! We must have some long talks about him when we meet. I sail from here on Wednesday, and hope to be with you on the 10th of April in time for tea.

"Yours sincerely,

"Merlissa Benck Murdoch."

Auntie Robbo sighed when she had finished. It wasn't a very promising letter. "What d'you think?" she asked Hector.

Hector was pulling wool out of the rug. "Was my father's name Hubert?" he said.

"No, of course it wasn't. It was Robert, after me. Dear me, I didn't notice that. It must be her writing—no, there it is, plain as can be—Hubert, not Robert. How strange! Maybe it was her pet name for him."

"Or maybe she's forgotten. I think she's horrid. All stepmothers are horrid."

"Now we mustn't be hasty, Hector. After all, she wasn't married to him that long. I really think perhaps we ought to have her here. Remember, we don't have many relations, and they all seem to have quarrelled with us. She may be very nice, you know. Besides, your father might have wished it——"

Auntie Robbo jumped out of her chair and strode up and down the room, her black skirts swishing against the furniture as she passed. She ran a hand through her hair and sent a cascade of hairpins onto the hearth rug.

"Do you want to see her?" she cried.

Hector was picking up hairpins. "Well, she might be an Egyptian. If she was that I'd like to see her very much."

"Of course, that's it," cried Auntie Robbo. "That might account for the letter. She doesn't know the language well; she says she has no ties in England. Look at that handwriting—there's Egyptian handwriting for you."

Hector said it did look Egyptian. "And Merlissa Benck is a queer kind of name."

"Coffee-coloured, do you think?" said Auntie Robbo hopefully. "With hair done in oil?"

"Lots of oil," Hector agreed.

"Think of the camels——"

"Deserts——"

"The bazaars——"

"Mirages——"

"Date palms——"

"Arab ponies——"

"Think of the meals she must have eaten, living in little silk striped tents."

"Think of the stories she'll be able to tell us."

Auntie Robbo's eyes sparkled. If there was one thing she liked better than to talk after dinner, it was to be told a good story; hers and Hector's had been rather drying up lately.

"M-m-m," said Auntie Robbo. "I love Egypt. To think that I've passed it six times—or near it—and never been ashore."

"A real Egyptian will be able to tell us everything," said Hector enthusiastically.

"Of course," she cried. "That settles it then."

And while Hector fell asleep on the sheepskin rug and dreamed it was Sahara's burning sands, Auntie Robbo sat down at her writing-desk and dashed off a warm welcoming letter to Merlissa Benck.