Читать книгу The Silent Pool - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 10

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Star rang up at half past six, which was better than being late. The call must have cost pounds, because she went on talking in a perfectly care-free manner while the pips kept mounting up. Janet and Stella made a game of it. They sat side by side on the bed and played snatch-the-microphone, so that at one moment Star found herself impressing upon Stella that she was an exceptionally sensitive child and mustn’t be crossed, and in the next blowing kisses along the wire to Janet. As this had the fortunate result of making Stella laugh, nothing could have been more reassuring for Star. The good-byes were said in a much happier atmosphere than anyone would have thought possible, and it was only at the last that there was a sob in the high, pretty voice.

“Janet—are you there?”

Janet said, “Yes.”

“You will keep her safe, won’t you? I’ve got the most dreadful cold feet.”

“Star, you’re just being silly!”

Stella bounced on the bed beside her.

“Me—me—it’s my turn!” She butted Janet out of the way. “Star, it’s me! You are being silly! Janet says so, and so do I!”

“Darling, are you all right—are you happy?”

“Of course! Janet is going to tell me about going up Darnach Law and getting lost in the mist. You didn’t tell me about that——”

“Janet will,” said Star.

“And when I’m quite grown up I shall go there, and I shall climb all over the hill! And I shall come with you in an aeroplane when you go to New York, and I shall sit up all night and see you act!”

They were still talking ten minutes later when Janet took the receiver.

“Better ring off now, Star. Have a good time, and send us all your notices.”

Stella bounced and echoed her.

“Send me every single picture—promise!”

In her packed-up flat Star felt cold and cut off. They were going to do very well without her. Not that she wanted Stella to miss her—she didn’t, she really didn’t. But that cold feeling persisted, and the Atlantic was dreadfully wide.

Down at Ford House Stella went happily to bed. There were going to be so many things to do tomorrow, that she was in a hurry to get there and begin doing them.

Janet put on a brown taffeta dress with a little turnover collar and fastened it with a deep-coloured cairngorm brooch which had belonged to the Highland grandmother. As she went down the wide staircase, there were hurrying steps behind her. A dark girl passed her in a rush, and then, as if the impulse which had taken her there had petered out, turned no more than a dozen feet away from the foot of the stairs and stood waiting, her hands clasped at her breast, her foot tapping the floor.

Janet did not hurry herself. She continued her staid descent. This, she supposed, was Meriel, and all that she or anyone else knew about Meriel was that Adriana Ford had picked her up somewhere. She looked at her and saw a creature slight to the point of attenuation, with masses of hair tossed together above an artificially whitened face, eyes dark behind darker lashes, and thin lips painted scarlet. She wore a black dress with a spreading skirt and very long sleeves coming down over long white hands. A string of pearls fell to her waist. Janet thought they were real. Very difficult to tell, of course, but she thought so all the same. As she reached the bottom step, the scarlet lips opened to say,

“I suppose you are Janet Johnstone.” The voice was husky, the tone aggressive.

Janet smiled briefly and replied,

“I suppose you are Meriel Ford.”

The black eyes flashed.

“Oh, we’re all Fords here, and none of us have the slightest right to the name. It should be Rutherford really. Adriana just thought Ford sounded better for the stage. Adriana Ford—that’s pretty good, isn’t it? Rutherford would have been too long. And then, of course, when she bought this place it all fitted in too marvellously. Ford of Ford House!” She gave a low laugh. “And Geoffrey and Edna followed suit, so we’re all Fords together! Have you seen Adriana yet?”

“Not yet.”

Meriel laughed again.

“Oh, well, if you had come down a month ago you might have stayed your fortnight and never set eyes on her. She has been like that ever since her accident in the spring—up in her own room and only seeing the people she fancies. But she has taken a turn just the last few days—went up to town to see a doctor and came back with a lot of new clothes and all set to start entertaining in a big way. She has been coming down to meals and generally sitting up and taking notice. But I believe she is staying in her room tonight—probably because you are here. She doesn’t always fancy strangers. Are you a nervous person?”

“I don’t think so.”

Meriel surveyed her.

“No—you haven’t enough temperament. Adriana won’t care about you one way or the other. Between people who have temperament it’s love or hate, you know.” The thin shoulders were shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter which. It is the emotion that counts. One might just as well be dead as have no emotions. But I daresay that seems like nonsense to you.”

“It does rather,” said Janet equably. She moved on across the hall.

The meal was well cooked and well served. Simmons had been a good butler. He knew his job, and within the limits of his strength he could still put up a good performance with Joan Cuttle helping in the background.

Geoffrey Ford came in when the soup was already on the table—a good-looking fair-haired man a little run to seed. His eye travelled over Janet in the manner of an expert. There was a gleam of interest, almost immediately quenched by a definite lack of response. He liked a woman who could give him glance for glance, but here there was no answering spark, beckoning only to withdraw behind dropped lashes. He got a steady look and a pleasant answer when he spoke to her, but he thought not even Edna’s jealousy would be able to find anything to feed on in Miss Janet Johnstone. He had a mental shrug for the conclusion.

When dinner was over he vanished into the smoking-room. Janet endured two hours of Edna’s conversation against a background of jazz music evoked by Meriel. As fast as one programme ended she started fiddling with the knobs and roamed Europe in search of another. Sometimes the throbbing rhythms were just a whisper behind a barrage of intruding stations, sometimes they blared at roaring strength, sometimes a heterodyne tore shrieking across the beat. But loud or soft, clear or jarring, Edna plied her embroidery-needle and went on talking about the dullness of life in the country, the difficulty of getting household help and keeping it when you had got it, and other kindred subjects. She had a good deal to say on the question of Stella’s upbringing.

“She is really getting too old for a nurse, and Nanny doesn’t fit in—nurses practically never do. She doesn’t like the Simmons, and they don’t like her. I’m always afraid of there being a flare-up, and I really don’t know what I should do if they gave notice. And then there is Joan. Such a nice girl, but Nanny is always picking on her. I am sometimes quite sorry there is this class at the Vicarage. For Stella, you know. I suppose Star told you, The Lentons have two little girls, and Jackie Trent comes in. His mother neglects him dreadfully. She is a widow, and a very flighty person. She lives in the cottage opposite the church, and he makes the class up to four. And a cousin of Mrs Lenton’s helps in the house and teaches them. She isn’t really strong enough to take a regular job, so it’s all very convenient. Only sometimes I think it would be better if it wasn’t, because then Star would be obliged to do something about Stella. She would really be a great deal better at school.”

Janet was very glad indeed when ten o’clock struck and Edna, folding up her work, remarked that they kept early hours. She took a book to bed with her, read for an hour, and slept until seven in the morning.

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Stella sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed. She wore a blue dressing-gown embroidered with daisies. Her eyes were fixed on Janet in an unwinking stare.

“I thought you’d wake up. People do if you go on looking at them. Nanny won’t let me wake her—she’s most strict about it. She looked after a boy called Peter once, and he used to come rampaging into her bed as soon as it was light. She told him and she told him, but he would do it. So she went away and looked after someone else.”

They were just going down to breakfast, when there was a knock on the nursery door. At Janet’s “Come in!” there entered a little roundabout woman with a thick mop of grey hair and a bustling way with her.

“Good-morning, Miss Johnstone. Meeson’s the name, and Mrs for choice. Not that I ever fancied a man enough to marry one, but it sounds better, if you know what I mean. When you’re getting on in years, as you might say—more to it than just plain Miss. And Miss Ford, she sends her compliments and will be glad if you will visit her whenever you get back from taking Stella to the Vicarage.”

Stella frowned.

“I don’t want to go to the Vicarage. I want to stay here and see Adriana, and have Janet tell me about Darnach.”

Meeson put out a plump hand and patted her shoulder.

“Well then, ducks, you can’t. And none of those screaming games, if you please.”

Stella stamped her foot.

“I wasn’t going to scream! But I shall if I want to!”

Meeson said easily, “Well, I shouldn’t if I were you.” She turned back to Janet. “Shall I tell Miss Ford you’ll come, then?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

The Vicarage was no more than the length of the drive and about another hundred yards away. It sat comfortably next to the church with a riot of climbing roses almost hiding the walls. Two little fair-haired girls watched at the gate for Stella, and just as Janet turned to come away, a small white-faced boy ran up to join them. She thought he had an uncared-for look. There were stains on the grey pullover and a hole where a stitch in time would have saved a good many more than nine.