Читать книгу Dimbie and I—and Amelia - Mabel Barnes-Grundy - Страница 10

I find, in accordance with Nanty's advice, that I kept Dimbie well out of the last chapter; but he's bound to figure pretty largely in this, for he's had a birthday. A birthday cannot very well be touched upon without referring to the person interested, and Dimbie was extremely interested because of the omelet Amelia made him for breakfast.

On the morning previous I said to Amelia—

"To-morrow is the master's birthday. Now what shall we give him for breakfast? It must be something very nice."

"Pigs' feet."

"Pigs' feet?" I ejaculated.

"Yes, mum. Pigs' feet boiled till juicy and tender, and red cabbage."

"But it's for breakfast," I repeated.

"Yes, mum. You mentioned that."

"But you can't eat pigs' feet for breakfast."

"Mr. Tompkins' brother-in-law, Mr. München, was dead nuts on it."

Her attitude was unshaken.

"But wasn't he German, Amelia?"

"P'r'aps he was," she admitted.

"Ah," I said triumphantly, "that makes all the difference."

"What about brawn or sausages, or black puddings or ham, mum?"

"You see they're all—pig," I said hesitatingly.

"Well, you're not Jews, mum. Tompkinses had a friend who——"

"I want something novel," I cut in, leaving the friend till another time. "I want something we have not had before."

She thought a moment. Then her countenance brightened.

"I know, mum, savoury duck."

"Don't be ridiculous," I commanded. "We're wasting time."

"It isn't a duck really, mum. P'r'aps you thought it was?"

"When you say a duck, I naturally think you mean a duck."

I was getting tired.

"But I don't. It's made of the insides of animals mixed with onions. You buy them at tripe-shops, and they're real good."

I felt myself turning sick.

"Amelia," I said, trying to be patient, "will you remember it's breakfast we are discussing. I've called your attention to the fact several times. I think it will have to end in an omelet—a nice, light omelet. Do you know how to make one?"

Now Amelia will never allow that she doesn't know everything in the world, so her reply was guarded.

"It's made of eggs."

"Of course," I rejoined.

"And milk and butter——"

The milk might be right, but I wasn't so sure about the butter.

Amelia pounced on my hesitation.

"Why, I believe you don't know how to make one yourself, mum."

I was bound to confess that I didn't.

"My opportunities to cook have been few," I explained. "The little I know was learned at a cookery class."

Amelia sniffed derisively.

"And a lot you'd learn there, mum—hentries and hoary doves, I suppose?"

"Hoary doves!" I repeated wonderingly, and vaguely thinking of a very ancient white-haired dove.

"Yes, them silly things rich folks begins their dinners with—anchovies and holives."

"You mean hors-d'oeuvres?" That I suppressed a smile should go to my good account, I think.

"That's it, only my tongue won't twist round it like yours."

"And where have you met them?" I inquired with interest.

"At Tompkinses'!"

"And did they have them every night?"

"No, just at dinner parties." She spoke in an airy, careless fashion.

"I see," I said, greatly impressed.

Amelia had been accustomed to hors-d'oeuvres at dinner parties, and yet she condescended to live with us.

I looked with unusual interest at her closely-curled fringe, her sharp, eager features, and her shamrock brooch. I listened to her squeaking; it was the corsets this time. Sometimes a bone cracks in them like the report of a small pistol, and I think to myself, "Well, there is one less to break." But the number never seems to diminish. I fancy she must have a horde of bones, a sort of nest-egg of bones, put by, and as soon as one cracks it is promptly replaced by a sound one. Occasionally one bores through her print bodice, and then she puts a patch on the place, a new print patch, which rarely matches the rest of her dress. I counted four one day. She will look like a patchwork quilt soon, and I feel a little depressed at the prospect.

I roused myself with an effort to Dimbie's birthday and the breakfast.

Amelia had produced the cookery book, and was rapidly reading out loud various recipes for every variety of omelet.

"Stop," I said, "I'm getting muddled."

It ended in our selecting a savoury parsley omelet.

"I hope it will be nice," I said anxiously.

"Of course it will be nice. You leave it to me, mum. I've got a hand that light the master will be wishin' he had a birthday every day of his life."

The birthday morning dawned clear and beautiful. My first thought was of the omelet. I rose softly, dressed quickly, and went out into the garden with the hope of finding a few flowers to put at the side of Dimbie's plate. A fresh, springy scent met me everywhere—damp earth, moist trees, sun-kissed, opening, baby leaves. I inspected our apple tree, which stands in the middle of the lawn, with close attention. It is the only tree we possess. I looked for a promise of blossom. "Perhaps ... yes, in a month's time," I said. I wandered down the garden to the fence which divides us from the frog-pond field. A garden set at the edge of a field is a most cunning device, especially when the field contains well-grown trees (which hang over the fence, dipping and swaying and holding converse of the friendliest description with your own denizens of the garden) and a frog-pond into the bargain. The croaking of frogs may not be musical, but it may be welcomed as one of the surest notifications of the advent of spring. Mr. Frog is courting Miss Frog. He says, "Listen to my voice," on which he emits a harsh, rasping sound, somewhat resembling the note of the corncrake. Miss Frog is probably very impressed. So are Dimbie and I.

"So countrified," says Dimbie, drawing a long, deep breath of the sweet, pure air.

"So far from the madding crowd," say I. "Who ever hears a frog near the big, noisy towns?"

By and by we shall see little black eggs, embedded in a gelatinous substance, floating about the surface of the water. Later on there will be tadpoles, and then more frogs.

The beech tree, I think, is the most kindly disposed of all the brethren to us dwellers of the garden. A lime nods to the apple tree, which is exactly in its line of vision, but the beech leans and leans over the fence, craning its neck, holding out long, beautiful branches, which so soon will be decorated with a delicate lace-work of the most exquisitely tender of all the spring greens. The beech is a long time in unfolding her treasures—the sycamore and chestnut can give her many days; but when she does consent to open out her leaves, what a wealth of beauty!

On this morning I thought I could almost see them uncurling in the sunshine, hear them laughing at their old friend the lime. I could have dallied with them, anxious to hear what they had to say, what sort of a winter had been theirs, but Dimbie and breakfast must be waiting for me.

I sped into the house, just in time to see Dimbie removing the dish cover. I paused in the doorway to witness his smile of pleasure at finding an omelet—a savoury parsley omelet—before him, but no smile came. In its place was a blank look of inquiry.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"What's this?" he returned.

"An omelet." I walked quickly to the table.

"Oh, is it?" he said quite politely.

We stood together and looked at the thing, was very small and thin, and hard and spotty.

"I thought it was veal stuffing." He was grave and still quite courteous.

"It looks like a bit of old blanket," I observed.

"It doesn't look wholesome, do you think so?"

"I think it looks most unwholesome." I put my hand on the bell.

"Wait," he said, "Amelia might be hurt: let's give it to Jumbles."

But Jumbles was a wise cat. He smelt it, stood up his hair on end, and walked away. And so we burnt it.

When I ordered some bacon to be cooked Amelia asked me how we had enjoyed the omelet.

"It was a little small," I said evasively.

"Just a little small," said Dimbie cheerfully.

"That must be the fault of the egg-powder, there was no eggs in the house," she said as she bustled out of the room.

Dimbie peeped at me and I peeped at Dimbie, and we both broke into suppressed laughter.

"I always said she was the most resourceful girl I had ever met."

"She is," I groaned; "and I thought it would be such a beautiful surprise to you."

"It was, dearest," he assured me; "never was so surprised at anything in my life."

I handed him my present and looked at him anxiously. Would this too be a disappointment? He had talked of pipe-racks so frequently—of the foolish construction of the ordinary rack, which, supporting the bowl of the pipe at the top, naturally encourages the evil-tasting nicotine to flow down the stem. This I had had made specially for him of the most beautiful fumed oak. The bowls of his pipes could now rest sensibly, the stems pointing skywards. His pleasure was unfeigned. He left his breakfast to hang it up and kiss me.

"How clever you are, Marg," he said. "How did you know?"

"You have sometimes mentioned it."

He laughed.

"I have derived a considerable amount of useful information from you one way or another. I may even become capable in the end."

"There's no knowing," he agreed.

Then we fell to making our plans for the day. It was not often that Dimbie took a holiday, we must make the most of it. We would cycle to some pine woods at Oxshott which we knew well and loved greatly. We would lunch there by the side of a little pool set in a hollow—Sleepy Hollow we called it. It would be warm there and sunny, for the trees had withdrawn to the right and left, and it was open to the sun and rain and wind of heaven. When we had rested we would go to a dingle where I knew primrose roots were to be found. What corner and nook and hidden by-way and bridle-path in our beautiful Surrey were unknown to me? I had flown to them from Peter. I had spent long days in the fields, on the commons, in the pine woods away from Peter. My bicycle was a friend in need. Peter couldn't cycle. Nothing short of a motor-car could catch me on my bicycle. Peter hadn't a motor-car. Motor-cars, bicycles, and truant girls were an invention of the devil. I would laugh in my sleeve, while Peter swore.

I am introducing Dimbie to a lot of my old haunts. Two on their travels are better than one.

Amelia packed our lunch and asked when we would be home.

"It is impossible to say," I told her. "When one rides away into the country or into a sunset or into a moonrise one may never return."

And Amelia stared as she does sometimes when I cannot keep the laughter and happiness out of my voice.

"There's the steak," she said.

"Cook it when we come in," I called as I followed Dimbie through the wooden gate—which is such a joy to me, as it might have been iron—and down the lane.

How glorious it was as we spun along the smooth, red roads, and felt the sun and wind on our faces, and breathed spring—for spring was everywhere!

"Go on in front, Marg," commanded Dimbie. "I want to look at the sun on your hair. It's like pure gold."

I humoured his fancy.

"I want to feel it," he called, "to stroke it, it looks quite hot. Let's stop for a rest."

We dismounted, and sat down on a bank.

"You won't ruffle it?" I said.

"No," he replied, "I'll be awfully careful."

Then he stroked the back of my head the wrong way, the dear old way he has always stroked it.

"I do love you, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing the nape of my neck. "There never was a Marguerite like mine."

It is at such moments that the tears come unbidden, tears of intense happiness.

Will Dimbie ever realise how much I love him? My words are few. I remember what Nanty said, although she has now recalled her advice. I don't seem to be able to let Dimbie know what he is to me. Human language is not sufficient, speech is so bald. Sometimes in the night, when he is asleep, I press my lips to his kinky hair, but I'm always afraid he will awake and find me out, and I whisper, "God, I thank Thee for Dimbie."

A lark was singing rapturously above us far away out of sight, a thrush was breathing forth liquid notes of silver, and a little golden gorse bush was giving of its best and sweetest to the inmates of the grassy lane.

What a beautiful thing is a lane in which the grass runs softly riotous. A street of pure gold, as it were transparent glass, was what St. John saw in his vision. To me such a street, hard and metallic, would be a disappointment. I want in my heaven cool, grassy lanes, soothing and comforting to tired feet.

"What a birthday!" said Dimbie. "I want always to stop at thirty-one, and sit on a bank with you and look at your hair in the sun, sweetheart."

"You'd get tired of it."

"Never," he vowed. "What a lucky thing it was for me your getting mixed up in that wire netting. Girls are very helpless."

"But they manage somehow to get out of their difficulties," I laughed, and we sat a little closer. "Marguerite," he said suddenly, "would you like a—child?"

I felt the colour rise to my cheeks as I shook my head.

He stooped and kissed me.

"I'm so glad," he whispered. "I wouldn't either. We don't want anyone but each other, do we?"

"Perhaps—some day," I faltered.

"Well, perhaps some day," he assented a little reluctantly. "People with children seem so beastly selfish to everybody but the children. They've no thought for anybody else, no interest. You say to 'em, 'My house was burnt down last night.' They look a little vague and reply, 'How unfortunate. Johnny has contracted measles.' Really anxious to impress them, you go on to tell them that your mother has just died from heart failure, and they say, 'How distressing. Mary has passed her matric.' You want to curse Mary, but you daren't. They represent all that is holy, all that is extraordinary (in their own eyes), all that is happiness; they are parents. You stand outside the door of the holy of holies. You know not the meaning of the words life, joy, fatherhood, motherhood. The sun and the moon only shine for them. The stars twinkle, and the flowers bloom, only for the children."