Читать книгу Bracken Turning Brown - Pamela Wynne - Страница 5

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But as spring came stealing along into the beautiful valley Susan found that there are other things beside the thought of a dead love that can torment. Bills began to come in; bills addressed to her personally. One frightful bill from the wine merchants in Keswick.

“Rachel.” With white lips Susan rushed into the kitchen where Rachel was washing up the breakfast things.

“And now what’s wrong?” inquired Rachel resignedly.

“Look!”

“Yes, that’s bad,” said Rachel after a little pause. She had wiped her hands on her coarse apron before touching the large square piece of notepaper.

“But where are all the bottles?” gasped Susan.

“Thirty pounds, Rachel! Why, there must be about forty bottles for that!”

“I dare say it’s all wrong,” said Rachel solidly. “I’ll go and see them the next time I’m in Keswick. I’ll go to-morrow; they’re calling with the groceries and they’ll give me a lift.”

“Yes, but it’s got to be paid.”

“We’ll pay it somehow,” said Rachel cheerfully. But her heart was aching for the child that she loved. To her it was no surprise. Chasing a fowl one day she had snatched at its tail feathers as it bolted into a clump of laurel bushes. And then down on her knees to find out how it had eluded her she had thrust in her hand and found a heap of black bottles. Rachel sighed. The Rector was in a bad way and someone ought to know about it. But supposing they did know, reflected Rachel. What could they do? And after all he did his job all right. A good deal better, taking it all round, than many a parson who never looked at a drop of spirits. “We’ll pay it somehow,” she repeated.

“How? Beside, it’s the disgrace. When they see me in Keswick they’ll know,” said Susan stormily. Her face was white as she was pacing up and down the grey stone flags. “Besides we shall be ruined at this rate,” she continued. “Arthur only gets a little over three hundred a year, and with his own hundred it’s four. There’ll be other bills coming in. Rachel, I tell you I can’t stand it any more.” Susan stood there and stared shakily at her servant. “It’s beginning to make me feel queer in my head. Last night ... he was odd at supper. And then he went out right up the valley to see Mrs. Thwaites, who had a heart attack the other day. And if people like that begin to find out.... The shame of it will kill me,” gasped Susan, and she began to sob.

“Come now,” said Rachel. She put down the large and rather threadbare teacloth and held out her arms. “My poor little lamb,” she said tenderly.

“I shall go mad,” said Susan. “I tell you I shall, Rachel. I shall rush out one night and throw myself into the beck. After all, what’s the good ... it isn’t as if I could do anything. Besides, there’s something else. Daddy wrote and asked if I could have Millicent to stay for a bit as she’s so run down. I keep on making excuses that I can’t have any of them, and now there is no excuse because Daddy offers to pay for her. At least he isn’t paying himself. Aunt Dorothy is. Well, of course, Daddy knows the money would be a help. They will have to find out. I shall write and tell them myself and tell them not to be surprised if they hear I’m dead, because I’m going to kill myself,” said Susan hysterically.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Rachel sturdily. “And now listen, my dear lamb, because what you’ve just said has given me an idea,” Rachel’s round consoling face was suddenly illumined. “We’ll make some money,” she said. “I thought of it not so long ago and then I thought it mightn’t do. But now I know that it will. We’ll take lodgers, Ma’am. Like they all do round here in the summer and spring. We’ve got all these lovely rooms going to waste. We’ll do it,” said Rachel excitedly.

“Rachel, how could we?”

“Easily,” said Rachel.

“Yes, but they’d find out ... Arthur....” There was a sudden queer undercurrent of pallor in Susan’s face.

“We’ll have gentlemen,” said Rachel, “and only gentlemen, too. Not a parcel of women with all their fussifications and what not. Gentlemen don’t upset themselves over a little thing like that. The Rector is always the perfect gentleman whatever little failing he may have, Ma’am. And we’ll have the visitors take their meals alone. That’ll be easy enough,” said Rachel cheerfully.

“Easy,” said Susan. “Why, you’d have to work like a slave, Rachel. Don’t be so ridiculous. How could we take visitors?” But Susan’s face had a little gleam of light on it. If only they could.... It would be such fun ... desperate fun. A nice man in the house.... Someone who understood and didn’t mind. Someone to turn to; someone to whom you could tell all the sick terror and fear and agony that seemed to eat into your very being and make you want to die.

“Rachel, if only we could,” she said suddenly.

“But we can,” said Rachel. Her thick capable hands moved quickly about in the basin of hot water. The cups and saucers rattled against one another as she fished them out, steaming. “I know all about it, Ma’am. Long before I was married my mother used to take them; we lived near Buttermere. Reading parties from Oxford. They paid well and they were mostly out all day. Nice young gentlemen,” said Rachel reminiscently.

“Oh, would they have to be young?”

“No, we’d try for an older one,” said Rachel decidedly. “He’d fit in better here. He could have the big room out at the back that looks towards Great Crag. That’s over this and warmer, and there’s a good fireplace. A blessing t’last Rector put in that pump from the copper up to the bathroom. They always ask for that first. “Is there plenty of hot water?” and Rachel chuckled.

“You really seem as if you thought it might happen,” said Susan quickly. “You don’t really, do you, Rachel?”

“I do,” said Rachel, and her nice good-tempered face beamed down into the hot water full of tea leaves and little bits of slopped bread and one solitary cup still waiting to be fished out and dried.