(12/20) No Holly for Miss Quinn Page 4

  Nothing—but nothing —she told herself with satisfaction, could keep her from her decorating now!

  Fired by the thought, she began to gather together the ornaments about the room, stacking them in a large cardboard box. It would save time in the morning, when she would roll up the carpet, take down the curtains and push the large pieces of furniture into the center of the room. Already she had found two dust sheets to cover the mound, and had planned the best method of building the assorted shapes of sofa, chairs and table into a compact pile. Her methodical mind reveled in such practical arrangements. The job was going to be as efficiently tackled as any at the office, and would give her far more satisfaction.

  She prepared the room next morning, and by midday was down to the exacting job of washing down the old paint, and rubbing down any uneven patches on the surface. Joan came in once or twice to see if there was anything she could do to help. Miriam greeted her with a smile, but was obviously so content to work alone that Joan retired after expressing admiration for Miriam's zeal.

  "It's going to look marvelous," she cried. "Will you have lunch with me? It will save you cooking."

  "I've made a sandwich," replied Miriam, "and shall have it with some coffee to save time, if you don't mind."

  Joan was secretly rather relieved. Her whole attention now was on the arrival of Barbara and family in two days' time. After the loneliness of the past months, it was pure joy for her to be preparing food and decking the house, in readiness for the company which would bring Holly Lodge to life again.

  Christmas Day fell on a Thursday. Miriam had high hopes of finishing the painting by then, although she faced the fact that the windows—always a tricky and tedious job—might have to be left for later. As Barney would not be back from America until January third, she had planned to take another few days after Christmas if all were well at the office. There should be ample time to get the sitting room into perfect order.

  By Monday evening the first coat of emulsion paint was on the walls. She stood back, brush in hand, to admire its delicate shade. Yes, it was perfect!

  Tomorrow she would put on the second and final coat, she told herself happily, going to the sink to rinse the paint brush. She could hear Joan talking to someone on the telephone. No doubt Barbara was ringing about the traveling plans.

  But a moment later, Joan called to her.

  "Your brother, Miriam, from Norfolk."

  "Right!" called the girl, drying her hands.

  Lovell sounded agitated.

  "I've trouble here," said the deep voice. "Eileen's just gone to hospital."

  "An accident?"

  "No, nothing like that. But most acute stomach pains. Awful sickness. Probably something to do with the gall bladder. She's had this sort of thing off and on for some time, but this morning she had this really terrible attack."

  "Poor Eileen! Where is she? Far away?"

  "No. In the local hospital. The thing is, can you possibly come and hold the fort for the next few days? I know it's asking a lot, but over Christmas I shall be extra busy in the parish, and I don't know which way to look for help with the children."

  "I can come," said Miriam promptly. It was good to know that Lovell turned at once to her when he needed help. The old strong bond between them was reestablished in those few words uttered so many miles apart.

  "You're a trump, Miriam," cried Lovell. The relief in his voice warmed her heart. "I can't tell you how glad I am. And so will the children be, and Eileen, when I tell them."

  "I'll set off first thing," said Miriam, "and be with you tomorrow afternoon. Have you got provisions in, or shall I bring something?"

  "Oh, I expect everything's here," said Lovell, but he sounded somewhat vague.

  There was a sound of infant screaming in the background.

  "Don't worry," called Miriam hastily. "I'll see to things when I arrive."

  "Marvelous!" sighed her brother.

  The screaming became louder. Miss Quinn replaced the receiver and went sadly back to the half-painted sitting room.

  "Well," she said glumly. "That's that!"

  Joan heard the news with distress. Anything to do with illness touched her sympathetic heart, and reawakened memories of her own two recent bereavements. On this occasion there were further causes for dismay.

  "And at Christmas too! And with children in the home! Dear, oh dear, it couldn't be more unfortunate, especially with the extra services your brother will have to take. If only I could help!"

  "I know you would if you could, but you will have enough to do at Holly Lodge. I will telephone as soon as I get there tomorrow."

  There was nothing more to do to the painting until the first coat was thoroughly dry. It should certainly be just that by the time she returned, she thought grimly. Understandable irritation began to flood her as she packed away the brushes and tins. How like Eileen to manage to mess up so many people's affairs!

  Immediately, she chided herself, but the resentment remained to rankle as she found her case and began to pack. And yet, in a distorted way, she almost felt grateful to Lovell's wife for giving her the chance to have his company for a few days of uninterrupted pleasure. It was years since they had been able talk without the presence of her flibbertigibbet sister-in-law.

  It took her longer to pack than usual. Clearing the sitting room had meant stacking things in unaccustomed places, and she was hard put to it to find a map showing the route. At last it turned up, packed among cookery books. Yes, skirt Oxford, make for Bicester, Buckingham, Bedford, Cambridge, Newmarket, and then on into Norfolk. It was going to be a longish trip. She must start at first light, and pray for a fine day. There was no knowing what she would find to do when she arrived, and she only hoped that the bitter winter weather, for which East Anglia was noted, would hold off and enable her to return in good time. Oh, that poor sitting room, she grieved!

  She climbed into bed, turned out the light, and determined to put aside tomorrow's worries and get to sleep. The vision of a raddled old housemaid called, unbelievably, Euphrosyne, who had helped at her parents' vicarage, came into her mind.

  "What can't be cured must be endured," was one of her favorite sayings.

  Maybe Euphrosyne had the last word there, thought Miriam, settling to sleep.

  ***

  There was frost on the grass when Miriam looked out first thing in the morning. It was gray and still, overcast, but bitterly cold. In the fold of the downs, scarves of mist floated. No breeze stirred the bare branches, and the birds sat huddled in silence, awaiting any largesse thrown from the kitchen window.

  It was a dispiriting sort of day, thought Miss Quinn, brewing her coffee. She only hoped that the mists of Fairacre were not an indication of fog in the flat fields of Bedfordshire and the fen lands beyond.

  She remembered the chill of Lovell's drafty vicarage, and went to hunt for two extra thick sweaters to throw into the back of the car with her Wellington boots. Brought up in that bleak area of England, she prudently went prepared for the worst that the weather could do in December.

  Joan called in soon after nine, bearing fruit, biscuits, and a flask of coffee.

  "I hope I'm in time. Have you made some sandwiches?"

  "Well, no," admitted Miriam, after thanking her. "I thought I would stop on the way and have a proper lunch. I shall be ready for it, no doubt, and heaven alone knows if there will be anything prepared at Lovell's. I'm taking eggs for us all, to be on the safe side."

  "Good. Do ring as soon as you arrive. I shall be anxious."

  "I will. And do use my bedroom while the family is here, if it's any help. I have stripped the bed."

  Joan's face lit up.

  "That would be marvelous, if you're sure. Roger could go there, or I could perhaps. How nice of you! I will work it out while I'm making the mince pies this morning."

  It was plain that this new turn would add agreeably to her multifarious plans, and Miriam was glad to see her so occupied.

  By half-pa
st nine she was on her way, having said farewell to Joan and left her Christmas presents. The hedges were hoary with rime, and in each dip of the downs the mist still swirled. Thin ice crackled beneath the car wheels, and the whole world looked cold and unwelcoming. She thought with longing of the snug cottage she had left behind, and of the work half done.

  But duty, duty must be done,

  The rule applies to everyone,

  And painful though that duty be

  To shirk the task is fiddle-de-dee,

  she sang aloud, cheering herself with the thumping rhythm, as the car sped onward.

  To her relief, a watery sun, pallid as the moon, became visible through the clouds as she rattled along the road which by-passed Oxford. On each side lay water meadows, and the leaden sheen of the winding river, its course marked by willows stark in their winter nakedness.

  As the sun's strength increased, so did Miss Quinn's spirits rise. It was good to see something different. Good to be visiting Lovell, even in such worrying circumstances. Good, even, to feel unaccustomed sympathy for the tiresome Eileen who had precipitated this journey. Looking after the three children Miriam viewed with some trepidation. They were healthy, high-spirited youngsters, and would no doubt be missing their mother. Miriam knew her limitations. She might be Barney's right hand. She might be the dragon that frightened the typing pool. Whether she would be as efficient as aunt-cum-housekeeper remained to be seen.

  Bicester and Buckingham were passed. Strange, alien Wolverton, an industrial surprise among the flat fields, lay behind her. After Newport Pagnell, she told herself, she would find a likely looking lane to enjoy Joan's coffee and fruit. Hunger began to assail her, but the sun now shone warmly, and the midlands, which Hilaire Belloc had found "sodden and unkind," lay ahead bathed in gentle sunlight.

  She turned into a by-lane where the hedge maple gleamed like gold. A robin flew onto a nearby twig, watching her closely. Crumbs had been known to come from car windows.

  Miriam crushed one of Joan's biscuits and scattered it for her companion, who darted down to enjoy this unexpected feast.

  Watching his sharp beak at work, Miriam sipped her steaming coffee. In amicable silence, the two strangers enjoyed their meal together.

  Chapter 5

  A WELCOME FOR MISS QUINN

  SHE BROKE HER JOURNEY at Cambridge, partly because the place was full of happy memories of her own and Lovell's youth and, more practically, because she knew exactly where to go shopping.

  She was lucky to find a parking space outside Queen's. Here, at a May Week ball long ago, she had met Martin Farrar, a friend of Lovell's, and had enjoyed a few weeks' mild flirtation with the handsome boy. Where was he "now, she wondered? Farming somewhere in a nearby county, she seemed to remember Lovell saying one day—and happily married.

  It was bitingly cold, despite the sunshine. The slow-moving Cam was dappled with the last yellow leaves of autumn, and a vicious little wind stirred the dust along Silver Street.

  She bought fruit, bacon, and sausages, enough to provide a supper and a breakfast and to give her time to check the provisions in Eileen's store cupboard.

  She also bought a box of chocolates for Lovell and flowers for the invalid; and, at the last minute, dived into a shabby toy shop for crayons and balloons. Thus armed she returned to the car, and having deposited her purchases, decided to treat herself to a splendid lunch at the Garden House hotel nearby.

  She was on her way again, much fortified, within the hour.

  As always, the miles seemed longer than ever after Newmarket, as the wide heathlands stretched away into the distance, and the well-known East Anglian wind scoured the countryside.

  It was almost dark by the time she arrived at the vicarage.

  No one answered the bell which she pressed hopefully at the front door, so she pushed it open, to be greeted by a pungent smell of burning.

  The wide hall ran from front door to a glass one at the back. Through it Miriam could see the shabby overgrown garden backed by a lowering sky.

  Light spilled from a side door into the hall, and she could hear children laughing. Obviously, all activity was centered in the kitchen.

  "Anyone home?" she called, advancing, her heels clicking on the black and white marble tiles. Not even a rush mat, thought Miss Quinn, to mitigate the piercing cold to one's feet!

  There were screams of excitement as two little girls tumbled through the door, and rushed upon her.

  "Auntie Miriam! You've come! We thought you'd be here when we'd gone to bed!"

  Two pairs of sticky hands caressed her new Welsh tweed suit lovingly. She bent to kiss the children. The extraordinary smell seemed to envelop them.

  "We're making toffee," said Hazel importantly.

  "Only it's a bit caught," added Jenny. "Come and see."

  She followed them into the kitchen. Hazel, the nine-year-old, led her to the electric stove. Jenny, two years younger, indicated the saucepan, and Miriam's heart plummeted.

  A tarlike substance coated one of the open element electric plates, and made rivulets down the once white front of the stove.

  The residue gleamed malevolently from the bottom of a buckled saucepan. That was one utensil, thought Miriam, which would have to be replaced.

  "Where is the toffee?" she inquired.

  "It's here, you see, but we just ran out into the garden to tell Daddy the telephone was ringing, and it all went sort of fizzy and buzzled all over the stove."

  "That's right," corroborated Jenny, licking a sticky finger. "It tastes funny, but it's set, hasn't it?"

  "It certainly has," said Miriam with distaste. "Put it in the sink to soak."

  "But it's toffee," wailed Jenny, sensing adult disapproval. "We can eat it! There's a pound of sugar in it."

  "There's a pound of sugar," agreed Miriam, "but it's mostly over the stove. Cheer up, I'll make you some fudge instead. But where's Daddy?"

  "He went to find Robin. He's in the garden somewhere. We'll show you."

  She followed their prancing figures into the dusky garden. Both children were dark-haired, like their father, but she could not believe that she and Lovell had ever been quite so thin.

  Did Eileen feed them properly, or were they allowed to leave food if they were too impatient to eat it? Time would tell.

  In any case, they were not lacking in energy. They hopped and skipped ahead of her, leaping over brambles and tussocks of grass that must once have been a lawn in more spacious days.

  "She's come! Daddy, she's come!" screamed the little girls, and out from behind a hedge, came Lovell holding his youngest in his arms.

  "You dear girl!" he cried, depositing Robin at his feet. He put his arms round Miriam in a bear hug. They had never been demonstrative, and this welcoming embrace made all the irritations of the journey drop away. His face was cold, his hair rough and smelling of all outdoors. A wintry, bruised-grass, autumn-bonfire smell, as different from the acrid scent of burning which had greeted her as sea-mist is from midland fog.

  In that instant, she was transported back to their shared childhood when together they climbed trees, or rolled, screaming with delight, down a grassy slope in the vicarage garden. Sudden tears pricked her eyes, and Lovell, holding her now at arm's length, said:

  "You look cold. Come inside."

  The two little girls bounced ahead, but Robin held up his arms to be carried. Miriam watched Lovell hoist him aloft again, and thought how like his mother the young boy looked. He had the same fair hair and blue eyes, the wide brow and pointed chin which gave Eileen her childlike air.

  She held out a hand to him, but he turned away from her, burying his face in his father's neck.

  "That's no way to welcome an aunt," chided Lovell. "Why, she's going to be the angel in the house, if only you knew it!"

  "Wait and see!" laughed Miriam, following her brother indoors.

  ***

  It seemed to Miriam, as she surveyed the sitting room where most of the family activities went
on, that a strong charwoman, rather than an angel, was needed in the place.

  Toys littered the table, the chairs, and the carpet. Copper, the aging cocker spaniel, was curled up on the rumpled cover of the couch in front of the fire. A log had rolled off, and lay smoldering in the hearth, filling the room with pungent smoke. A glass vase containing six dead chrysanthemums and an inch of dark green slime decorated the mantelpiece, with a half-eaten banana beside it.

  Lovell, dropping Robin beside the spaniel, caught sight of his sister's face, and laughed.

  "Ghastly, isn't it? We had a sort of scratch lunch, and that banana is Robin's contribution."

  "Well," said Miriam, trying to sound briskly cheerful, "that can soon be put right. What's happened to Annie?"

  Annie was a young girl from the village who came for a couple of hours or so in the late afternoon each day to help Eileen with the children's tea and bath time.

  "She's off over Christmas," explained Lovell. "The family has gone to Ely to stay with the grandmother, but she will be back on Monday, I hope."

  Miriam hoped so too. She bent to remove a grubby handkerchief from Robin's grasp. He was busy wiping Copper's nose, and the dog resented it. The child set up an ear-splitting wail, and the two little girls rushed to comfort him.

  Miriam hastily returned the handkerchief, and the wailing ceased as though a siren had been switched off.

  "Perhaps I'd better take up my case," she said to Lovell, "and then I will cook a meal for us all."

  "Goody-goody!" shouted Hazel.

  "Gum-drops!" yelled Jenny. "That's what we say: 'Goody-goody-gum-drops!' Do you say that? Do you say: 'Goody-goody-gum-drops!' when you're pleased? We do, don't we, Hazel? We always say: 'Goody-goody—'"

  "Not now you don't," said Lovell firmly. "Let Aunt Miriam have a few minutes' peace. Shall I take you up?"