The following morning at approximately ten o’clock Sarah was sitting in Arthur Abbott’s study reading the paper and enjoying herself immensely; not that there was anything very enjoyable in the paper, of course, for the news was indifferent to say the least of it, but because it was such a treat to sit down like this at ten o’clock in the morning instead of having to wash up the dishes and dust the rooms and rack one’s brains over housekeeping. It was not that Sarah disliked housekeeping, she was interested in it and did it well, but it is pleasant to have a holiday even from something one likes—so Sarah discovered—it was even pleasant to have a holiday from John.
Sarah was quite horrified at this discovery, for she adored John…she was trying to persuade herself that she missed John dreadfully and was longing to return to him when she heard steps in the hall and a girl suddenly appeared in the doorway. The girl looked about twenty-eight (Sarah thought); she was small and slight and was clad in riding breeches and a dark green pullover. She had no hat, and her thick, silky brown hair was blown about by the wind. Her eyes were gray and unusually wide apart and her fair skin was powdered with golden freckles. Sarah liked the look of the girl—or rather the young woman—so she smiled at her.
“Hallo!” exclaimed the young woman in surprise.
“I’m Sarah Walker,” said Sarah Walker. “An old friend of Barbara’s.”
“Oh good! I mean I’m awfully pleased to meet you. I’m Jeronina Abbott—Jerry for short. It’s rather a blot to be called Jerry these days but it was too much bother to make everyone change. My husband is Barbara’s husband’s nephew so I’m really Barbara’s niece. Silly, isn’t it?”
Sarah hesitated. She realized what the girl meant, of course. Barbara was a babe in some ways, she was the sort of person who never seems to grow old, so it seemed silly that she should have a grown-up niece—but really and truly Barbara was not so very young in years (she must be over forty, thought Sarah, calculating rapidly). Fortunately there was no need to reply to young Mrs. Abbott’s question, for she came over and stood on the hearth rug and began to chat in a friendly fashion, and while she chatted Sarah had time to look at her more carefully and to mark with interest that although she was slim and small she looked tremendously strong…she looked tough—if that was not too uncouth a word to apply to an extremely attractive young person.
“I rode over from Ganthorne across the moors,” said Jerry. “It’s such a lovely ride. Do you like riding? Where’s the woman who lectured last night at the Red Cross meeting?”
“I’m the woman,” said Sarah, who was getting a little tired of describing herself thus. “I lectured to the meeting and I’m also a friend of Barbara’s. I combine the two roles in my own person.”
“Goodness!” said Jerry. “The last woman was frightful.”
Sarah accepted the compliment without remark.
“Positively frightful,” repeated Jerry. “She squashed everybody the moment they opened their mouths—Barbara was terrified of her.”
“Does Barbara always put up the lecturers?”
“Nearly always. Of course the committee is supposed to take it in turns but the others find excuses and Barbara is so good-natured that she’s left to hold the baby. The Marvells always manage to get out of it. Have you met the Marvells?”
Sarah had been introduced to a great many people at the Red Cross meeting but she could not remember the Marvells.
“You haven’t met them, then,” said Jerry confidently. “You wouldn’t forget the Marvells. He’s a great big bounding buffalo of a man with a booming voice and an odd sense of humor. He paints, of course, and I believe he’s quite good in his way—at least a friend of Sam’s says so. I wouldn’t know. Mrs. Marvell is the sort of woman who strews herself on the sofa and makes everyone slave for her,”
“You don’t seem to like them,” commented Sarah.
Jerry laughed. “You’ve noticed that, have you? It’s because they batten on Barbara. I can’t bear people to make use of Barbara—she’s such a dear, isn’t she? So good-natured and kind. As a matter of fact she’s my very greatest friend,” said Jerry earnestly. “We seem to understand each other so well…but we were talking about the Marvells, weren’t we?”
Sarah nodded.
“The parents are bad enough but the children are worse. They were like savages when they were young, rushing about the garden and laying booby traps.”
“They sound uncomfortable neighbors!”
“They are,” said Jerry, nodding vigorously. “Of course they’re grown up now so they don’t lay booby traps, but they make themselves unpleasant in other ways.” She hesitated and then laughed. “I always get worked up about the Marvells—let’s change the subject, shall we?”
“With all my heart,” agreed Sarah.
“How did the lecture go?” asked Jerry in quite a different voice.
“All right, I think. There were a lot of people there, and they listened quite peacefully—or at any rate they gave one the impression of listening. I don’t flatter myself that they’ll remember a word of it, of course. I showed them a Pott’s Fracture and—”
“Oh Jerry!” cried Barbara’s voice from the door. “Jerry, I’m so glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you because—”
“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Walker,” began Jerry.
“I’ve been trying to ring you up,” declared Barbara, hugging her niece-by-marriage in an affectionate manner. “They rang and rang and of course there was no answer because you were here.”
“And Markie never hears the phone.”
“I’ve got a letter from Sam.”
“So have I, darling!” cried Jerry, diving into her pocket and producing a sheaf of thin gray envelopes with dark blue airmail stamps on them. “Look, Barbara, eight all at once!”
“Oh, Jerry, how lovely!”
“No letters for seven weeks,” continued Jerry. “I was nearly crazy—and now eight all at once. I feel like a different woman.”
“Of course you do!”
“He’s perfectly fit and full of beans,” said his wife proudly. “He’s enjoying himself—I can tell that by the way he writes. Of course he can’t tell me much about what he’s doing. He just says they are in the desert now, and he’s been given command of a small detachment—four tanks, he says.”
“Jerry, how splendid!”
“I was reading them all night,” continued Jerry, putting the letters back in her breeches pocket and patting them lovingly. “Or at least I was reading them until Markie came in and took away the lamp…we have lamps at Ganthorne Lodge,” explained Jerry, turning to Sarah as she spoke, for it had suddenly struck her that Barbara’s friend was being left out of the conversation.
“Markie was quite right,” said Barbara firmly.
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Jerry in a thoughtful voice. She had perched herself on the arm of a chair and was swinging her leg and gazing at the toe of her beautifully polished chestnut-brown boot. “I mean why should we do things at the right hours? Why should we go to bed at ten and get up at seven? There doesn’t seem much point in it, really.”
“Arthur has to catch—”
“Oh, of course! It’s quite different if you have someone coming and going and wanting meals and catching trains. I mean us.”
Sarah blinked for she found the conversation a little difficult to follow but apparently Barbara found no such difficulty.
“We must, darling,” Barbara told her. “And all the more if it isn’t necessary—just like a man changing for dinner when he’s in the jungle and there’s no other white person for miles. I don’t mean we always change for dinner, because now that Arthur is in the Home Guard we’ve given it up—and anyhow it’s only supper, but that is a reason, isn’t it?”
“Oh definitely,” replied Jerry without turning a hair.
“But Barbara,” began Sarah in bewildered tones.
“And doctors, of course,” added Barbara, turning to her old friend with a brilliant smile.
Sarah was stricken dumb.
“I believe you’re right,” declared Jerry with a serious air. “I mean about keeping to proper mealtimes and all that. Markie and I have been getting awfully slack lately and feeding just when we felt inclined—at least that was the idea. As a matter of fact it doesn’t work out that way, because quite often we don’t feel inclined to feed at the same moment. For instance I come in ravenous after exercising the horses and find Markie in the middle of turning out the linen cupboard…You see,” continued Jerry, turning back to Mrs. Walker and smiling in a friendly fashion. “You see, I keep horses and dig the garden so all my work is out of doors.”
“And hens,” Barbara reminded her.
“And hens, of course,” agreed Jerry.
“She used to run a riding school,” said Barbara.
“But it all fell to bits when the war started,” said Jerry. “I’ve only got two horses left—and a pony, of course. The horses are old and not fit for hard work, you see.”
Sarah saw. She said, “Do you live there by yourself?”
“I’ve got Markie,” replied Jerry.
“Miss Marks was Jerry’s governess,” explained Barbara. “She came to live with Jerry because Jerry couldn’t get any servants.”
“Because Ganthorne is an Elizabethan house with all the Elizabethan drawbacks,” said Jerry.
“Ghosts,” said Barbara nodding.
“No electric light,” said Jerry.
“It must be rather lonely for you,” said Sarah, who felt she ought to make some contribution to the conversation.
Barbara and Jerry looked at each other and laughed.
“You had better tell her the whole story,” Barbara said.
“Yes,” agreed Jerry, wrinkling her brows. “Yes, I’d better. It must be awfully muddling for you. It was like this, you see. When the war started Sam joined up at once. He was in Uncle Arthur’s office before that, but he had always wanted to be a soldier.”
“He’s a born soldier,” said Barbara with pride.
“Yes,” agreed Jerry. “Yes, he is, really. That was why I didn’t try to keep him back…so Sam went off and Markie and I were left—not lamenting, exactly, because—well, because—and then I thought I would shut up Ganthorne Lodge and get a job. I was just on the point of signing up when suddenly a whole battalion of soldiers appeared, practically in the night.”
“Like a crop of dragons’ teeth,” put in Barbara.
“And there I was,” added Jerry with an air of finality.
“I see,” said Sarah, but she said it without conviction, for why should the arrival of a battalion have prevented young Mrs. Abbott from taking a job?
“It was because Ganthorne Lodge is the only house for miles and miles,” said Barbara. “That was why.”
“I see,” said Sarah faintly.
“Jerry runs a sort of canteen,” added Barbara.
“No, Barbara, not really,” objected Jerry. “They have their own canteen. I just let them come in when they like, that’s all. They’re in huts, you see, and it isn’t very comfortable for them, especially if it’s wet. The men come into the kitchen and sit there and have the wireless, and the officers use the dining room. Markie and I live and move and have our being in the sitting room.”
“How good of you!” Sarah said.
“Not really,” replied Jerry. “I do it for Sam, you see. I mean they’re all soldiers—like Sam.”
“Yes,” said Sarah.
“Of course I couldn’t do it without Markie,” continued Jerry. “Markie looks after them. She’s a very special sort of person—isn’t she, Barbara? She’s terribly clever, you know, and yet she’s good at housekeeping, too, and does it well and likes doing it. There’s practically nothing Markie can’t do if she sets her mind to it. She’s good,” declared Jerry, nodding gravely. “Markie is good all through and I believe that’s why she’s so happy in spite of everything.”
Sarah was about to inquire further regarding this paragon of all the virtues, and particularly to inquire what disabilities she suffered from to make her happiness a subject of surprise but she had no opportunity, for Jerry glanced at the clock and said she must fly and was gone in a twinkling.