THE NIGHT cable-letter from San Mateo was quite clear, though to Anne, in the first impact, it was unbelievable. A fairy story, a dream, reduced to commonplace terms. She was to pack at once, take a plane to New York, and go on by steamer to Santa Teresa. Mr. Darren would attend to the bookings and all the other arrangements.
“But it’s impossible,” Anne complained nervously.
“It’s there in black and white, isn’t it?” Mrs. Benson was indignant with her. “What’s impossible about it?”
“I can’t go all that way alone. I’d get lost.”
“Rubbish! You got a tongue in your head to ask the way, haven’t you? You can speak English of a sort, and you’ve been learning Spanish.”
“But school doesn’t end till next week.”
“All these years you’ve been wanting to go to your Uncle Julian. Now you can’t give up a few days of your term! Let me tell you, miss, the sooner you’re away from that old music, the better. If you were a daughter of mine, you’d be brought up proper, instead of messing your life away at banging a piano and scribbling crotchets and what-nots, working yourself into a decline. You go and phone up that Mr. Darren, like your father says.”
Mr. Darren was expecting the call. He asked her to come in with her passport.
When she saw him in the afternoon, he was reassuring. Everything would be quite easy for her, but she must be prepared to leave in two days’ time, as there was a chance of getting her a passage on the Atacama, a new motor vessel. He had already reserved a seat on a flight to New York, where his agent would look after her and put her on board the ship.
Mr. Darren, an old friend of the family, discussed her wardrobe warningly because of the climatic changes she would have to face. Anne went shopping in panic. By the time she arrived home, Mrs. Benson had already packed a suitcase and was busy marshalling the smaller effects.
“What have you done with your emerald ring?” the housekeeper demanded. “Have you lost it again? You can’t go visiting your uncle without that ring. What would he think of you?”
“Why should he think anything? Stop fussing.”
“I’d like to know what would become of you if someone didn’t fuss.” Mrs. Benson wheeled abruptly, swooped towards the bed, and picked up a wrinkled frock. “Look at this, for instance.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Matter enough. Crushed in among your clothes till it’s creased and rumpled out of recognition. Your new party dress! I suppose I’ll have to press it for you.”
“Put it away. I shan’t need it.”
“Indeed you will need it. What do you think you’re going to wear on that old boat? There’ll be dancing and doings every night.”
“Not for me. I hate dancing.”
“You’ll wear this frock, anyway. I suppose you think you can show up for dinner in your old blue jeans?”
“I will if I want to. Put the thing down and make me a cup of tea.”
“A disgrace! That’s what it is! A fine dress that cost pounds and pounds, and you don’t know how to look after it.”
“Are you going to get me a cup of tea, or do I have to make it myself?”
“You keep out of my kitchen.” Mrs. Benson put menace into her voice, then, seeing the clock on the mantelpiece, changed her tone. “My goodness me! It can’t be six already! You mean to tell me you haven’t had your tea?”