There Will Come A Stranger Read online

  THERE WILL COME A STRANGER

  Dorothy Rivers

  No question about it—Valerie had become a drudge. Not that her brothers and their wives did it on purpose, but good old Val was always available. Then wealthy sister Vivian returned from America and things changed quickly.

  She whisked Valerie off to Switzerland for a holiday—a happy time that completely changed the course of their lives.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vivian Howe sat in the corner of a railway carriage, northward bound. Rain lashed against the windows. The passing countryside looked bleak and sodden, and when the train flashed through a town the shining pavements and wet roofs reflected leaden skies. But Vivian would not for the world have had it different, for this was typical of England in the winter—and she was back at last in her own country, after eight years in America.

  She had one travelling companion, a tall, fair, well-built man of about thirty-five. Gazing out, deep in her thoughts, Vivian had been unconscious of him until a pleasant voice said, “You’ve dropped your gloves. Pity to tread on them—they’re far too nice!”

  Turning, she took the gloves an outstretched hand was offering her and met the steady gaze of a pair of grey eyes that had little creases etched by laughter at their outer corners. Vivian smiled back. “Thank you so much. How stupid of me!” The labels on her cases had made John Ainslie wonder whether his companion was an American. Now that she had spoken he knew that she was not. He liked the look of her: brown hair, in short sleek curls, brushed upward from her neck and ears and brow, complexion pale and clear, large hazel eyes and perfect teeth, enchanting ankles. She wore a coat of dark red tweed, lined with squirrel, over a suit of the same material. Her shoes and handbag were of crocodile. To her fellow passenger she looked as though life must have given her all a girl could ask for. She was pretty and attractive; judging by her clothes and luggage she was well off financially; her wedding ring seemed proof that love had come her way as well. He wondered what had caused the sadness in those lovely eyes of hers, and set such wistful curves about her charming lips—though in all conscience the weather was enough to make anyone depressed!

  Referring to her tell-tale labels, he remarked, “I see you’re just back from America. Too bad that you’ve got such wretched weather for returning!”

  “Oh, but I love the rain and wind and grey skies, after eight years in the California sunshine!” she assured him.

  “Really? After the dismal winter we’ve been having here, I find it difficult to imagine anyone enjoying to-day!”

  They chatted for a few minutes, of the book lying beside her, which he had read, the headlines in his paper, the unexpected results of the last by-election. Then Vivian turned once more to the window, and her companion to the Telegraph.

  Vivian was thinking of those eight years behind her: years gone by for ever, never to be recaptured. Six of those years had been ideally happy, filled with fun and love and laughter. She and her young husband had been all the world to one another. They had shared the same brand of humour, liked the same people, enjoyed doing the same things, and since Pete had inherited from his father a handsome income and a partnership in a wealthy firm of textile manufacturers, their life had been free from financial problems and they had been able to do much as they pleased without considering the cost.

  And then two years ago Pete had been killed when the aircraft in which he had been flying on a business trip had crashed. Vivian had been distraught, wishing with all her heart that she had been with him. Nearly always she had gone with him on similar journeys, but for once a mild attack of flu had kept her from accompanying him ... and saved her life.

  She would have returned at once to her own people, but she had not the heart to forsake Pete’s widowed mother, who had clung pathetically to the English daughter-in-law who was all she had left to her of her only son, since there had been no child of his marriage. So Vivian, who had gone immediately after the funeral to stay with the elder Mrs. Howe, had felt obliged to keep postponing her departure until, after nearly two years had dragged by, her mother-in-law had realized how great a sacrifice her son’s widow was making on her behalf, and decided to make her home with a sister-in-law who had long been urging her to live with her. So at last Vivian was free: free to return to her own country and her own kin.

  Yet, now that the longed-for moment of reunion was so close, heartache was mingled with her happiness, grief with her anticipation. It was so cruel, at twenty-nine, to feel that joy was flown, love left behind for ever! For the thousandth time she thought how different it would have been if she and Pete had had a child. If only she had something left of him, someone to care for, someone to live for!

  Glancing at the tiny jewelled watch that had been Pete’s last Christmas present, she saw that in another half-hour she would reach her destination. She had written to the family that she wanted none of them to meet her at the airport, or even at the station. Far better that she should complete her journey by herself, and on arriving at Darlingford Junction take a taxi straight to Hawthorn Lodge, the solid Victorian villa, standing in its own garden in the suburbs of the small but prosperous industrial town where she and her two brothers and their younger sister Valerie had all been born and brought up and where the other three lived still. After a parting that had lasted eight years, one didn’t want reunion to take place in public, under the indifferent or curious eyes of strangers—particularly when one’s own eyes might be moist! For Pete’s death had not been the only sorrow that had come during those years of separation. When she had been gone three years their mother had died, and two years after that their father had died too, after an illness lasting only a few days. No one had dreamed that it would have a fatal ending; otherwise she would have flown home at once to see him for the last time, and to be with Valerie during the first shock of grief and loss. For since their Brothers, Harold and Robert, had married, Valerie was the most alone of all of them, even though her brothers and their wives were living under the same roof.

  Her companion laid his paper on the seat beside him. “Did you like life in America?” he asked her.

  “Loved it! I was very happy there. I like Americans—they’re so warm-hearted and spontaneous and friendly. But now I’m back in my own country, I can’t imagine that I’ll ever want to go abroad again!”

  “I love this country too, particularly the Borders, where my home is. I can’t imagine leaving it for good—going off to settle in South Africa, or Australia, or even Ireland, as so many people have been doing since the war. All the same, after the months of ceaseless fog and rain and cold we’ve had this winter, I must say I’m looking forward to a holiday abroad!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Switzerland. Varlet-sur-Montagne—one of the smaller centres for winter sports. Quite the best holiday I know, at this time of the year! One’s pretty sure of having a reasonable amount of sun, too.”

  “How about currency? Isn’t Switzerland expensive? I suppose you can’t stay very long?”

  “One couldn’t stay for long in one of the big luxury hotels, of course. But as it happens we prefer the smaller, simpler places. In one of those two weeks is possible, or even three if one is careful about extras. We’ve stayed at the same small hotel for three successive years—the Casque d’Or—and though they make one very comfortable, and the food is first-rate, it is very inexpensive. Anyway a fortnight is as long as I can spare from business ... One comes back fighting fit, and full of energy! And it’s tremendous fun—ski-ing, and skating, and tobogganing, and so on. Dancing in the big hotels at night, too, if one feels so inclined. You ought to try it for yourself!”

  Vivian smiled, and shook her head. “Not I! Now that I’
m back in England, the last thing I want to do is leave it! Anyway I’m far too old to learn to ski—falling around in the snow!”

  He laughed. “Beginners start off on the nursery slopes, so you would be surrounded by other people ‘falling around’ too. And by the time you’ve spent two or three winters here, you may have overcome your distaste for ‘abroad’.”

  The train was drawing into Darlingford. Rising, Vivian made a move to take her cases from the rack, but he forestalled her.

  “Don’t lift those—they’re far too heavy for you! Leave them to me. I’ll hand them over to your porter.”

  Vivian thought how nice he was, how calm and capable and somehow reassuring. The kind of man that you could turn to in a crisis, knowing that he would take charge, and know exactly what to do, and do it quietly, without fuss or flurry. The kind of man who’d give the woman in his life the sense of safety and security every woman needed, whether she was aware of it or not. That woman—he had spoken of “we”, which surely meant that he was married—was indeed fortunate!

  Having said good-bye, he added, “I hope we’ll meet again one day—for longer next time! My name is John Ainslie, by the way.”

  Vivian smiled up at him from the platform. “And mine is Vivian Howe. I hope we’ll meet again, too!” she told him—and as she walked towards the exit was surprised, by the sharp stab of her regret for the improbability that this would ever happen. Then as her thoughts turned to the reunion with her family, she forgot John Ainslie.

  Curious though she was to meet her unknown sisters-in-law, it was of Valerie she was thinking most. Always she had had a very special tenderness for the little sister whose birth, when she was seven, had so delighted her and whom from the beginning she had mothered. She had been troubled about Valerie since their father’s death. Often she and Pete had asked her to pay them a long visit in America. Once they had even got as far as sending her the fare. But always she had answered that although she would have loved to come, she couldn’t manage it—the others needed her. And if was difficult to know from letters whether she was making an excuse because she did not really want to leave home, or because an over-developed sense of duty stood in her way. Well, anyhow, thought Vivian, I shall soon see for myself how the land lies!

  Meanwhile, Harold and Robert and their wives having departed for the day upon their various business, Valerie had cleared the breakfast table and begun the washing up. When they grew up the brothers had gone into business with their father in his printing works and the three young Stevensons had continued living at home. Their mother having died when Valerie was seventeen, she had kept house ever since. When, some four years ago, Harold and Robert had married within a few weeks of one another, houses had been as hard to, find and dear to buy in Darlingford as elsewhere. Both brides had been determined to continue with their work: Harold’s wife, Monica, as a beauty specialist in Betts and Butterworth’s, Darlingford’s most important store, Janet as a masseuse with a flourishing practice. So it had seemed to everyone concerned an excellent plan that the two young couples should settle down in Hawthorn Lodge, which would have been far too large for Valerie and her father had they lived alone there. After the death of Mr. Stevenson the arrangement had continued. Each of the young couples had their own sitting-room and all four were out for lunch during the week, but they all had breakfast and the evening meal, prepared by Valerie, together in the family dining-room.

  Neighbours who did not know the Stevensons except by sight called Valerie “the little fair one”. She was small and slender, with an ingenuous and unsophisticated air that added to her look of youth. Her hair was soft as silk and pale as clover honey, and she wore it in a youthful bob. She had wide cheekbones, delicately moulded; candid grey-blue eyes, and a tip-tilted nose. Her mouth was sensitive, and when it widened in her friendly smile a dimple cleft one cheek.

  While she did the washing up Valerie considered her programme for the day. Though Vivian’s room was ready, there was a good deal to be done, with the routine housework, and all the ironing that hadn’t dried in time to do it yesterday, and preparations for the evening meal, so that she wouldn’t have as much as usual to do this evening, when Vivian arrived, and shopping. The greengrocer did not deliver, and though Monica and Janet did not invariably see eye to eye, they were united in their insistence on a daily salad, though for different reasons—Janet because she considered it essential to good health, Monica because it was good for one’s complexion. And she wanted to buy flowers to put in Vivian’s room. And like most families, they all preferred home-made cakes to bought ones, which was just as well for reasons of economy. So if she could fit it in she ought to make a fruit cake for the week-end, and perhaps some rock cakes.

  Still, if I have bread and cheese for lunch instead of cooking anything, thought Valerie, I can easily get through it all by the time Vivian gets here at five o’clock—she’ll never catch the early train, it would mean getting up at an unearthly hour and she’ll be dead tired after flying all that way.

  When she had whisked round the house with carpet sweeper, mop, and duster, Valerie settled to her ironing in the kitchen, anxious to get it all out of the way before she started cooking. There was quite a lot of it—six shirts, two pyjama suits, pillow cases, face towels, innumerable handkerchiefs, her own underwear, and five of Janet’s overalls. After an hour or so her back and arms were aching, for the ironing board was too high for her. Robert had said he’d lower it by cutting a couple of inches off the legs, but there had been such an outcry from Monica and Janet, who were taller than herself and washed their own underwear, that no more had come of it.

  She turned the wireless on. She often did when she was working; music kept you company when you were alone. A song was coming to an end. The words might have been written to fit her present mood.

  “What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;

  Present mirth hath present laughter,

  What’s to come is still unsure.

  In delay there lies no plenty;

  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

  Youth’s a stuff will not endure.”

  Oh dear, thought Valerie. Youth’s a stuff will not endure. What about my youth? Here I am, twenty-two and never had the vestige of a love affair, nor even the chance of one. Living the way we do, I scarcely ever meet a man, except for married friends of Hal and Robert who come here with their wives. In no time I shall be an old maid, pretending to be perfectly content upon the shelf I’m perched on, hoping nobody can guess how much I’m longing to slide off it, into the right man’s arms!

  Cooking and housework could be the most satisfying job in all the world, she thought, if one were doing it for the man one loved, making a home for him and for one’s children. But it’s dull, it’s drudgery, doing it for one’s brothers and their wives, never one’s own mistress, stuck in a groove without a hope of ever getting out of it! Still, it’ll make all the difference in the world, having Vivian here. Only I don’t suppose she’ll stay for very long. Why should she? Why should anyone who didn’t have to stay in Darlingford, when she could go to Portugal or Ibiza, or Malta or—or Madeira?

  Oh, I’m a discontented, ungrateful pig! she told herself, to grumble when I ought to thank my stars for having a good home and being able to stay in it all day, instead of going out to earn my living as most girls do. Going to hang a shirt of Robert’s to air upon the clothes screen, she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. Pale face, shadowed eyes—the sight annoyed her. Just when she was wanting to look her best, for Vivian’s first glimpse of her after all these years! She grimaced at her reflected face. “Smile, girl—smile!” she told herself aloud. Smile, and look pleasant, and stop being such a discontented donkey!

  Vivian, returning to her old home, did not ring. And Valerie, the wireless drowning other sounds, did not hear the front door open, nor the murmuring of voices as Vivian paid the taxi driver, who had carried in her cases. It seemed that she had switched on the wireless in
the middle of a programme of gramophone records, for now a pianist played the opening bars, haunting and wistful, of a song she loved, though Monica and Janet, neither of them given to sentiment, called it soppy. A voice floated out into the quiet kitchen.

  “I shall know him

  In the first moment that we meet...”

  Valerie sang too. She was no longer in the kitchen of Hawthorne Lodge, beside the dresser hung with cups and jugs and mixing bowls, breathing in the homely odours of her ironing and the stock-pot she kept simmering on the Ideal boiler. She was in a room filled with a crowd of laughing, chattering people gathered for a cocktail party (she had never been to one) or maybe a wedding, or a dance. And above their heads she caught the bright glance of a pair of eyes that met her own, challenging and confident, laughing yet reassuring. And she knew that from this moment life was going to be transformed.

  Lost in her singing and her dreams, she did not hear light footsteps cross the hall. The elder sister, following the sound of singing to its source, stood a moment undetected in the open doorway of the kitchen.

  So Vivian saw again the little sister she had last seen as a schoolgirl: saw her wistful mouth, her dreaming eyes, the tired droop of her slender shoulders. Saw the pile of ironing, and the small deft hands smoothing into renewed crispness a white overall that was too large to be Valerie’s own. And vague suspicions began to stir, nebulous as a mist, down in the background of her mind. But before they could take any definite shape Valerie looked up and saw her, and an instant later they were hugging one another, half laughing and half crying.

  “You’re just the same!”

  “You too! Except your hair—I like it—I was so afraid you would be different, with a new American voice! Oh, but I do wish I’d been ready with a welcome for you! Only Harold was so sure you wouldn’t get here till the five o’clock train—”