There Will Come A Stranger Page 2

  “I meant to come by that one, but I couldn’t wait to see you! I got up at crack of dawn and caught the first train—”

  “If I’d known I would have got up earlier to have things done. I’d meant to have the work all finished, and flowers in your room, and everything looking lovely for you—”

  “I’d have hated you to get up earlier on my account! And it all looks wonderful. It’s bliss to be at home again! And I’d be miserable if you were to treat me like a Polite Visitor and be all spick and span!”

  “I won’t, I promise you!” Valerie assured her. Laughingly, they went to take her cases to her room.

  When Vivian had changed that evening from her warm suit into a housecoat of coral-coloured velvet, she went down to join the others. Valerie had lit a fire in the big room where the family foregathered on occasions such as this, although it seemed that as a rule her brothers and their wives withdrew each to their own sitting-room after the evening meal.

  She went in. Harold and Robert and the sisters-in-law whom she had met for the first time an hour ago were sipping sherry:

  During the years that she had been away her brothers, always much alike, had grown still more so. Both were of medium height and build and colouring, easy-going and good-natured, lacking both imagination and perception: two typical young provincial business men, who at the weekends played a round of golf and did a spot of gardening, read the sporting page before the leading article, took a mild interest in local government, and sometimes talked of standing for election to the Borough Council. Vivian thought how odd it was that they, so much alike both physically and in temperament, should have married two girls so different in appearance and also—unless she had been much mistaken in her first impressions of them—in interests and outlook. Already she had gathered, for instance, that Monica was scornful of Janet’s neglect to tone down her Cox’s orange pippin complexion by such aids as foundation cream and powder, and had more than a suspicion that Janet disapproved of Monica’s skilful use of lipstick, eye shadow, and mascara.

  All four pairs of eyes were fixed on her gay, luxurious housecoat as she came in: Janet’s with disapproval, Monica’s with envy, her brothers’ with frank admiration.

  Robert, who had been standing before the fire, hands in his pockets, jacket raised to toast himself, made way for her. “Come and get warm!”

  Harold put down the evening paper. “Have some sherry, Vivian?”

  “Thank you—I’d love some!” Then, looking round, she hesitated. “Where’s Valerie?”

  Monica said that she was getting supper.

  “Oh ... Then I think I’ll go and lend a helping hand. No, thanks, Hal—no sherry at the moment.”

  When she had gone Monica, spreading her white, narrow hands the better to admire the crimson varnish gleaming on her nails, remarked to no one in particular, “I do hope Vivian isn’t going to make Valerie unsettled!”

  The others looked at her inquiringly. Harold said, “Why—how d’you mean?”

  “Putting notions in her head about being given ‘a helping hand.’ It’s Valerie’s job to run the house. She’s paid for it. I don’t expect my clients to help me with their make-up when I’ve given them a facial!”

  Janet joined in. “No—and I don’t expect my patients to help me with their massage!”

  Robert remarked to no one in particular, “A real good-looker, Vivian!”

  “Always was,” said Harold. “You would notice her in any crowd. Got personality as well as looks.”

  Monica, in her sweetest voice, more saccharine than honeyed, said, “Oh, yes—she’s very striking—if you happen to admire that type! It’s high time she began to use a hormone cream, though—she has the kind of skin that ages early. I wonder how long she intends to stay?”

  Harold reminded her, “Vivian owns a quarter of this house and its contents. It is her home as much as ours.”

  Janet muttered that if she meant to stay in it for more than a few days it was to be hoped she’d stump up her share of the expenses.

  In the kitchen Vivian found her sister creaming potatoes.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “No, thanks—you’ve helped too much already. On your first day at home, too! You do look nice!” Her own frock was of fuchsia-coloured wool. She flushed up as she saw Vivian eyeing it, and said defensively, “I know it doesn’t suit me! But it was nearly as good as new when Monica gave it to me. And beggars can’t be choosers!”

  Vivian said, “I daresay it was becoming to Monica’s dark hair.” Then, looking at the quantity of washing airing on screens and pulleys, ironed by herself that afternoon while Valerie began preparing what she called “a fatted calf to welcome you!” she changed the subject.

  “Valerie, d’you always have to tackle such an amount of washing?”

  Valerie, pouring sauce over the cauliflower, nodded. “Yes. The laundry’s so expensive—I could never manage it out of the housekeeping allowance they give me. But thank goodness Betts and Butterworths have started supplying all the staff in Monica’s department with overalls, so I don’t have to do hers now. And it’s not been quite so hard since they gave me a washing machine at Christmas.”

  “I suppose they pay you well for all you do?”

  “They give me an allowance, as Daddy did.”

  Bluntly Vivian asked “How much?” and opened her eyes wide when Valerie told her. No wonder she was glad of Monica’s cast-off dress, unbecoming though it was! Their father had left Hawthorn Lodge between the four of them in equal shares, but all his little capital was locked up in his business, which now belonged to Harold and Robert. Valerie had nothing of her own.

  Vivian said, “But they would have to pay about three times that amount to someone who came in for just a few hours daily—and send the washing to the laundry!”

  “Would they? But they let me make my home with them—and it’s not as though I had been trained for anything—I wouldn’t find it easy to get a decently paid job!”

  Vivian thought that was beside the point, but with an effort made no comment.

  Presently she realized her younger sister had become a remarkably good cook. The cream of vegetable soup she served with croutons of fried bread was smooth and velvety and admirably flavoured. It was followed by a fricassee of chicken made with a delicious sauce, accompanied by cauliflower and potatoes creamed till they were light and fluffy. Everything was piping hot, the plates included. Vivian was amazed when Monica said reproachfully, “No salad, Valerie?”

  Valerie flushed. “I’m sorry—I forgot it, in the excitement of Vivian coming sooner than I had expected! And when I remembered it was late—I didn’t want to go out. I thought you wouldn’t mind this once, as we’re having three courses. And there’s plenty of cauliflower.”

  Janet chimed in. “Nothing takes the place of salad! Fresh raw vegetables at least once a day are an essential part of everybody’s diet, as I’ve told you time and again!” She turned to Vivian. “I’m sure that you insist upon a daily salad, too? Americans are so diet-conscious—far ahead of us in that respect!”

  Furious on Valerie’s account, Vivian said pleasantly, “Oh, I don’t worry about what I eat—particularly when it’s a delicious meal like this!” Deliberately eyeing Janet’s solid waist, then focusing her gaze upon a spot, carefully camouflaged, on Monica’s chin, she added blandly, “But then I’m lucky. I never have to worry about growing fat, or getting pimples!”—and felt that Valerie had been avenged.

  Lemon soufflé, sweet and sharp, and light as foam, ended the meal. Afterwards, they gathered round the fire, and Valerie brought excellent coffee. When everyone had finished, Valerie rose to take their cups and unobtrusively disappeared. Monica, very much the elder brother’s wife, said, “Would you like to play canasta, Vivian?”

  Janet, who disliked canasta, said, “She must be tired. I’m sure she’d rather sit and talk?”

  Vivian incredulously realized that all of them were taking it as a matter of course t
hat Valerie should clear away and wash up by herself—and that this was their usual procedure of an evening! The indignation that had been simmering in her boiled up into anger, but she managed to conceal it.

  “Oh, but I’m ‘family’! You mustn’t change your usual routine on my account!” she said. “How do you usually organize the washing up—week about, in pairs, or all together?”—then, not waiting for an answer, and pretending not to notice their surprised expressions, “Let’s do it all together, anyway! Then it will be done in no time. Hal and Robert, if you’ll lay the table ready for to-morrow, the female staff can share the washing up. Lend me an apron somebody?”

  She knew they all thought she was being bossy, but she didn’t care. Slipping a hand through Monica’s arm and taking Janet by the other, she marched them to the kitchen in the friendliest fashion, keeping up a cheerful patter of talk so that Valerie, already at the sink, could make no protest. But as she took the dish mop from her startled sister’s hand her mind was working fast and—literally—furiously.

  With every hour she had been here it had become-more obvious to her that Valerie had been turned into a second Cinderella. Not that Monica and Janet in the least resembled the ugly sisters in the fairy tale, and probably they had the kindest of intentions towards their husbands’ younger sister. But we all have faults, thought Vivian, and most of us are selfish. And Hal and Robert never did have much imagination, bless them! And probably they all take everything that Valerie does as a matter of course, just as they were going to do about the washing up. So I suppose it’s up to me to play the part of fairy godmother. But how...?

  Even with six of them to tackle it, it took them fully twenty minutes to finish washing up and laying the breakfast table. Valerie would have been lucky if she’d finished, on her own, by bedtime! However, hiding her resentment, Vivian remembered the presents she had brought, went up to fetch them from her room, and they all gathered round the fire, opening their packages, “for all the world like Christmas morning!” Valerie declared, radiant over her peach nylon underwear. There was nylon, too, for all the others—blouses for Monica and Janet, and for Harold and Robert shirts. Everyone was pleased. No one said any more about canasta; they all settled down to talk and share the candies Vivian produced in an outsize box.

  Presently Harold, feeling in his pocket for his tobacco pouch, produced as well a sheaf of papers. Some he gave to Monica, the rest to Janet. “I called in at that travel agency at lunch time to get suggestions for our holiday this year,” he explained.

  They all began discussing the respective merits of the East Coast, Ireland, Belgium, Scandinavia, Holland, Switzerland, the Costa Brava. Last year Harold and Monica had gone motoring with friends in France, while Robert and Janet spent their holiday in Sweden.

  Only Valerie was silent. Vivian turned to her. “And where did you go last year? I don’t seem to remember that you mentioned it in letters?”

  “Oh, I didn’t go away! The others had to take their holidays at different times. We couldn’t shut the house.” She rose. “I’m going to fill the bottles. Have you left yours where I can find it?”

  “On the chair beside my bed!” Vivian told her. As the door closed behind Valerie something in Vivian’s expression made Harold say uncomfortably “Robert and I can’t get away at the same time, you know.”

  Janet chimed in: “It isn’t as though Valerie did anything to make her need a holiday! I mean, it’s not as though she worked, or had a job, like all the rest of us!”

  Vivian choked down her rising temper with an effort. “Everybody needs a change! A girl of twenty-two needs fun and young companionship occasionally! Valerie must be very much the odd one out. Surely you could get someone in to run the house while she’s away?”

  “What—leave some unknown female to her own devices here while we were all out? We couldn’t possibly!” cried Monica.

  As she was speaking, in a flash Vivian knew what was demanded of her in her role of fairy godmother. Calmly she said, “Well—I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, and very soon, too! Valerie is looking tired to death. I’m going to take her for a holiday as soon as it can be arranged!”

  Aghast, the others stared at her in consternation, then at one another. Janet was the first of them to recover her breath. She said, “Of course, what you do is your own concern! But Valerie can’t possibly leave us in the lurch like this!” Monica chimed in. “We pay her quarterly, so she must give us three months’ notice. It’s only businesslike!”—Then she wished that she had held her tongue. That word “notice” might set a note of permanence on Valerie’s departure.

  “But your arrangement with her is very far from businesslike!” Vivian retorted. “She works for you, and never has a moment to herself as far as I can see, for about a third of what you’d have to pay if it were on a business footing.”

  “But what are we to do if Valerie goes for a holiday while we’re at home?” asked Monica, becoming plaintive. “How could we manage?”

  “As other people do—by getting daily help. Otherwise one or both of you will have to work at home instead of elsewhere.”

  “Daily help won’t come on Sundays,” Janet said. “The weekends will be ruined for us!”

  “Valerie has had a seven-day week for years,” Vivian reminded her.

  “Surely you could put off this holiday till Easter? Then we shouldn’t have to tackle fires!” wailed Monica.

  Harold said, “You would be crazy to have a holiday now, in fog and rain and like as not snow!”

  Robert exclaimed, “Yes—no one in their senses would think of going on a holiday in January!”

  Monica drawled scoffingly, “Do they go in for holidays in mid-winter, in America?”

  Finally Janet, always practical, asked, “Where would you go?”

  But for that conversation in the train Vivian might have been at a loss to know what to reply on the spur of the moment. But with John Ainslie’s talk about the holiday he had planned fresh in her mind, she automatically answered, “Switzerland!”

  Monica’s scoffing faded in the face of her determination.

  “How long would you be taking her?”

  “Oh, I suppose a month or so. It wouldn’t be worth going all that way for less.”

  Now it was Harold’s turn to play a trump card. “A month? What about the currency restrictions?”

  “Oh, they don’t worry about restrictions in America!” said Monica bitterly.

  “We’ll go to one of the smaller places—Varlet-sur-Montagne, perhaps—and stay at some quiet little inn, not one of the big luxury hotels. And if we don’t spend much on extras, we ought to manage to be there a month quite easily.” (What a good thing she had remembered the name of the place John Ainslie had mentioned—really, that conversation had been providential!)

  She gave the four glum faces her most charming smile. “Don’t let her see how much you mind, and spoil it for her!” she besought them.

  Unwillingly they smiled back: Harold and Robert because of their affection for her, rooted in childhood before Pete and Monica and Janet had entered their lives; Janet and Monica because if Vivian could afford to spend all that on Valerie, there was no knowing what she might do for others of the family, if they played their cards well!

  So when Valerie returned, having filled six hot bottles and tucked them into six beds, she was almost stunned by the astounding plans that had been made for her while she was absent. Wide-eyed and blissful she listened while Vivian announced that ten days hence the two of them would go to London, spend a week there buying suitable clothes, then fly to Switzerland to spend a month among the snow and sunshine. Nothing could cloud for her the happiness of that moment, even when, turning to the others, she asked anxiously, “But won’t it be frightfully inconvenient for you while I’m gone?” and Monica retorted tartly, “My dear Valerie—surely you don’t think you’re as indispensable as all that!”

  Tired though she was, she could not sleep, but lay awake far into the night
, her mind a whirl of smiling foreign faces, dazzling snow, delicious meals she hadn’t cooked, sleigh rides in the moonlight to the sound of bells, glamorous evening frocks such as she had never owned, music, and dancing ... and perhaps romance...

  And Vivian, in the room next door, was feeling less alone, less desolate than since the ghastly moment two long years ago when they had told her that she had lost all that had made life worth living. For now there was a purpose in her life again: someone who needed her; someone she could help towards the happiness that she herself had known and lost so soon.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Although it was as dismal as a day towards the end of January well can be, threatening to drizzle, bleak and raw, Valerie was as radiant as though it were mid-summer at its loveliest when she and Vivian set out from their hotel the morning after their arrival in London. Even the consciousness that in her coat of grey herring bone tweed, bought in the January sales four years ago, never becoming to her at its best and now long past it, she looked as inconspicuous and nondescript as one of the downtrodden governesses of Victorian fiction, could not subdue her soaring spirits.

  They had decided to go first to a travel agency to make all arrangements for their journey a week hence, so that they might concentrate on shopping, and enjoy themselves with free minds. The agency that Vivian had chosen, since she had had previous dealings there, was in the Haymarket. As they approached it, a faint anxiety that for some time been haunting Valerie suddenly assumed gigantic proportions. What if the planes to Switzerland were so booked up that no seats would be available even a week hence?

  Vivian, when she mentioned this disastrous possibility, laughed it off. “Not very probable! But even if it were so, we would get there just the same by train and boat. Where there’s a will there’s a way. Always remember that, honey, and put it into practice!”

  Valerie’s fears subsided as the spell of Vivian’s reassuring personality, which had throughout her childhood given her a feeling of security, renewed its magic.