Amberwell (Ayrton Family Book 1) Read online

  During term time, when the boys were at school, nursery life was very quiet. It was a life apart. The children lived in seclusion and knew nothing of what went on downstairs — nothing except what their eyes told them and what they could glean from an occasional chat with the under-housemaid. Miss Clarke came daily from Westkirk and taught the three little girls and although she was strict and made them work when they would rather have been out of doors they were quite fond of her. She was useful too, for the jealousy which existed between Miss Clarke and Nannie was a powerful weapon in their hands. For instance one had only to say wistfully, “Miss Clarke thinks it’s too damp for us to play in the gardens,” and one’s object was achieved.

  “Nonsense,” Nannie would say briskly. “You’re not made of sugar. Put on your wellingtons at once.”

  Nannie was kind and, except for her attitude to the harmless Miss Clarke, she was very sensible. She was small and thin with sandy hair; she moved quickly upon neat feet and she always wore a large, starched apron. Nannie loved babies and sometimes she so longed to hold a tiny baby in her arms that she was tempted to give in her notice and look for another post … but on the other hand she loved the Ayrton children and could not make up her mind to leave them. What would happen to them if she left? Like many another capable woman Nannie considered herself indispensable.

  Under Nannie’s care Anne had grown from a small puling baby into a plump little girl. She was not pretty, or at least nobody thought so. Connie and Nell had fair hair, blue eyes and pink cheeks. Anne was pale; her large grey eyes were set rather wide apart, which gave her a wondering look, her brow was broad and her brown silky hair was always untidy. She was a quiet child, serious for the most part but with an odd little humour of her own. Sometimes at meals when they were sitting round the nursery table Anne would suddenly begin to chuckle and the chuckle would develop into laughter which shook her small plump body to the core. Nannie and Connie and Nell would gaze at her in surprise and ask what was funny, but even if she were able to tell them what had tickled her they could never see anything humorous in the joke.

  Every evening when the children were in bed Nannie went downstairs for a chat with Mrs. Duff. They were cronies. Mrs. Duff was about forty-five, plump and cheerful as all good cooks should be, and whereas Nannie was a mere newcomer to Amberwell — having been there only since the present family had taken up residence — Mrs. Duff had been born and bred on the estate. Her father had been coachman to Mr. Ayrton’s father and had inhabited the comfortable cottage in the stableyard. There had been several years of absence from Amberwell of course when young Kate Fraser had gone off to service in Edinburgh. Presumably, she had met Mr. Duff and married him, but Mrs. Duff was somewhat secretive about this episode in her career and even Nannie was not sure what actually had happened. Enough to say Kate returned to Amberwell with a wedding ring but with no other evidence of her changed status, she went into the kitchen as kitchen-maid and in due course became cook.

  Nannie and Mrs. Duff sat by the fire in Mrs. Duff’s comfortable sitting-room and drank innumerable cups of tea and discussed all sorts of things but principally the affairs of Amberwell. Nannie told Mrs. Duff all that happened in the nursery — what the children had said and done and the latest grievance against Miss Clarke — and Mrs. Duff told Nannie all that had happened in the kitchen and detailed the delinquencies of the new kitchen-maid. Sometimes the table-maid and the head-housemaid joined the party and brought the latest news from the dining-room and the house, and sometimes Mr. Gray would look in for a few minutes to drink a cup of tea and report what was happening in the gardens. It was all very cosy and a great deal more interesting than the wireless programmes.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ayrton would have been surprised if they could have listened in and heard what was said about their affairs in Mrs. Duff’s comfortable little sitting-room. Nothing unpleasant was said (Nannie and Mrs. Duff and Mr. Gray were far too loyal to say anything unpleasant about their employers), but they knew all that was going on; everything that was said and done was noted and reported and discussed. If Mrs. Ayrton bought a new hat they knew what she had paid for it; if Mr. Ayrton “had words” with his sister Beatrice (a not infrequent occurrence) they knew the ins and outs of the matter; and they knew (goodness’ knows how) when Mrs. Ayrton’s youngest brother, who was the black sheep of the family, got himself into trouble with a married woman and had to be extricated and sent off to Australia at Mr. Ayrton’s expense.

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  Sometimes the children played on the bowling-green where the tall yew hedges sheltered them from the wind; sometimes they played in the woods; they liked the walled garden with its orderly rows of vegetables and fruit. Mr. Gray was a friend and they spent a good deal of time in his company, pursuing him into the greenhouses or sitting upon a little bench in the potting-shed, watching him at work. Beyond the walled garden the land sloped down to the shore where they could paddle or bathe or search for crabs amongst the rocks. There was a tiny cave here, paved with golden sand, which was a delightful place for a picnic. The view was superb. Westwards was the coastline of Ireland; north-westwards lay Arran and the Mull of Kintyre. Sometimes the mountains were to be seen clearly across the sparkling waves of the summer sea, at other times they were wreathed in mist as if they were lands in a dream … and there were days of low cloud and fog when they disappeared completely and the waves which lapped upon the yellow sand were languid and grey.

  Just outside the east door of the walled garden there was a huge clump of mauve rhododendrons. Mr. Gray did not prune it for it was outwith the gardens proper and being a “common” rhododendron it was not worth bothering about. Nobody had bothered about it for years and years so it had spread to an immense jungle of gnarled old branches and shiny green leaves.

  One day when the children were playing at Indians Tom had crept into this jungle through a little gap beside the wall and had discovered a secret hiding-place in the middle of it. The space was quite large, it was like a tent of green leaves with an earthen floor. Tom was enchanted with his find and at first he had decided to keep it a secret from the other children … but Tom was kind-hearted and impulsive and in a few days all five children had been shown the secret hiding-place. They were all delighted with the retreat for it was so safe; once inside the jungle nobody could molest you, not even Mr. Gray. The dim light was extraordinarily peaceful and the curious smell of damp earth and rotting leaves was enchanting.

  Roger had learned from Mr. Gray that this particular kind of rhododendron was called Ponticum, so the secret hiding-place was called Ponticum House. It was used for all sorts of activities and gradually it was furnished with odds and ends of furniture: a couple of wooden stools which Tom found in the attic; a large wooden box which did duty as a table and a receptacle for treasures; a kitchen chair with a broken leg and two square biscuit tins. Roger, who was something of a carpenter, found a board in the potting-shed and nailed it between two gnarled branches to serve as a shelf.

  When the boys were away at school Ponticum House became a kind of dolls’ house and was used for dolls’ tea-parties and such-like feminine ploys, but it was never used for this purpose in the holidays. It was really the boys’ place and the boys would have been disgusted to find it cluttered up with dolls.

  There was so much to do in Amberwell gardens that the three little girls never wanted to go outside the gates and this was fortunate because they never were taken outside the gates except for an occasional visit to Westkirk to see the dentist or to buy clothes.

  Westkirk had not changed much since the first Mrs. William Ayrton had seen it and approved of it. There were no industries to make it grow. The little town consisted of one broad street, where all the best shops had their premises, and several smaller streets which sloped down to the harbour where the fishing-boats lay. Southwards from the harbour there was a sweep of sands and grass-covered hillocks and a row of pleasant residential houses with gardens. Westkirk boasted two churches, the Scottish Presbyt
erian Church in the High Street and St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church which had been built by Henry Ayrton on the outskirts of the town.

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  Mr. Orme was the present incumbent of St. Stephen’s. He was a very tall man, big-boned, with a thin face and greying hair. He had come to Westkirk from a parish in the East End of London where he had nearly worked himself to death. Mr. Orme’s intention had been to come to Westkirk for a rest and then return to the battle, but as time went by he realised that he was unfit for the front line and had better remain where he was. If he took things fairly easily his heart gave him very little trouble, but if he did more than usual the messenger of Satan gave him a buffet and laid him out. In Westkirk there was just enough work to keep him busy; his congregation was small (for most of the people in the district were Presbyterians) but he read a good deal and presently began to collect material for a book. He was never lonely for he walked with God, but sometimes he became worried because he was far too comfortable; the Rectory was a delightful little house and he had an extremely competent housekeeper called Mrs. Green who looked after him like a mother, bullied him a little when necessary, prepared the most appetising dishes imaginable and mended all his clothes. Mr. Orme was convinced that no man ought to live in such luxury, but what could he do? It was unthinkable to dismiss Mrs. Green simply because she was too kind.

  One night in June Mr. Orme was called to the bedside of a ploughman on Sir Andrew Findlater’s estate. The man died very early in the morning and when Mr. Orme had done what he could to comfort the family he came out of the little cottage and walked slowly down the hill. He was very tired so he decided to take a short-cut home through the Amberwell gardens. There was no reason why he should not, for he had the Ayrtons’ permission to walk in the gardens whenever he pleased.

  It was a beautiful morning, cloudless and still, the woods were carpeted with wild hyacinths as blue as the sky. The sun, shining through the pale-green leaves of early summer, patterned the path with gold. Here and there a rhododendron in full flower blazed like a coloured light. What a lovely world it was! So fresh and sweet, so peaceful.

  As Mr. Orme came out of the woods he paused for a few minutes beside a mossy stone and looked down at Amberwell House lying amongst its gardens. He wondered what it would feel like to own a place like this, to have so many responsibilities. He did not envy the Ayrtons for it seemed to him that people with heavy responsibilities got more worry than pleasure out of life. For instance he got a great deal of pleasure from the Amberwell gardens; he enjoyed their beauty far more than the Ayrtons and without any worries at all. The Ayrtons took their responsibilities very seriously, they were extraordinarily generous; Mr. Ayrton was always ready to head the list of any subscriptions to the church or to help a deserving case when it was brought to his notice. They were generous not only with money but with fruit and flowers and vegetables from the gardens. They attended church with unfailing regularity and invited Mr. Orme to dine at Amberwell once a month … and yet with all this there was something wanting.

  Mr. Orme had been here for ten years — yes, it was ten years this month since he had left his London parish and come to St. Stephen’s — but he had never got close to Mr. and Mrs. Ayrton, never for one moment had he felt any sort of bond.

  Perhaps it is my fault, thought Mr. Orme sadly.

  He was still standing there and looking down. It was so early that Amberwell had not awakened; no smoke rose from its chimneys, and even Mr. Gray — who was always out early — had not made his appearance upon the scene. Mr. Orme had the whole world of Amberwell to himself … but wait! There was a small figure on the bowling-green. It was a fairy!

  Mr. Orme was a trifle dazed for he had been awake all night so he rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was not a fairy of course, it was a child — a little girl in a pale grey overall. She was dancing lightly on the emerald-green sward, bending and turning, lifting her arms in a delightful natural pose, hesitating for a moment and then running a few steps and jumping in the air.

  Mr. Orme was enchanted. He had been feeling sad and discouraged but the sight of the child’s joy and the free-flowing movements of her rounded limbs lifted his heart. After watching her for a few minutes he went down the path and pushed open the gate in the yew hedge.

  When the child saw him she turned to run away but he called to her and she stopped obediently and came towards him across the grass. He noticed that her feet were bare and wet with dew and her silky brown hair was in a tangle.

  “I thought at first you were a fairy,” said Mr. Orme gravely.

  “But I’m too fat,” she replied, looking up at him with wide, grey eyes.

  “Not fat,” objected Mr. Orme. “Just right, I think.” He hesitated and then added with a surprised inflexion in his voice, “You must be Anne.”

  The surprised inflexion was due to the fact that he had not seen Anne since she was a baby (he had christened her in St. Stephen’s) and that did not seem very long ago to Mr. Orme. It was amazing to think that this person had developed from that baby … and in so short a time. He sat down upon a teak seat and Anne stood in front of him. They looked at each other for a few moments in silence.

  “Do you often dance like that?” asked Mr. Orme at last.

  “I wake up early. The sun shines in at the window, you see. It makes me not want to stay in bed. Nannie doesn’t know. I don’t think she’d mind very much — really.”

  Mr. Orme did not feel qualified to give an opinion on the matter. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  Anne nodded her head. The soft hair fell over her eye and she pushed it back. She knew who Mr. Orme was because Nannie had taken all three little girls to a special Children’s Service and Mr. Orme had been there, standing up in front of everybody in a white night-gown and talking about God. Mr. Orme knew all about God; he was a very important person.

  “Who am I?” asked Mr. Orme.

  “You live in church,” replied Anne after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Not all the time. My house is next door to the church. Your great-grandfather built it.”

  Anne made no comment. She stood and gazed at him and wondered.

  Anne’s world was very small. All children begin with a very small world: with the faces of people around them, with the carpet on the nursery floor and the legs of the nursery table. Gradually their world expands to more faces and to other rooms in the house; later it expands to the garden. At five years old Anne’s world was still very restricted. She knew vaguely that there were other places in the world besides Westkirk — Nannie occasionally went to see her sister at a place called Edinburgh, sometimes Father and Mother went “abroad.”

  Anne’s inquiring gaze did not embarrass Mr. Orme at all for although he was a bachelor he understood children and loved them dearly … and this child was so sweet and innocent. She was as sweet and innocent as the June morning.

  “Why are you out so early?” asked Anne after a long silence.

  “I’ve been to see a man who was very ill. I’m on my way home.”

  “You’re not a doctor.”

  “No, not a doctor — but sometimes when people are very ill they like to see me.”

  “You can tell them about Heaven,” nodded Anne understandingly.

  “I try to tell them,” he agreed.

  There was another silence. A blackbird was singing on a tree. The sunshine was warm and pleasant.

  “God likes boys better than girls, doesn’t He?” asked Anne suddenly.

  “No,” replied Mr. Orme. The question startled him — in fact it horrified him — but he answered it quite quietly. “No,” he repeated. “Certainly not.”

  “I thought He did,” said Anne. “Boys are more important, aren’t they?”

  “No, we are all of equal importance in the sight of God. He loves us all.”

  “When we’re good,” agreed Anne.

  “He loves us just as much when we’re bad. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the utterm
ost parts of the sea, even there Thy hand shall guide me and Thy right hand shall hold me.”

  This was queer sort of talk. Nobody in Anne’s small circle of people ever talked like this. As a matter of fact no grown-up person had ever talked to Anne before — not really talked. In Anne’s experience grown-up people told you to change your shoes or sit still and not fidget, or run along and play. Her religious education had consisted of Bible stories read by Miss Clarke and singing hymns accompanied by Miss Clarke on the nursery piano … and Nannie had taught her to say, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child.” Anne did not understand what it meant (nobody had thought of explaining it to her), but she said it every night at bedtime. Then there was the large engraving which hung upon the wall in Mrs. Duff’s sitting-room. The picture was intended to represent Elijah being taken up to Heaven in a cloud; but Anne and Nell and Connie thought it was a picture of God: God with a long white beard and a stern expression upon His countenance. It was for this reason that Anne was surprised to hear He would bother about an unimportant little girl.

  Mr. Orme saw incredulity upon the expressive little face and he began to talk to her and to question her gently and he discovered that she was, to all intents and purposes, a heathen. It was dreadful. Something must be done about it at once. The other children belonging to his congregation came to Sunday School and he taught them himself but he had imagined that the Ayrton children were receiving religious instruction at home.