Listening Valley (9 page)

“Read it and tell me about it,” Tonia said.

Robert opened it and studied it thoughtfully. “It's about a legacy,” he said. “I suppose it
is
intended for you. Who was Miss Kate Dalrymple?”

“That's Nannie! Oh, Robert, you don't mean Nannie is dead?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Robert.

“Oh, poor Nannie!” exclaimed Tonia, gazing before her with wide eyes. “I meant to go and see her…and now it's too late. Oh, Robert, we could have done things for her, couldn't we? Why did I forget about her?”

“You didn't forget about her.”

“Not really,” agreed Tonia. “I just didn't think about her; it was horrid of me. Oh dear, I wish I had gone and stayed with her at Ryddelton. Nannie must have thought it so ungrateful.”

“Nannie can't have thought you horrid and ungrateful; she has left you her house and everything in it. Hadn't she any relations of her own?”

“Her house at Ryddelton—to
me
!”

“Perhaps you ought not to accept it.”

“Not accept it?”

“I mean, it seems rather odd,” said Robert, frowning.

“It isn't really odd,” replied Tonia. “You see, the house belonged to Great-Aunt Antonia. When she died grandfather gave it to Nannie's mother, so I suppose…”

“In that case perhaps it should go to your father, or to Lou.”

“Nannie left it to
me
,” said Tonia with more firmness than she usually betrayed. “Nannie wanted
me
to have it, Robert.”

“I wonder why.”

“I think I know why.”

“Well?”

“I sent her…some money,” replied Tonia. She said it thoughtfully, for it seemed such a long time ago, and Tonia had almost forgotten about the chocolate box and its unusual contents…but Nannie had not forgotten. Nannie had remembered and thought about her kindly and left her the house that had belonged to Great-Aunt Antonia. She explained the whole thing to Robert and Robert understood (he laughed when he heard about the chocolate box), and he agreed that under the circumstances Tonia had every right to the legacy, more right than anybody else.

“Your father may be annoyed,” said Robert. “And of course you don't really need the house.”

Tonia realized this, but all the same she intended to keep it, for the house meant a good deal to her (although she had never seen it), and Nannie had wanted her to have it. The house would be her very own, which was a pleasant thought.

“Very well,” said Robert, when he saw that she was determined upon it. “I'll write to Phillips. He'll settle everything and see that the place is in good repair and thoroughly insured. He can arrange for a caretaker if necessary.”

“And when we get home we can go and see it,” added Tonia.

The Normans went home more quickly than they intended, for there was war in the air. They flew part of the way and arrived at Hendon in August 1939. Robert had intended to retire from active participation in the affairs of his firm and make way for younger men, but this idea was quickly dissipated; the younger men were otherwise employed, and Robert was asked by his partners if he would take over the London branch, which meant living in London. In some ways Tonia was glad they were not going back to Edinburgh, for Robert had been right—Mr. Melville was very much annoyed when he heard that Melville House had been left to Tonia. Angry letters arrived, not only from him but from Mrs. Melville as well, and neither soft answers nor lengthy explanations had the power to turn their wrath. Ultimately Tonia was very busy finding a flat in London and moving in, so her parents' displeasure did not distress her unduly; in fact, Robert was surprised—and secretly amused—by the calm manner in which his young wife dismissed the subject.

London was still its old self—or very nearly—for the war was still in its infancy and, like an infant, seemed harmless and feeble. Robert was busy, of course, but he found time to take Tonia to concerts and theaters and to visit the zoo with her on a Sunday afternoon. Tonia was busy too. She was having treatment for her hands (Robert had insisted upon it), and she was studying music under the tutelage of an Austrian refugee. It was a happy period in Tonia's life, that winter of 1939. It would have been happier if she could have stopped thinking about the war.

Once they were settled in the flat they began to have visitors, and Mrs. Halley was the first, for she wanted to know all about Jack and Lou. Tonia liked having Mrs. Halley; she was a delightful guest and just as friendly and attractive as ever. Robert's sister, Janet Garland, was the next to visit them, and she was a very different kind of guest. Tonia was frightened of Janet, which made her clumsy and awkward. She was aware that Janet disapproved of her and thought her a fool. Perhaps it was natural that Janet should be prejudiced against Robert's wife, for, before his marriage, Robert had been extremely useful to the Garlands. Janet and her daughter could stay with Robert when they liked and use his house pretty much as their own, provided they did not overstep the limit of his patience (this was all the more convenient because Janet was a widow with large ideas and a small income); but now all that was changed and Janet and Nita were obliged to fend for themselves.

“I'm sorry, Robert,” said Tonia when Janet had gone. “I'm awfully sorry. I really
did
try.”

“I know,” said Robert, smiling at her. “Perhaps you tried too hard. Janet is a bit difficult, and you started with a handicap.”

“I feel a brute, Robert.”

“You needn't, darling. I've settled some money on Janet, so she isn't a loser by our marriage and unless she's wildly extravagant she ought to be all right.”

Soon after this Frank Melville came to stay for a few days. He had obtained a post at one of the ministries and had come to London to look for rooms. Tonia had not liked Frank very much and had been under the impression that Frank did not like her, but she was forced to alter her opinion. Frank was interesting and amusing and treated Tonia with consideration and friendliness; he was such a pleasant change from her last guest that Tonia was grateful to him. She came out of her shell and they had good fun together, and after some difficulty they found comfortable rooms for Frank, not too far away. He made a habit of dropping in and seeing the Normans, chatting to Robert or listening to concerts on the wireless with Tonia.

After the fall of France everything was different, for the war had suddenly taken on a new aspect and became more grim and ghastly every day. Calamities followed each other in quick succession, blows that would have seemed unbearable if they could have been foreseen. The gnawing anxiety was like a load upon one's shoulders—what would the outcome be? Could Britain hold out against the might of Germany, could she survive until she had gathered strength to meet this frightful enemy who had been preparing for so long? Robert Norman was doubtful of Britain's ability to hold on, not because he was unduly pessimistic, but because he had a clear grasp of the state of affairs in Britain and in Germany. He knew more than other people what we were up against. But he kept his fears to himself and did his job—and several other men's jobs—as well as he knew how. He had fought for Britain in 1914, and he would have liked to fight for her again. Patriotism was a real thing to Robert Norman.

Tonia had the same loyal feelings and these were intensified by the danger. She felt a curious elation. Churchill had said this was Britain's finest hour. She felt at one with the past and its traditions, akin to Raleigh and Nelson and Pitt and a hundred others who had saved their country in her hour of need. She was aware that Robert was anxious, for she knew him well by now, and she wondered what chance Britain had of weathering the storm. What would an impartial spectator give as the odds, a spectator on Mars (there were no impartial spectators on this planet)? He would not give much for Britain's chance of survival, because he would not know the men and women who inhabit the small proud island. He would not know of the queer wild streak that runs right through the British character—the dogged streak, which does not permit the Briton to envisage the possibility of defeat. We're unbeatable, thought Tonia with pride. We have our faults and failings, but we have the dogged streak. Each one of us has it, young and old and rich and poor—we know we can't be beaten.

There was much to do now. Tonia spent her days cooking in a canteen. Many of their nights were spent in the cellar with the other tenants of the flats while the guns roared and the bombs came crashing down on London. Robert wanted Tonia to leave London, but she refused to go, for she had work to do and was determined to stay and face the worst. She was all the more determined because Robert was not well. He was often tired and had lost a lot of weight; he was feeling the strain more and more.

“I'm getting old, that's what's the matter,” said Robert one day, and, although he smiled as he said it, the smile was not very cheerful.

“Nonsense,” cried Tonia. “You aren't old at all. Everybody is tired. You're working far too hard, and you don't get enough sleep.”

Robert said no more, for he did not want to worry her, but he thought about it a good deal. He was getting old and Antonia was still very young. He had known this would happen, of course, but he had not expected it to happen so soon. If he could have retired and settled down in the country, he might have remained fit and hearty for many years. It was the war that was sapping his strength—this ghastly war. He would not complain, of course. He could not complain when thousands of men in the prime of their manhood were giving their lives for their country. In the last war Robert had served Britain with his body; in this war he was serving her with his brain. It was a pity that one could not dissociate the two, thought Robert sadly.

His Antonia was growing up very rapidly now and was more dear to him than ever. And she loved him, he knew that (it was evident in a hundred different ways), but she did not love him quite as he would have chosen. She had put him on a pedestal; she admired him and looked up to him and deferred to him in everything. Robert would rather have stood beside her on the level ground. Foolish, of course, thought Robert. Foolish to cry for the moon. He ought to be grateful for the joy and tenderness Antonia had brought into his life.

One night Tonia had been working late at the canteen and was on her way home, when the sirens began to howl. She hated the sound. The roar of the guns was terrifying, but the howl of the sirens did something horrible to one's inside…Tonia knew now what Joshua's people had felt when the men of Ai chased them: “…the hearts of the people melted, and became as water.” Yes, that described it exactly, thought Tonia.

The sirens howled and the guns roared and barked and, far away, there was the sickening crash of bombs bursting. It was a bright night with a few scattered clouds in the sky—ideal conditions for a full-scale attack. Tonia hesitated on the edge of the pavement. She was anxious to get home to Robert, but perhaps it would be foolish to try, perhaps she had better take shelter somewhere. The question was
where,
and it suddenly became an urgent question, for the bombs were falling nearer and a house in the next street had burst into flames… People had started to run. They were running past her in all directions, calling to each other. “We might get a taxi!” somebody cried. “Not the tube. I couldn't, Harry!” exclaimed a woman's voice. “This way, this way—there's a shelter just around the corner!” shouted a man.

Tonia had turned to follow this man when she heard the bomb coming—that unmistakable sound, that screeching, tearing, whistling sort of noise. Others had heard it, too; a mild stampede ensued and a man seized Tonia's arm, dragged her into an archway, and flung her on the ground. There was a deafening shattering crash like a thousand peals of thunder—it was the loudest thing that had ever happened…

***

“I don't think there's much the matter with this one,” somebody said.

“I'll look at her in a minute,” said another voice.

Tonia opened her eyes. Her head was buzzing and aching. She saw a man in a white coat bending over her and, beside him, a nurse with a pleasant friendly face. “Where's Robert?” Tonia said.

“I don't know. He's probably somewhere about,” replied the doctor. “How are you feeling, yourself? Any pain?”

“No, what happened?”

“No pain at all?”

“No, I don't think so…”

“Keep her lying down for a bit,” said the doctor and he hurried away.

“You lie still,” said the nurse, patting her shoulder. “You'll be all right in a little—just lie still.”

“Where am I?”

“In a first-aid post,” replied the nurse.

Tonia lay still for a few minutes and then she raised herself on her elbow and looked around. She was lying on a mattress in a big empty garage. There were lights, bright unshaded bulbs dangling from the ceiling. People were moving about, talking, working, spreading more mattresses all over the floor; and a constant stream of stretcher-bearers poured in with wounded, putting the stretchers down, lifting the people onto the mattresses, and going away for more. Some of the people were moaning, some were talking rapidly in high unnatural voices, others were lying very still. Through all this confusion, the doctor and the nurses were moving about, soothing people and directing operations with unhurried calm. “Put her here, please.” “Move that mattress. We must have a passageway down the middle.” “There's a vacant mattress over there.” “Dr. Strachey, this man needs immediate attention.”

A child was lying on the mattress next to Tonia and sobbing in a hopeless sort of way. Tonia got up and bent over the child.

“I want Mummy,” she said.

“Mummy will come soon,” declared Tonia, and she knelt down and began to pat her shoulder. She found herself humming Nannie's song—“Kate Dalrymple.”

“I want Mummy,” said the child again, but this time in a drowsy sort of voice.

A nurse came up and said, “You've found her; that's good! Don't worry, she'll be all right. She'll be sent to the hospital when things calm down a bit, and you can go with her.”

“She doesn't belong to me,” Tonia said.

“Oh, doesn't she?” said the nurse, and she hurried away.

Things had been going smoothly until now, for the post was well organized, but now the wounded were arriving faster and there was no room for them. Things were getting beyond the capacities of the staff. More people poured in, wounded people supported by friends, wounded people carried in on stretchers. Tonia rose to her feet, for the child was asleep now, and she began to make her way to the door, stepping between the mattresses; but she had not gotten very far before she was swept into the struggle.

A woman called out for water and a nurse thrust a cup into Tonia's hands and pointed to the tap. Tonia fetched the water and helped the woman to drink it. Then somebody gave her an armful of bandages and told her to take them to Dr. Strachey, who was at the other end of the room.

“A three-inch bandage, please,” said Dr. Strachey, holding out his hand. “The scissors now. Hold this a minute.” Dr. Strachey had accepted her as an assistant as he would have accepted anyone who happened to be there. She went around with him after that, carrying the things he needed and fetching what he required, for this was something she could do and it relieved one of the nurses. She had learned first aid so she was not entirely ignorant, and Dr. Strachey was very patient with her. She was aware that she was not a
person
to Dr. Strachey. He never looked at her once. She was just an extra hand—not a very skillful hand, but a good deal better than nothing.

The things she saw as she went around with the doctor were dreadful beyond words, but she was still somewhat dazed, and the whole thing had happened so suddenly and was so unlike anything that had ever happened before that it seemed unreal to her. She was dreaming it; the sights and sounds were part of a nightmare, and soon, she would wake up and find herself safely in bed…

To add to the confusion and to increase the resemblance to a horrible dream, everyone seemed to have lost someone else. People wandered in from the street and moved hither and thither, looking at the wounded who were lying on the mattresses, or seized the arm of a passing nurse and besought her in agonized tones to tell them if she had seen their friends. Sometimes they found the people they were looking for and sat down beside them, patiently awaiting the doctor's verdict, but mostly they went away to try somewhere else. Their patience was very moving, Tonia thought. They were not angry or rebellious or demanding. No, they were just patient.