But Laura had no doubts about Miss Weekes-it would not be Miss Weekes who would run things. Miss Weekes was a woman of intellect, with an enthusiasm that ran to passion for mathematics. Domestic administration would not interest her. The plan had worked well. Laura was splendidly educated, Miss Weekes had an ease of living formerly denied to her, Laura saw to it that no clashes occurred between Mr. Baldock and Miss Weekes. The choice of new servants if needed, the decision for Shirley to attend, erst a kindergarten school, later a convent in a near-by town, though apparently all originated by Miss Weekes, were in reality Laura's suggestions. The household was a harmonious one. Later Shirley was sent to a famous boarding-school. Laura was then twenty-two.
A year after that, the war broke out, and altered the pattern of existence. Shirley's school was transferred to new premises in Wales. Miss Weekes went to London and obtained a post in a Ministry. The house was requisitioned by the Air Ministry to house officers; Laura transferred herself to the gardener's cottage, and worked as a land-girl on an adjacent farm, managing at the same time to cultivate vegetables in her own big walled garden.
And now, a year ago, the war with Germany had ended. The house had been de-requisitioned with startling abruptness. Laura had to attempt the re-establishment of it as something faintly like a home. Shirley had come home from school for good, declining emphatically to continue her studies by going to a university.
She was not, she said, the brainy kind! Her headmistress in a letter to Laura confirmed this statement in slightly different terms:
"I really do not feel that Shirley is the type to benefit by a university education. She is a dear girl, and very intelligent, but definitely not the academic type."
So Shirley had come home, and that old stand-by, Ethel, who had been working in a factory which was now abandoning war work, gave up her job and arrived back, not as the correct house-parlourmaid she had once been, but as a general factotum and friend. Laura continued and elaborated her plans for vegetable and flower production. Incomes were not what they had been with present taxation. If she and Shirley were to keep their home, the garden must be made to pay for itself and, it was to be hoped, show a profit.
That was the picture of the past that Laura saw in her mind, as she unfastened her apron and went into the house to wash. All through the years, the central figure of the pattern had been Shirley.
A baby Shirley, staggering about, telling Laura in stuttering unintelligible language what her dolls were doing. An older Shirley, coming back from kindergarten, pouring out confused descriptions of Miss Duckworth, of Tommy this and Mary that, of the naughty things Robin had done, and what Peter had drawn in his reading-book, and what Miss Duck had said about it.
An older Shirley had come back from boarding-school, brimming over with information: the girls she liked, the girls she hated, the angelic disposition of Miss Geoffrey, the English mistress, the despicable meannesses of Miss Andrews, the mathematics mistress, the indignities practised by all on the French mistress. Shirley had always chatted easily and unself-consciously to Laura. Their relationship was in a way a curious one-not quite that of sisters, since the gap in years separated them, yet not removed by a generation, as a parent and child would be. There had never been any need for Laura to ask questions. Shirley would be bubbling over-"Oh, Laura, I've got such lots to tell you!" And Laura would listen, laugh, comment, disagree, approve, as the case might be.
Now that Shirley had come home for good, it had seemed to Laura that everything was exactly the same. Every day saw an interchange of comment on any separate activities they had pursued. Shirley talked unconcernedly of Robin Grant, of Edward Westbury; she had a frank affectionate nature, and it was natural to her, or so it had seemed, to comment daily on what happened.
But yesterday she had come back from tennis at the Hargreaves and had been oddly monosyllabic in her replies to Laura's questions.
Laura wondered why. Of course, Shirley was growing up. She would have her own thoughts, her own life. That was only natural and right. What Laura had to decide was how best that could be accomplished. Laura sighed, looked at her watch again, and decided to go and see Mr. Baldock.
Chapter Two
1
Mr. Baldock was busy in his garden when Laura came up the path. He grunted and immediately asked:
"What do you think of my begonias? Pretty good?"
Mr. Baldock was actually an exceedingly poor gardener, but was inordinately proud of the results he achieved and completely oblivious of any failures. It was expected of his friends not to refer to these latter. Laura gazed obediently on some rather sparse begonias and said they were very nice.
"Nice? They're magnificent!" Mr. Baldock, who was now an old man and considerably stouter than he had been eighteen years ago, groaned a little as he bent over once more to pull at some weeds.
"It's this wet summer," he grumbled. "Fast as you clear the beds, up the stuff comes again. Words fail me when it comes to what I think of bindweed! You may say what you like, but I think it is directly inspired by the devil!" He puffed a little, then said, his words coming shortly between stertorous breaths: "Well, young Laura, what is it? Trouble? Tell me about it."
"I always come to you when I'm worried. I have ever since I was six."
"Rum little kid you were. Peaky face and great big eyes."
"I wish I knew whether I was doing right."
"Shouldn't bother if I was you," said Mr. Baldock. "Garrrrr! Get up, you unspeakable brute!" (This was to the bindweed.) "No, as I say, I shouldn't bother. Some people know what's right and wrong, and some people haven't the least idea. It's like an ear for music!"
"I don't think I really meant right or wrong in the moral sense, I think I meant was I being wise?"
"Well, that's quite a different thing. On the whole, one does far more foolish things than wise ones. What's the problem?"
"It's Shirley."
"Naturally it's Shirley. You never think of anything or anyone else."
"I've been arranging for her to go to London and train in secretarial work."
"Seems to me remarkably silly," said Mr. Baldock. "Shirley is a nice child, but the last person in the world to make a competent secretary."
"Still, she's got to do something."
"So they say nowadays."
"And I'd like her to meet people."
"Blast and curse and damn that nettle," said Mr. Baldock, shaking an injured hand. "People? What d'you mean by people? Crowds? Employers? Other girls? Young men?"
"I suppose really I mean young men."
Mr. Baldock chuckled.
"She's not doing too badly down here. That mother's boy, Robin, at the vicarage seems to be making sheep's eyes at her, young Peter has got it badly, and even Edward Westbury has started putting brilliantine on what's left of his hair. Smelt it in church last Sunday. Thought to myself: 'Now, who's he after?' And sure enough there he was when we came out, wriggling like an embarrassed dog as he talked to her."
"I don't think she cares about any of them."
"Why should she? Give her time. She's very young, Laura. Come now, why do you really want to send her away to London, or are you going too?"
"Oh no. That's the whole point."