These had appeared as an act of God apparently without human agency; their names did not appear on any list; they carried no credentials; no one was responsible for them. They were found lurking under the seats of a carriage when the train was emptied on the evening of the first influx. They had been dragged out and stood on the platform where everyone denied knowledge of them, and since they could not be left there, they were included in the party that was being sent by bus to Malfrey village. From that moment they were on a list; they had been given official existence and their destiny was inextricably involved with that of Malfrey.
Nothing was ever discovered about the Connollies’ parentage. When they could be threatened or cajoled into speaking of their antecedents they spoke, with distaste, of an “Auntie.” To this woman, it seemed, the war had come as a God-sent release. She had taken her dependants to the railway station, propelled them into the crowd of milling adolescence, and hastily covered her tracks by decamping from home. Enquiry by the police in the street where the Connollies professed to have lived produced no other information than that the woman had been there and was not there any longer. She owed a little for milk; otherwise she had left no memorial on that rather unimpressionable district.
There was Doris, ripely pubescent, aged by her own varied accounts anything from ten years to eighteen. An early and ingenious attempt to have her certified as an adult was frustrated by an inspecting doctor who put her at about fifteen. Doris had dark, black bobbed hair, a large mouth and dark pig’s eyes. There was something of the Esquimaux about her head, but her coloring was ruddy and her manner more vivacious than is common among that respectable race. Her figure was stocky, her bust prodigious, and her gait, derived from the cinematograph, was designed to be alluring.
Micky, her junior by the length of a rather stiff sentence for house-breaking, was of lighter build; a scrawny, scowling little boy; a child of few words and those, for the most part, foul.
Marlene was presumed to be a year younger. But for Micky’s violent denials she might have been taken for his twin. She was the offspring of unusually prolonged coincident periods of liberty in the lives of her parents which the sociologist must deplore, for Marlene was simple. An appeal to have her certified imbecile was disallowed by the same inspecting doctor, who expressed an opinion that country life might work wonders with the child.
There the three had stood, on the eve of the war, in Malfrey Parish Hall, one leering, one lowering, and one drooling, as unprepossessing a family as could be found in the kingdom. Barbara took one look at them, looked again to see that her weary eyes were not playing tricks with her, and consigned them to the Mudges of Upper Lamstock, a tough farming family on a remote homestead.
Within a week Mr. Mudge was at the Park, with the three children in the back of his milk truck. “It’s not for myself, Mrs. Sothill; I’m out and about all day and in the evenings I’m sleepy, and being with animals so much I don’t take on so. But it’s my old woman. She do take on and she won’t stand for it. She’ve locked herself in upstairs and she won’t come down till they’ve gone, and when she do say that she means of it, Mrs. Sothill. We’re willing to do anything in reason to help the war, but these brats aren’t to be borne and that’s flat.”
“Oh dear, Mr. Mudge, which of them is giving trouble?”
“Why it’s all of ’em, m’am. There’s the boy was the best of ’em at first though you can’t understand what he do say, speaking as they do where he come from. Nasty, unfriendly ways he had but he didn’t do much that you could call harm not till he’d seen me kill the goose. I took him out to watch to cheer him up like, and uncommon interested he was, and I thought I’ll make a country lad of you yet. I gave him the head to play with and he seemed quite pleased. Then no sooner was I off down to the root field, than blessed if he didn’t get hold of a knife and when I came back supper time there was six of my ducks dead and the old cat. Yes, mum, blessed if he hadn’t had the head off of our old yellow cat. Then the little ’un, she’s a dirty girl, begging your pardon, mum. It’s not only her wetting the bed; she’ve wetted everywhere, chairs, floor and not only wetting, mum. Never seem to have been taught to be in a house where she comes from.”
“But doesn’t the elder girl do anything to help?”
“If you ask me, mum, she’s the worst of the lot. My old woman would stick it but for her, but it’s that Doris makes her take on like she do. Soft about the men, she is, mum. Why she even comes making up to me and I’m getting on to be her grandfer. She won’t leave our Willie alone not for a minute, and he’s a bashful boy our Willie and he can’t get on with the work, her always coming after him. So there it is, mum. I’m sorry not to oblige but I’ve promised my old woman I won’t come back with ’em and I dusn’t go back on what I’ve said.”
Mr. Mudge was the first of a succession of hosts. The longest that the Connollies stayed in any place was ten days; the shortest was an hour and a quarter. In six weeks they had become a legend far beyond the parish. When influential old men at the Turf in London put their heads together and said, “The whole scheme has been a mistake. I was hearing last night some examples of the way some of the evacuees are behaving…” the chances were that the scandal originated with the Connollies. They were cited in the House of Commons; there were paragraphs about them in official reports.
Barbara tried separating them, but in their first night apart Doris climbed out of her window and was lost for two days, to be found in a barn eight miles away, stupefied with cider; she gave no coherent account of her adventure. On the same evening Micky bit the wife of the roadman on whom he was quartered, so that the district nurse had to be called in; while Marlene had a species of seizure which aroused unfulfilled hopes that she might be dead. Everyone agreed that the only place for the Connollies was “an institution” and at last, just before Christmas, after formalities complicated by the obscurity of their origins, to an institution they were sent, and Malfrey settled back to entertain its guests with a Christmas tree and a conjurer, with an air of relief which could be sensed for miles around. It was as though the All Clear had sounded after a night of terror. And now the Connollies were back.
“What’s happened, Mrs. Fremlin? Surely the Home can’t send them away.”
“It’s been evacuated. All the children are being sent back to the places they came from. Malfrey was the only address they had for the Connollies, so here they are. The Welfare Woman brought them to the Parish Hall. I was there with the Guides so I said I’d bring them up to you.”
“They might have warned us.”
“I expect they thought that if we had time we should try and stop them coming.”
“How right they were. Have the Connollies been fed?”
“I think so. At any rate Marlene was terribly sick in the car.”
“I’m dying to see these Connollies,” said Basil.
“You shall,” said his sister grimly.
But they were not in the lobby where they had been left. Barbara rang the bell. “Benson, you remember the Connolly children?”
“Vividly, madam.”
“They’re back.”
“Here, madam?”
“Here. Somewhere in the house. You’d better institute a search.”
“Very good, madam. And when they are found, they will be going away immediately?”
“Not immediately. They’ll have to stay here tonight. We’ll find somewhere for them in the village to-morrow.”
Benson hesitated. “It won’t be easy, madam.”
“It won’t be, Benson.”
He hesitated again; thought better of whatever he meant to say, and merely added: “I will start the search, madam.”
“I know what that means,” said Barbara as the man left them. “Benson is yellow.”
The Connollies were found at last and assembled. Doris had been in Barbara’s bedroom trying out her make-up, Micky in the library tearing up a folio, Marlene groveling under the pantry sink eating the remains of th
e dogs’ dinners. When they were together again, in the lobby, Basil inspected them. Their appearance exceeded anything he had been led to expect. They were led away to the bachelors’ wing and put together into a large bedroom.
“Shall we lock the door?”
“It would be no good. If they want to get out, they will.”
“Could I speak to you for a moment, madam?” said Benson.
When Barbara returned she said, “Benson is yellow. He can’t take it.”
“Wants to leave?”
“It’s him or the Connollies, he says. I can’t blame him. Freddy will never forgive me if I let him go.”
“Babs, you’re blubbing.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Barbara, pulling out a handkerchief and weeping in earnest. “I ask you, who wouldn’t?”
“Don’t be a chump,” said Basil, relapsing, as he often did with Barbara, into the language of the schoolroom. “I’ll fix it for you.”
“Swank. Chump yourself. Double chump.”
“Double chump with nobs on.”
“Darling Basil, it is nice to have you back. I do believe if anyone could fix it, you could.”
“Freddy couldn’t, could he?”
“Freddy isn’t here.”
“I’m cleverer than Freddy. Babs, say I’m cleverer than Freddy.”
“I’m cleverer than Freddy. Sucks to you.”
“Babs, say you love me more than Freddy.”
“You love me more than Freddy. Double sucks.”
“Say I, Barbara, love you, Basil, more than him, Freddy.”
“I won’t. I don’t… Beast, you’re hurting.”
“Say it.”
“Basil, stop at once or I shall call Miss Penfold.”
They were back twenty years, in the schoolroom again. “Miss Penfold, Miss Penfold, Basil’s pulling my hair.”
They scuffled on the sofa. Suddenly a voice said, “ ’Ere, Mrs.” It was Doris. “Mrs.”
Barbara stood up, panting and disheveled. “Well, Doris, what is it?”
“Marlene’s queer again.”
“Oh dear. I’ll come up. Run along.”
Doris looked languishingly at Basil. “ ’Aving a lark, eh?” she said. “I like a lark.”
“Run along, Doris. You’ll get cold.”
“I ain’t cold. Pull my hair if you like, Mister.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Basil.
“Dessay I shall. I dream a lot of funny things. Go on, Mister, pull it. Hard. I don’t mind.” She offered her bobbed head to Basil and then with a giggle ran out of the room.
“You see,” said Barbara. “A problem child.”
When Marlene had been treated for her queerness, Barbara came back to say good night.
“I’ll stay up a bit and work on this book.”
“All right, darling. Good night.” She bent over the back of the sofa and kissed the top of his head.
“Not blubbing anymore?”
“No, not blubbing.”
He looked up at her and smiled. She smiled back; it was the same smile. They saw themselves, each in the other’s eyes. There’s no one like Basil, thought Barbara, seeing herself, no one like him, when he’s nice.
II
Next morning Basil was called by Benson, who was the only manservant indoors since Freddy drew in his horns. (He had taken his valet with him to the yeomanry and supported him now, in a very much lower standard of comfort, at the King’s expense.) Lying in bed and watching the man put out his clothes, Basil reflected that he still owed him a small sum of money from his last visit.
“Benson, what’s this about your leaving?”
“I was cross last night, Mr. Basil. I couldn’t ever leave Malfrey and Mrs. Sothill ought to know that. Not with the Captain away, too.”
“Mrs. Sothill was very upset.”
“So was I, Mr. Basil. You don’t know what those Connollies are. They’re not human.”
“We’ll find a billet for them.”
“No one will take the Connollies in these parts. Not if they were given a hundred pounds.”
“I have an idea I owe you some money.”
“You do, Mr. Basil. Twelve pound ten.”
“As much as that? Time I paid it back.”
“It is.”
“I will, Benson.”
“I hope so, sir, I’m sure.”
Basil went to his bath pondering. No one will take the Connollies in these parts. Not for a hundred pounds. Not for a hundred pounds.
Since the war began Barbara had taken to breakfasting downstairs in the mistaken belief that it caused less trouble. Instead of the wicker bed-table tray, a table had to be laid in the small dining-room, the fire had to be lit there two hours earlier, silver dishes had to be cleaned and the wicks trimmed under them. It was an innovation deplored by all.
Basil found her crouched over the fire with her cup of coffee; she turned her curly black head and smiled; both of them had the same devastating combination of dark hair and clear blue eyes. Narcissus greeted Narcissus from the watery depths as Basil kissed her.
“Spooney,” she said.
“I’ve squared Benson for you.”
“Darling, how clever of you.”
“I had to give the old boy a fiver.”
“Liar.”
“All right, don’t believe me then.”
“I don’t, knowing Benson and knowing you. I remember last time you stayed here I had to pay him over ten pounds that you’d borrowed.”
“You paid him?”
“Yes. I was afraid he’d ask Freddy.”
“The old double-crosser. Anyway he’s staying.”
“Yes; thinking it over I knew he would. I don’t know why I took it so hard last night. I think it was the shock of seeing the Connollies.”
“We must get them settled to-day.”
“It’s hopeless. No one will take them.”
“You’ve got powers of coercion.”
“Yes, but I can’t possibly use them.”
“I can,” said Basil. “I shall enjoy it.”
After breakfast they moved from the little dining-room to the little parlor. The corridor, though it was one of the by-ways of the house, had a sumptuous cornice and a high, coved ceiling; the door cases were enriched with classic pediments in whose broken entablature stood busts of philosophers and composers. Other busts stood at regular intervals on marble pedestals. Everything in Malfrey was splendid and harmonious; everything except Doris who, that morning, lurked in their path rubbing herself on a pilaster like a cow on a stump.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo, Doris. Where are Micky and Marlene?”
“Outside. They’re all right. They’ve found the snow man the others made and they’re mucking him up.”
“Run along and join them.”
“I want to stay here with you—and him.”
“I bet you do,” said Basil. “No such luck. I’m going to find you a nice billet miles and miles away.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“You go and help muck up the snow man.”
“That’s a kid’s game. I’m not a kid. Mister, why wouldn’t you pull my hair last night? Was it because you thought I had nits? I haven’t any more. The nurse combed them all out at the institution and put oil on. That’s why it’s a bit greasy.”
“I don’t pull girls’ hair.”
“You do. I saw you. You pulled hers… he’s your boy, isn’t he?” she said, turning to Barbara.
“He’s my brother, Doris.”
“Ah,” she said, her pig eyes dark with the wisdom of the slums, “but you fancy him, don’t you? I saw.”
“She really is an atrocious child,” said Barbara.
III
Basil set about the problem of finding a home for the Connollies with zeal and method. He settled himself at a table with an ordnance map, the local newspaper and the little red leather-covered address book which had been one of old Mrs. Sothill’s l
egacies to Barbara; in this book were registered all her more well-to-do neighbors for a radius of twenty miles, the majority of whom were marked with the initials G.P.O. which stood for Garden Party Only. Barbara had done her best to keep this invaluable work of reference up to date, and had from time to time crossed out those who had died or left the district and added the names of newcomers.
Presently Basil said, “What about the Harknesses of Old Mill House, North Grappling?”
“Middle-aged people. He retired from some sort of job abroad. I think she’s musical. Why?”
“They’re advertising for boarders.” He pushed the paper across to her, where she read in the Accommodation column: Paying guests accepted in lovely modernized fifteenth-century mill. Ideal surroundings for elderly or artistic people wishing to avoid war worries. All home produce. Secluded old-world gardens. 6 gns. weekly. Highest references given and expected. Harkness, Old Mill House, North Grappling.
“How about that for the Connollies?”
“Basil, you can’t.”
“Can’t I just? I’ll get to work on them at once. Do they allow you extra petrol for your billeting work?”