Pansy required response. It was so hard to have to live oneâs emotional life without anyone to confide in. If Uncle James had died six months earlier, it might have made all the difference. Jim wouldnât have quarrelled with his uncle and gone abroad; and if he hadnât gone abroad, no one knows what might have happened. As it was, every time she went through the village there were the stone pillars at the entrance to Hale Place a little more covered with a green mould, and the drive a little more neglected. And Caroline wouldnât talk about any of it. She probably wouldnât even have said she was going to Elston if Pansy hadnât heard the radio message with her own ears.
Of course this man wasnât Jim Randal, and of course Caroline was disappointed. But then why not say so, and have a good cry and let Pansy comfort her? It must be terribly bad to repress oneâs self like that.
Caroline did not feel in the least inclined to cry. Her thoughts were full of a warm, delicious excitement. There were little slants of light and mysterious hide-and-seek shadows, like the glints and shadows in a wood. Far away amongst the trees a bird sang. But it was her wood, her trees, her sun and shadow. If she let anyone in, it would all be spoilt. Jim was her secret playfellow. She never talked to people about him, and he wasnât any real relation to Pansy Ann, though they had all been brought up together.
âI think you might talk about something,â said Pansy in an aggrieved voice.
Caroline was quite ready to talk about anything except Jim.
âWhat shall we talk about?â
âYou might have brought an evening paper.â Pansy was still aggrieved.
âI wasnât near one. What did you want it for?â
âI wanted to know whether there was anything more about the emeralds and Mr Van Berg.â
âWhy should there be?â
Caroline wasnât really attending. She was thinking that she could get to Ledlington by eleven. She was thinking that fourteen hours was a very long time to wait.
âWell,â Pansy went on, âheâll either be better or else worse. Wonât it be dreadful if he dies? Jim having known him seems to bring it home so. You know, of course it must be wonderful to have the finest emeralds in the worldâand I simply adore emeraldsâdonât you?âbut just think of the anxiety. Even if they get them back, I shouldnât think that Mrs Van Berg would ever want to wear them againâanyhow not if he dies. I should think sheâd always feel as if there was blood on them.â
Caroline winced, not visibly, but deep inside herself. She couldnât talk about a woman who was waiting to know whether her husband was going to die. Jim had written about the Van Bergs from New Yorkâthey had been awfully good to himâMrs Van Berg was pretty and kind. The emeralds were like a fairy tale. Now it was spoilt. She couldnât bear to think about kind, pretty Susie Van Berg with everything fallen to bits around her. A shot in the night had broken the fairy tale. She wished that Pansy Ann would stop picking over the pieces.
VIII
Caroline left her car in the Market Square at Ledlington next day, fitting it in neatly between a ten-year-old Daimler and a brand-new Hillman. Then she walked round the corner into Market Street and penetrated into Mr Smithiesâ ironmongery. The day was damp and rather muggy, and the shop was full of the mingled smells of paraffin, turpentine, varnish, tin-ware, and creosote.
Caroline asked for coalscuttles, and having been led into the corner which they shared with patent wringers, lawn-mowers and wheelbarrows, she produced Mrs Riddellâs bill and smiled trustingly upon a freckled young man whose red hair rose a sheer three inches from a rather pallid brow.
âI do wonder if you can help me,â said Caroline, her voice very soft and deep. âIt would be so very kind if you
Of course this man wasnât Jim Randal, and of course Caroline was disappointed. But then why not say so, and have a good cry and let Pansy comfort her? It must be terribly bad to repress oneâs self like that.
Caroline did not feel in the least inclined to cry. Her thoughts were full of a warm, delicious excitement. There were little slants of light and mysterious hide-and-seek shadows, like the glints and shadows in a wood. Far away amongst the trees a bird sang. But it was her wood, her trees, her sun and shadow. If she let anyone in, it would all be spoilt. Jim was her secret playfellow. She never talked to people about him, and he wasnât any real relation to Pansy Ann, though they had all been brought up together.
âI think you might talk about something,â said Pansy in an aggrieved voice.
Caroline was quite ready to talk about anything except Jim.
âWhat shall we talk about?â
âYou might have brought an evening paper.â Pansy was still aggrieved.
âI wasnât near one. What did you want it for?â
âI wanted to know whether there was anything more about the emeralds and Mr Van Berg.â
âWhy should there be?â
Caroline wasnât really attending. She was thinking that she could get to Ledlington by eleven. She was thinking that fourteen hours was a very long time to wait.
âWell,â Pansy went on, âheâll either be better or else worse. Wonât it be dreadful if he dies? Jim having known him seems to bring it home so. You know, of course it must be wonderful to have the finest emeralds in the worldâand I simply adore emeraldsâdonât you?âbut just think of the anxiety. Even if they get them back, I shouldnât think that Mrs Van Berg would ever want to wear them againâanyhow not if he dies. I should think sheâd always feel as if there was blood on them.â
Caroline winced, not visibly, but deep inside herself. She couldnât talk about a woman who was waiting to know whether her husband was going to die. Jim had written about the Van Bergs from New Yorkâthey had been awfully good to himâMrs Van Berg was pretty and kind. The emeralds were like a fairy tale. Now it was spoilt. She couldnât bear to think about kind, pretty Susie Van Berg with everything fallen to bits around her. A shot in the night had broken the fairy tale. She wished that Pansy Ann would stop picking over the pieces.
VIII
Caroline left her car in the Market Square at Ledlington next day, fitting it in neatly between a ten-year-old Daimler and a brand-new Hillman. Then she walked round the corner into Market Street and penetrated into Mr Smithiesâ ironmongery. The day was damp and rather muggy, and the shop was full of the mingled smells of paraffin, turpentine, varnish, tin-ware, and creosote.
Caroline asked for coalscuttles, and having been led into the corner which they shared with patent wringers, lawn-mowers and wheelbarrows, she produced Mrs Riddellâs bill and smiled trustingly upon a freckled young man whose red hair rose a sheer three inches from a rather pallid brow.
âI do wonder if you can help me,â said Caroline, her voice very soft and deep. âIt would be so very kind if you
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