Pagets and perhaps the Friends will come and fetch us.”
“Oh Weez, what a good idea! I wish I’d thought of that at first. We’ll telephone them at once. Look, here’s my bag—you take fourpence in coppers—I hope I’ve got it—and——”
But here their exclamations and gropings in the gloom were interrupted by the sound of footsteps running up the paved path and Jenny’s joyous voice calling:
“Mother! Good news! Good news! I’ve got somebody!”
In another moment she appeared at the entrance of the porch, her shoulders white with snow, breathing fast from her run up the hill. She was followed, at a slower pace, by someone else.
At first Alda could not make out whether it was a man or a woman, but then the figure made a gesture with its hat which indicated that it was a man.
“It’s Mr. Waite, Mother,” explained Jenny. “You know—he lives near us. He was in the garage and kindly heard what I said. Mother, he says he’ll drive us home in his car!”
“Oh, how kind.” Alda stood up, with Meg clasped closely in her arms, and smiled at the figure she could barely see. “ How do you do, Mr. Waite.”
“How do you do,” he answered awkwardly, in a naturally unpleasing voice which he tried to make friendly. “My little friend here says her little sister isn’t feeling too good?”
“She has a temperature, I’m afraid, and I should be so grateful if you could take us home.”
“Oh dear. Nothing infectious, I hope?”
“I don’t know yet.” Alda controlled her impatience. “She was perfectly well this morning.”
“Ah, you can’t be too careful with kiddies—or so I’m told ,” on a wryly humorous note. “Well, I think I can fit you all in, though it’ll be a bit of a squeeze. Let’s have some light on the subject, shall we?” and the ray from a torch suddenly shone upon Alda’s shabby suède boots, and threw a reflected glow upon the children’s excited faces. “Can you manage, kiddies? Come along, then—follow Santa Claus,” and he set off down the path towards the village, shining the torch carefully behind him so that Alda could see the way.
The verger, hearing voices in the porch, slowly opened the church door and peered out into the snow and the night, then locked it behind him and, turning up his collar and lowering his head into the wind, set off for home.
It was not more than a couple of hundred yards down into the village street, and there was Mr. Waite’s car, an unexpectedly large 1937 Lagonda that had once been handsome, standing outside the shop that sold sweets and tobacco. What nonsense to talk about a tight squeeze, Alda thought with some indignation, there’s room for an army in that thing, but she soon discovered that there was not, for the interior was full of sacks and boxes smelling of bran. Without waiting for an invitation she climbed over them and settled herself, tenderly clasping Meg, in the only unoccupied place, while the children fitted themselves between tins and sacks and Mr. Waite took a rug off the engine. By the glare of the headlights Alda could see that he was dark and well above medium height; he was perhaps forty-three years old, his figure was good, and a woman who did not object to signs of discontent and obstinacy in a male countenance would have considered him handsome.
After one or two false starts by the cold engine and fussy apologies from Mr. Waite, they got away, and soon left the village behind: spectral white fields glided by, the snow rushed steadily past the windows. Alda would have preferred to remain silent, but she guessed that Mr. Waite was one of the touchy sort (from whom Heaven defend me, thought she) and would take it amiss if she did not prattle.
“You’ll think us very rude, Mr. Waite; we’ve never thanked you for the books you kindly left for us,” she began.
Mr. Waite replied oh, that was all right, in a tone implying that ingratitude was all he ever expected or received in this world.
“I’ve
“Oh Weez, what a good idea! I wish I’d thought of that at first. We’ll telephone them at once. Look, here’s my bag—you take fourpence in coppers—I hope I’ve got it—and——”
But here their exclamations and gropings in the gloom were interrupted by the sound of footsteps running up the paved path and Jenny’s joyous voice calling:
“Mother! Good news! Good news! I’ve got somebody!”
In another moment she appeared at the entrance of the porch, her shoulders white with snow, breathing fast from her run up the hill. She was followed, at a slower pace, by someone else.
At first Alda could not make out whether it was a man or a woman, but then the figure made a gesture with its hat which indicated that it was a man.
“It’s Mr. Waite, Mother,” explained Jenny. “You know—he lives near us. He was in the garage and kindly heard what I said. Mother, he says he’ll drive us home in his car!”
“Oh, how kind.” Alda stood up, with Meg clasped closely in her arms, and smiled at the figure she could barely see. “ How do you do, Mr. Waite.”
“How do you do,” he answered awkwardly, in a naturally unpleasing voice which he tried to make friendly. “My little friend here says her little sister isn’t feeling too good?”
“She has a temperature, I’m afraid, and I should be so grateful if you could take us home.”
“Oh dear. Nothing infectious, I hope?”
“I don’t know yet.” Alda controlled her impatience. “She was perfectly well this morning.”
“Ah, you can’t be too careful with kiddies—or so I’m told ,” on a wryly humorous note. “Well, I think I can fit you all in, though it’ll be a bit of a squeeze. Let’s have some light on the subject, shall we?” and the ray from a torch suddenly shone upon Alda’s shabby suède boots, and threw a reflected glow upon the children’s excited faces. “Can you manage, kiddies? Come along, then—follow Santa Claus,” and he set off down the path towards the village, shining the torch carefully behind him so that Alda could see the way.
The verger, hearing voices in the porch, slowly opened the church door and peered out into the snow and the night, then locked it behind him and, turning up his collar and lowering his head into the wind, set off for home.
It was not more than a couple of hundred yards down into the village street, and there was Mr. Waite’s car, an unexpectedly large 1937 Lagonda that had once been handsome, standing outside the shop that sold sweets and tobacco. What nonsense to talk about a tight squeeze, Alda thought with some indignation, there’s room for an army in that thing, but she soon discovered that there was not, for the interior was full of sacks and boxes smelling of bran. Without waiting for an invitation she climbed over them and settled herself, tenderly clasping Meg, in the only unoccupied place, while the children fitted themselves between tins and sacks and Mr. Waite took a rug off the engine. By the glare of the headlights Alda could see that he was dark and well above medium height; he was perhaps forty-three years old, his figure was good, and a woman who did not object to signs of discontent and obstinacy in a male countenance would have considered him handsome.
After one or two false starts by the cold engine and fussy apologies from Mr. Waite, they got away, and soon left the village behind: spectral white fields glided by, the snow rushed steadily past the windows. Alda would have preferred to remain silent, but she guessed that Mr. Waite was one of the touchy sort (from whom Heaven defend me, thought she) and would take it amiss if she did not prattle.
“You’ll think us very rude, Mr. Waite; we’ve never thanked you for the books you kindly left for us,” she began.
Mr. Waite replied oh, that was all right, in a tone implying that ingratitude was all he ever expected or received in this world.
“I’ve
Similar Books
