been so busy getting ready for Christmas that I haven’t had much time for reading. It’s been———”
“I don’t expect you’ve even opened one of them,” he interrupted, with what Jenny thought of as a cross laugh . “It doesn’t matter in the least, I only thought you might not find much to read at Pine Cottage.”
“It was most kind of you,” Alda repeated, thinking what a boor the man was. The children were next to him as he sat in the driver’s seat and she herself had a large can, which smelt very vile, on the seat beside her, whilst her feet were confined by a stockade of meal sacks that made movement impossible. But home was drawing nearer every minute, and when once Mr. Waite had conveyed them there, he could go and bury himself in his own sacks for all she cared.
Mr. Waite, who seemed to have no small-talk, went on:
“Did you look at the one called In Touch with the Transcendent at all?”
“Er—yes. Yes, I did.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” His tone of awe finished Alda, and left her struggling with a laugh. She had no use for any theories of The Transcendental beyond those of the simple theology she had been taught in her childhood.
“Well —” she was beginning, when he interrupted her gloomily:
“I tried Yoga at one time, but I had to give it up. It requires enormous concentration and perseverance and I simply haven’t the time; these damned battery birds—I beg your pardon—the chickens take up nineteen hours out of the twenty-four.”
Alda made a sympathetic murmur. It struck her pleasantly that a man should apologise for saying “damned” in her presence; it was the first sign of sensitiveness that she had observed in Mr. Waite, whose social status was not easy to place. The apology might be old-fashioned, but it did imply that he came from a home where there were gentle women. What an extraordinary creature he is, she thought; he hasn’t asked me a single question about ourselves or mentioned the weather or Christmas or shown any interest in anything except that dotty book…. That’s what comes of living alone with chickens.
“And yet, you know, if I really cared enough about it I should make the time,” he said suddenly. “After all, what is reality?”
Alda controlled an impulse to ask him what on earth he meant, and occupied herself with rocking Meg, who was whimpering. Jenny and Louise were dividing their attention between the windscreen wiper and the conversation, with a distinct bias towards the latter.
“If I believe that other worlds are more real than this one, I ought to give up everything—the chickens—my work—everything, and concentrate on my spiritual development.”
“ Do you believe that?” inquired Alda, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Of course,” he answered, glancing up for an instant at the little mirror above his head. In it he met her bright, amused eyes. He frowned, and pressed the car forward through the deepening dusk.
Bother, now I’ve offended him, she thought, but she was too concerned about Meg (who was now stirring restlessly and making little sounds of distress) to give the matter a second thought , and devoted herself to rocking and soothing her. She was bending over her, trying to see in the dim light how to loosen the strings of her hood, when Mr. Waite exclaimed, “Hullo, now what’s the matter?” and put the brakes on hard. When she had recovered her balance from the jerk, she looked out of the window into the darkness and saw a figure standing in the glare of the headlights; a soldier in a greatcoat, laden with bundles. At the same instant the children began to dance up and down with delight and she saw that it was Ronald.
“He wants a lift, I suppose,” Mr. Waite grumbled, “a silly thing to do, stopping me like that, I nearly went over him,” leaning forward to open the door, “can you make room there, Mrs.—er—? (not so much noise , kiddies, please !).”
“It’s my husband!” Alda said
“I don’t expect you’ve even opened one of them,” he interrupted, with what Jenny thought of as a cross laugh . “It doesn’t matter in the least, I only thought you might not find much to read at Pine Cottage.”
“It was most kind of you,” Alda repeated, thinking what a boor the man was. The children were next to him as he sat in the driver’s seat and she herself had a large can, which smelt very vile, on the seat beside her, whilst her feet were confined by a stockade of meal sacks that made movement impossible. But home was drawing nearer every minute, and when once Mr. Waite had conveyed them there, he could go and bury himself in his own sacks for all she cared.
Mr. Waite, who seemed to have no small-talk, went on:
“Did you look at the one called In Touch with the Transcendent at all?”
“Er—yes. Yes, I did.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” His tone of awe finished Alda, and left her struggling with a laugh. She had no use for any theories of The Transcendental beyond those of the simple theology she had been taught in her childhood.
“Well —” she was beginning, when he interrupted her gloomily:
“I tried Yoga at one time, but I had to give it up. It requires enormous concentration and perseverance and I simply haven’t the time; these damned battery birds—I beg your pardon—the chickens take up nineteen hours out of the twenty-four.”
Alda made a sympathetic murmur. It struck her pleasantly that a man should apologise for saying “damned” in her presence; it was the first sign of sensitiveness that she had observed in Mr. Waite, whose social status was not easy to place. The apology might be old-fashioned, but it did imply that he came from a home where there were gentle women. What an extraordinary creature he is, she thought; he hasn’t asked me a single question about ourselves or mentioned the weather or Christmas or shown any interest in anything except that dotty book…. That’s what comes of living alone with chickens.
“And yet, you know, if I really cared enough about it I should make the time,” he said suddenly. “After all, what is reality?”
Alda controlled an impulse to ask him what on earth he meant, and occupied herself with rocking Meg, who was whimpering. Jenny and Louise were dividing their attention between the windscreen wiper and the conversation, with a distinct bias towards the latter.
“If I believe that other worlds are more real than this one, I ought to give up everything—the chickens—my work—everything, and concentrate on my spiritual development.”
“ Do you believe that?” inquired Alda, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Of course,” he answered, glancing up for an instant at the little mirror above his head. In it he met her bright, amused eyes. He frowned, and pressed the car forward through the deepening dusk.
Bother, now I’ve offended him, she thought, but she was too concerned about Meg (who was now stirring restlessly and making little sounds of distress) to give the matter a second thought , and devoted herself to rocking and soothing her. She was bending over her, trying to see in the dim light how to loosen the strings of her hood, when Mr. Waite exclaimed, “Hullo, now what’s the matter?” and put the brakes on hard. When she had recovered her balance from the jerk, she looked out of the window into the darkness and saw a figure standing in the glare of the headlights; a soldier in a greatcoat, laden with bundles. At the same instant the children began to dance up and down with delight and she saw that it was Ronald.
“He wants a lift, I suppose,” Mr. Waite grumbled, “a silly thing to do, stopping me like that, I nearly went over him,” leaning forward to open the door, “can you make room there, Mrs.—er—? (not so much noise , kiddies, please !).”
“It’s my husband!” Alda said
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