LITMIR.BIZ

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      Ursula began haltingly with many pauses but with a certain air of championship. At first Fabian helped her, making a conversation rather than a solo performance of the business. Douglas Grace, sitting beside Terence Lynne, sometimes spoke to her in a low voice. She had taken up a piece of knitting and the click of the needles lent a domestic note to the scene, a note much at variance with her sleek and burnished appearance. She did not reply to Grace but once Alleyn saw her mouth flicker in a smile. She had small sharp teeth.

      As Ursula grew into her narrative she became less uneasy, less in need of Fabian’s support, until presently she could speak strongly, eager to draw her portrait of Florence Rubrick.

      A firm picture took shape. A schoolgirl, bewildered and desolated by news of her mother’s death, sat in the polished chilliness of a headmistress’s drawing-room. ‘I’d known ever since the morning. They’d arranged for me to go home by the evening train. They were very kind but they were too tactful, too careful not to say the obvious thing. I didn’t want tact and delicacy, I wanted warmth. Literally, I was shivering. I can hear the sound of the horn now. It was the sort that chimes like bells. She brought it out from England. I saw the car slide past the window and then I heard her voice in the hall asking for me. It’s years ago but I can see her as clearly as if it were yesterday. She wore a fur cape and smelt lovely and she hugged me and talked loudly and cheerfully and said she was my guardian and had come for me and that she was my mother’s greatest friend and had been with her when it happened. Of course I knew all about her. She was my godmother. But she had stayed in England when she married after the last war and when she returned we lived too far away to visit. So I’d never seen her. So I went away with her. My other guardian is an English uncle. He’s a soldier and follows the drum and he was very glad when Aunt Florence (that’s what I called her) took hold. I stayed with her until it was time to go back to school. She used to come during term and that was marvellous.’

      The picture sharpened on a note of adolescent devotion. There had been the year when Auntie Florence returned to England but wrote occasionally and caused sumptuous presents to be sent from London stores. She reappeared when Ursula was sixteen and ready to leave school.

      ‘It was Heaven. She took me Home with her. We had a house in London and she brought me out and presented me and everything. It was wizard. She gave a dance for me.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘I met Fabian at that dance, didn’t I, Fabian?’

      ‘It was a great night,’ said Fabian. He had settled on the floor, his back was propped against the side of her chair and his thin knees were drawn up to his chin. He had lit a pipe.

      ‘And then,’ said Ursula, ‘it was September, 1939, and Uncle Arthur began to say we’d better come out to New Zealand. Auntie Florence wanted us to stay and get war jobs but he kept on cabling for her to come.’

      Terence Lynne’s composed voice cut across the narrative. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘he was her husband.’

      ‘Hear, hear!’ said Douglas Grace and patted her knee.

      ‘Yes, but she’d have been wonderful in a war job,’ said Ursula impatiently. ‘I always took rather a gloomy view of his insisting like that. I mean, it was a thought selfish. Doing without her would really have been his drop of war work.’

      ‘He’d had three months in a nursing-home,’ said Miss Lynne without emphasis.

      ‘I know, Terry, but all the same … Well, anyway, soon after Dunkirk he cabled again and out we came. I had rather thought of joining something but she was so depressed about leaving. She said I was too young to be alone and she’d be lost without me, so I came. I loved coming, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ Fabian murmured.

      ‘And there was you to be looked after on the voyage.’

      ‘Yes, I’d staged my collapse by that time. Ursula acted,’ Fabian said, turning his head towards Alleyn, ‘as a kind of buffer between my defencelessness and Flossie’s zeal. Flossie had been a VAD in the last war and the mysteries had lain fallow in her for twenty years. I owe my reason if not my life to Ursula.’

      ‘You’re not fair,’ she said but with a certain softening of her voice. ‘You’re ungrateful, Fab.’

      ‘Ungrateful to Flossie for plumping herself down in your affections like an amiable, no, not even an amiable cuttlefish? But go on, Ursy.’

      ‘I don’t know how much time Mr Alleyn has to spare for our reminiscences,’ began Douglas Grace, ‘but I must say I feel deeply sorry for him.’

      ‘I’ve any amount of time,’ said Alleyn, ‘and I’m extremely interested. So you all three arrived in New Zealand in 1940? Is that it, Miss Harme?’

      ‘Yes. We came straight here. After London,’ said Ursula gaily, ‘it did seem rather hearty and primitive but quite soon after we got here the member for the district died and they asked her to stand and everything got exciting. That’s when you came in, Terry, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles. ‘That’s where I came in.’

      ‘Auntie Floss was marvellous to me,’ Ursula continued. ‘You see, she had no children of her own so I suppose I was rather special. Anyway she used to say so. You should have seen her at the meetings, Mr Alleyn. She loved being heckled. She was as quick as lightning and absolutely fearless, wasn’t she, Douglas?’

      ‘She certainly could handle them,’ agreed Grace. ‘She was up to her neck in it when I got back. I remember at one meeting some woman shouted out: “Do you think it’s right for you to have cocktails and champagne when I can’t afford to give my kiddies eggs?” Aunt Floss came back at her in a flash: “I’ll give you a dozen eggs for every alcoholic drink I’ve consumed.”’

      ‘Because,’ Ursula explained, ‘she didn’t drink, ever, and most of the people knew and clapped, and Aunt Florence said at once: “That wasn’t fair, was it? You didn’t know about my humdrum habits.” And she said: “If things are as bad as that you should apply to my Relief Supply Service. We send plenty of eggs in from Mount Moon.”’ Ursula’s voice ran down on a note of uncertainty. Douglas Grace cut in with his loud laugh. ‘And the woman shouted “I’d rather be without eggs,” and Aunt Floss said: “Just as well perhaps while I’m on my soap-box,” and they roared with laughter.’

      ‘Parry and riposte,’ muttered Fabian. ‘Parry and riposte!’

      ‘It was damned quick of her, Fabian,’ said Douglas Grace.

      ‘And the kids continued eggless.’

      ‘That wasn’t Aunt Florence’s fault,’ said Ursula.

      ‘All right, darling. My sympathies are with the woman but let it pass. I must say,’ Fabian added, ‘that in a sort of way I rather enjoyed Floss’s electioneering campaign.’

      ‘You don’t understand the people in this country,’ said Grace. ‘We like it straight from the shoulder and Aunt Floss gave it to us that way. She had them eating out of her hand, hadn’t she, Terry?’

      ‘She was very popular,’ said Terence Lynne.

      ‘Did her husband take an active part in her public life?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘It practically killed him,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles.

      II

      There was a flabbergasted silence and she continued sedately. ‘He went for long drives and sat on platforms and fagged about from one meeting to another. This house was never quiet. What with Red Cross and Women’s Institute and EPS and political parties it was never quiet. Even this room, which was supposed to be his, was invaded.’

      ‘She was always looking after him,’ Ursula protested. ‘That’s unfair, Terry. She looked after him marvellously.’

      ‘It was like being minded by a hurricane.’

      Fabian and Douglas

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