A STRANGER ABOUT

by
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON

Some good reason, sure, for police to call in on Colonel.
Seems queer, though, dinner-time and rain pourin'.
"Oy, Jack!"

Young Trevelga, likely wanting something. Panting
hurry he's in, too, to get home to his dinner out of the rain.

"Mornin', Terence. You'm in a grand hurry."

"I am that, Jack. Mother said to be early, and I'm late.
Run over soon as I caught sight of 'ee, for to ask can I have
a lend of your sigh to-night."

"You'm welcome. But grass too long for mower again,
eh? Well, never mind. I know you been extra busy. But
you can't sigh after dark, lad, even if rain hold up."

"Don't mean tryin'. Morrow mornin' early, before you'm
up."

"Fine, boy. Sigh go easier when grass be wet."

"Thankee, Jack. I'll be round for'n, then."

"You seen sergeant on's cycle, turnin' in at Colonel
Stamp's?"

"Naw, that I haven't. Why, what'll that be?"

"No much, a'reckon. Colonel, he's our J.P. now."

"That's right, so he be. Reminds me, though, what
you'm sayin'. There was a queer-lookin' chap around dunes
this mornin'. You saw 'un?"

"Before you come along, Terry. I seen just so many
across dunes as I see every day. And that's nobody."

"Eh, that's funny. I saw'n quite plain, from road.
Away over. Sharumblin' along, he were, queer-like."

"Catchin' butterflies, maybe."

"No, Jack. That sort has nets. This one didn't have no
net. Perhaps Colonel see 'im?"

"Get away, Terry. Colonel don't own dunes, no more'n
we. Any one can cross over as likes."

90

DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON

91

"Might be hidin'."

"Hidin' me uncle. You get away home to your dinner,
lad."

* * * * *

"You'm worse'n Terry, Carnetha."

"'Tis all very well laughin', Jack. You've got to think.
Nobody's safe nowadays. Nowhere."

"You've been seein' a sight too many o' they pictures,
that's what 'tis."

"'Tisn't the pictures, Jack. 'Tis what you hear. And
what you read in the papers. There's gangsters. Now. This
minute. Everywhere."

"There's no gangsters here-along, don't you fear. Nothing
to get; and nowhere to go when they've got it."

"Jack. Them kind what I'm talkin' about doesn't all
want to get. There's murderer's, now. Just plain murderer's.
For the fun of it. Everywhere. You know so well as I do."

"Carnetha—now. For the love o' music, keep sensible.
This man, whatever he be, he's away over dunes. You'm
safe and sound. Neighbours near, and I'll be home before
nightfall. It's all a bag o' nonsense, anyhow."

"Then why do Colonel send out for sergeant?"

"Who says he sent for'n? And if he did, that's not
necessary anything to do with a chap Terry thinks he saw."

"Young Terry's eyesight's so good as yours, Jack."

"Maybe. But I don't let me eyes run away with me
head."

"You'm a man. Things is different for you. You've got
to think of me here. Alone with the children. And night
comin'. If you was me, you'd think of plenty things you've
no call to bother with in your strength."

"Now, come, lass. Be easy. Make house vitty, the way
you do, and I'll be home before there's a hope of any Mr.
Nobody comin' thisaway."

* * * * *

With the cloam washed and put by, and a trayful sorted
out for tea-time, Carnetha Roseveare feels too restless to sit
down as usual with her mending-basket; to sit down and
wait. Much better bustle about and give the place an extra

92

A STRANGER ABOUT

dusting and polishing. Find that lost piece of Ruth's new jigsaw puzzle.

The sounds of her activities come to her this afternoon as if they were being made by someone else. As if she and the whole world were hearing someone busily at work in her cottage, challenging the lurking fear. A good cottage it is, sure enough. Worth looking after, and here I am looking after'n, and everybody knows it, right out through the world. Good, it do make you feel, even if you'm getting tired, to be makin' everything in the place tidy and clean. Maybe that's what minister do mean when he says cleanliness be next to godliness? But be it? What about Mrs. Ipps? Forever scourin' and scrubbin' enough to deafen the neighbours and not a good word for anybody. And Mrs. Trenouth with a cottage more like a pigsty and good and kind to every soul. Laughin' and kind always. Who knows what's true? Who knows? Perhaps Jack be right. Perhaps the man is just a poor fellow with nowhere to go. Silly to keep on thinking about'n.

But when at last she sits down to her sewing in the stillness of the orderly home, she feels her fear return with new power. The cottage, its every room clear to her inward eye in a single glance, seems no longer her own, belongs to itself. To the madman making his way towards the village. Rubbish. The village is safe, daytime-safe with folks about. The cottage is safe. And her own. Her mind goes back, seeing it as it was when she and Jack were furnishing. Every day more precious and wonderful. As time went by, the treasure had changed, revealed defects, inconveniences, ceaseless demands; some of them like those of a permanent invalid.

Oh, to feel sure! To have it safely back, unthreatened, never again to be thought of as burden and bondage.

Stillness becomes unendurable. Better set the table. Soon the children will be home. Their chatter'll drive away this awful quiet. But they'll add, poor little dears, to the fear. Both of them afraid. If only that old clabberjaw hadn't met 'em dinner-time, tellin' 'm what her Terry told her, and likely more, I might easier hold on to meself instead of feelin' 'm waitin' same as I be. And if only we wasn't the first cottage, and separate. Perhaps this very minute, with the light goin', he'm peerin' down lane.

DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON

93

From the kitchen, with kettle coming to the boil, she hears the girls run in with their happy noise. Glad to be out of school, glad to be home with Saturday holiday comin'. Likely they've forgot.

Over their tea, Thealie chatters and chatters, telling about new teacher and her new ways. A proper little mimic is Thealie. Not kind the way Ruthie is kind; not lookin' pleased like Ruthie is lookin' because Winnie Hawken's dreadful warts is sent away sudden by old Grannie Vardoe after doctor tried for weeks past to cure'n with that cruel burnin' acid and done no good. But Ruthie isn't talkin' like she mostly do. Whenever Thealie stops, she'm lookin' about room as if she'm thinkin'. Like as if she was just goin' to ask somethin'. But Thealie goes on and on with her chatter.

Going down the dark passage to call Ruth in from the back garden to help clean the pilchards, Carnetha sees her younger daughter at the open front door, foot on doorstep, brushing her shoes. Braver she is, little Thealie, than Ruth. But supposin' he was to come sudden up the path behind her? Rubbish. He ain't comin'. And out here at the back all looks safe and belonging. Sun'll strike here to-morrow after night-dark be gone. Jack'll be home before the dark come.

"There you be, my dear. Come you in now and help mother wash and clean pilchards ready to cook."

"Eh! What—be—THAT?"

The resounding slam of the front door is followed by Ruth's voice, with fear in it, crying out as she shoots the bolt: "Mother! The man's in the garden! I heard'n down at gate!"

"Ruth! Shut back door and bolt'n, and go you both into kitchen and draw curtains!"

Speeding on soundless feet into the front room, she latches its window, switches the curtains together and leaves it, already alien and lost, to await the fearful owner. Running back down the passage, she joins the girls in the kitchen, dark now in the curtained twilight, draws them with trembling hands down on to the old settee, one on each side of her. No sound in life now but the in and out of panting breaths.

Come, Jack, oh, come before it be too late.

Thealie

94

A STRANGER ABOUT

A minute or two gone. Is he on the flower-bed under the
front window? Be the catch secure? Will he come round
to the back, find the little window with no catch?

"Eh, here you be, Jack. What be wrong, up to your
place?"

"Wrong? What do 'ee mean?"

"Well, I don't rightly know. Thinkin' you'd be back, I
called round for to fetch sigh. Saw your Ruth bendin' over
doorstep. When gate clicked, she fair fell into door,
slammed'n, yelled somethin' fierce, and shot bolt. When
I got up to door, all was quiet. Could'n hear no sound. No
light anywheres. Nor no answer when I tapped. So I come
on up road, thinkin' to meet 'ee. Why, what's up with 'ee,
Jack?"

"Come on, ha-ha, Terry, lad. You come on, ha-ha-ha—
wi' me. Oh, me godmothers and godfathers, ha-ha-ha-hah!"

The sudden peremptory tattoo on the front door brings
Carnetha's heart into her throat. Then the sound of the
voice urgently shouting her name is so high and so strange
that even as she speeds down the passage she doubts.

"Be it you, Jack?"

"Of course it be me." Laughter, this time, choking the
silly, blessed voice. All very well for men to laugh.

"Terry, lad," gasped the voice as the door comes open,
"you'll find sigh in shed."

And then he tumbles in door, like as if he'd had too much,
staggers into sitting-room, plomps hisself into chair, and
fair shakes roof. Wipes his eyes and goes off again. With the
girls standing by, giggling their fear into nowhere.

All very well, for men and children.

"Get away-do, Jack. Fish'll be ready before you'm
washed."