to see her father that morning; her mother had mentioned it and looked worried, but when Celine had asked what was the matter, she wasn’t told anything. That was the trouble, she thought unhappily; she had been born unexpectedly when her parents were verging on middle age, and they still thought of her as a child to be shielded from anything unpleasant. Not that they had spoiled her, but she had been brought up in a kind of effortless comfort; money was never mentioned and she hadn’t bothered over-much about it. She loved her home dearly. If she hadn’t perhaps she would have trained for something and got a job by now…
She went in through the kitchen door, stopped to talk to Angela whose elderly feet were hurting her, then went through the stone-flagged passage to the hall; there were flagstones here, too, and panelled walls and oak rafters and narrow latticed windows. She stopped to smell the lilac standing in a great vase in one corner and went into the dining-room.
Her mother and father were already there, her mother, a small, pretty woman with bright blue eyes, busy with her post, her father, tall and thin and scholarly, behind his newspaper. Celine kissed them in turn and took her seat at the table.
‘What time is Mr Timms coming?’ she asked. Her father didn’t answer; she turned her lovely grey eyes on her mother, who looked up briefly.
‘About ten o’clock, dear. We’d better have him to lunch.’
Celine poured herself some coffee and began on a boiled egg. ‘Father, why is he coming?’ And when her parent grunted: ‘Is it about money? I’ve never bothered about it, I’m afraid, but now I think I ought to be told.’
He lowered the paper and looked at her over the top. ‘There’s no need…’ he began.
She interrupted him gently. ‘There is, you know. Father, are we broke?’
He looked uneasy. ‘The truth is, my dear, I’m not quite sure. It is true there isn’t a great deal of money left, and unfortunately I made one or two investments a couple of months ago and they haven’t turned out quite as I had hoped.’
She buttered some toast. Her insides were cold, she could hardly get the next question out for very fright. ‘We shan’t have to leave here…?’
‘Unthinkable,’ declared her father. ‘In any case, who would buy the place? It’s falling down.’
‘But Father, isn’t there anything to be done? I mean, couldn’t we patch it up a bit where it needs it most?’
Colonel Baylis was on the whole a mild, rather dreamy man, but he could, on occasion, return to the parade-ground manner. ‘There’s no need for you to concern yourself about such things,’ he told her severely. ‘We shall come about; Mr Timms will advise me…’ He retired behind his newspaper once more and Celine turned to her mother.
‘Mother—’ she began.
‘Your father is always right, darling,’ said Mrs Baylis, and Celine sighed and went on eating her egg. Her mother was a darling, but she was impractical, she had no idea how to be economical, and it was a little too late in life to begin now. She wondered what Mr Timms would have to say.
Whatever Mr Timms had to say was for her father’s ears alone, it seemed. The two gentlemen retired to the Colonel’s study as soon as he had arrived and didn’t emerge until it was almost time to have lunch, when they joined Mrs Baylis and Celine in the drawing-room; low-ceilinged, panelled walls, and shabby but still grand furniture. They drank their sherry and made polite conversation, then they crossed the hall to the dining-room, equally low-ceilinged but a good deal smaller, its chintz curtains faded to the pale pastel colours of the Savonnerie carpet, its dark oak furniture adequately dusted but unpolished.
The lunch was excellent; Angela was a good cook, and Celine, who had learned to cook to Cordon Bleu standard at the finishing school, had whipped up a delicate soufflé to follow the pâté and toast, with a fruit tart to follow. But however excellent the fare, it did nothing to dispel Mr Timms’ severe gloom; even the Chablis the Colonel had fetched from the cellar hadn’t helped. Celine, taking her part in the talk, bided her time.
She had her opportunity presently, when after a decent interval drinking coffee, Mr Timms prepared to leave. He had taken the village taxi from the station, but now Celine said quickly: ‘I’ll run you down in the car, Mr Timms,’ and was on her way to the garage before anyone could object.
There were two cars—a far from new but beautifully kept Jaguar and a Mini. The Jag soaked up petrol, but somehow she couldn’t see Mr Timms squashed into the Mini. She drove the big car round to the front of the house where she found him waiting outside the open door with her parents.
As she turned out of the gates at the bottom of the short drive she asked: ‘Will you tell me what it’s all about, Mr Timms? And I’m not just being curious; Father has hinted…it’s so hard on them both. They can’t change their ways now, you know, but perhaps there’s something to be done.’
‘I don’t know…’ began Mr Timms primly, then looked astonished as Celine stopped the car on the side of the lane. ‘If you tell me quickly,’ she said sweetly, ‘you’ll be in nice time for your train.’
‘This is quite improper—’ he began testily as she turned to look at him. She was a lovely girl, her enormous eyes beseeched him. For once he stifled his professional feelings. ‘The truth of the matter is,’ he began, ‘your father has almost no capital left—and barely enough from the rents of his property in the village and the farms to cover his rates and taxes. He invested against my advice, a good deal of money over the last few years, with disastrous results.’ He paused and asked anxiously: ‘Should we not be driving to the station?’
Celine started the car and went slowly ahead. ‘Go on, Mr Timms,’ she begged.
‘The house is in a woeful state of repair—even if your father were to put it on the market I doubt if anyone would buy it, and then at a sum far below its value…’
‘We can’t leave,’ declared Celine, and despite all her efforts her voice shook a little. ‘It’s been home for generations. Has Father any income at all?’
‘Over and above the rents—they will take care of taxes and so forth—he has a small income of—’ and the sum he named made Celine gulp.
Her father had given her mother a mink coat at Christmas; it had cost a little more than that. ‘If I could think of a way to earn some money, how much do I need to get by? I don’t think we can count on Father’s income…’
The station was in sight and she heard Mr Timm’s sigh of relief. ‘Just to live,’ he stated, ‘food and fuel and Angela’s and Barney’s wages and the very minimum of upkeep would take a certain amount each week, and that would be cheeseparing indeed. You do of course grow your own vegetables and fruit, do you not, and you have hens?…’
‘And plenty of wood for fires, only they make a lot of work. But work is what I’ll have to do, isn’t it, Mr Timms?’ Celine smiled at him and he found himself smiling back at her, wondering why such a lovely girl hadn’t found herself a rich husband. Rich or not, he’d be a lucky man.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ said Celine, and bent forward and kissed his cheek.
‘There’s really nothing you can do,’ he assured her.
She looked at him with bright eyes. ‘I’ve been doing nothing for a long time,’ she told him
