Now that Shirley had come home for good, it had seemed to Laura that everything was exactly the same. Every day saw an interchange of comment on any separate activities they had pursued. Shirley talked unconcernedly of Robin Grant, of Edward Westbury; she had a frank affectionate nature, and it was natural to her, or so it had seemed, to comment daily on what happened.
But yesterday she had come back from tennis at the Hargreaves and had been oddly monosyllabic in her replies to Laura’s questions.
Laura wondered why. Of course, Shirley was growing up. She would have her own thoughts, her own life. That was only natural and right. What Laura had to decide was how best that could be accomplished. Laura sighed, looked at her watch again, and decided to go and see Mr. Baldock.
CHAPTER two
1
Mr. Baldock was busy in his garden when Laura came up the path. He grunted and immediately asked:
“What do you think of my begonias? Pretty good?”
Mr. Baldock was actually an exceedingly poor gardener, but was inordinately proud of the results he achieved and completely oblivious of any failures. It was expected of his friends not to refer to these latter. Laura gazed obediently on some rather sparse begonias and said they were very nice.
“Nice? They’re magnificent!” Mr. Baldock, who was now an old man and considerably stouter than he had been eighteen years ago, groaned a little as he bent over once more to pull at some weeds.
“It’s this wet summer,” he grumbled. “Fast as you clear the beds, up the stuff comes again. Words fail me when it comes to what I think of bindweed! You may say what you like, but I think it is directly inspired by the devil!” He puffed a little, then said, his words coming shortly between stertorous breaths: “Well, young Laura, what is it? Trouble? Tell me about it.”
“I always come to you when I’m worried. I have ever since I was six.”
“Rum little kid you were. Peaky face and great big eyes.”
“I wish I knew whether I was doing right.”
“Shouldn’t bother if I was you,” said Mr. Baldock. “Garrrrr! Get up, you unspeakable brute!” (This was to the bindweed.) “No, as I say, I shouldn’t bother. Some people know what’s right and wrong, and some people haven’t the least idea. It’s like an ear for music!”
“I don’t think I really meant right or wrong in the moral sense, I think I meant was I being wise?”
“Well, that’s quite a different thing. On the whole, one does far more foolish things than wise ones. What’s the problem?”
“It’s Shirley.”
“Naturally it’s Shirley. You never think of anything or anyone else.”
“I’ve been arranging for her to go to London and train in secretarial work.”
“Seems to me remarkably silly,” said Mr. Baldock. “Shirley is a nice child, but the last person in the world to make a competent secretary.”
“Still, she’s got to do something.”
“So they say nowadays.”
“And I’d like her to meet people.”
“Blast and curse and damn that nettle,” said Mr. Baldock, shaking an injured hand. “People? What d’you mean by people? Crowds? Employers? Other girls? Young men?”
“I suppose really I mean young men.”
Mr. Baldock chuckled.
“She’s not doing too badly down here. That mother’s boy, Robin, at the vicarage seems to be making sheep’s eyes at her, young Peter has got it badly, and even Edward Westbury has started putting brilliantine on what’s left of his hair. Smelt it in church last Sunday. Thought to myself: ‘Now, who’s he after?’ And sure enough there he was when we came out, wriggling like an embarrassed dog as he talked to her.”
“I don’t think she cares about any of them.”
“Why should she? Give her time. She’s very young, Laura. Come now, why do you really want to send her away to London, or are you going too?”
“Oh no. That’s the whole point.”
Mr. Baldock straightened up.
“So that’s the point, is it?” He eyed her curiously. “What exactly is in your mind, Laura?”
Laura looked down at the gravel path.
“As you said just now, Shirley is the only thing that matters to me. I-I love her so much that I’m afraid of-well, of hurting her. Of trying to tie her to me too closely.”