Celia's House by D. E. Stevenson

Author:D. E. Stevenson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2015-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Midsummer Night’s Dream

“It’s going to rain,” said Alice. She had said it at least six times and each time Deb had answered, “The glass is quite steady, Aunt Alice.” She repeated it again, patiently, for she knew exactly how Aunt Alice felt: it would spoil everything if it rained.

“I’m glad you aren’t acting, dear,” said Alice. “We’ll walk down together, you and I, and it will be a great help to have you. I like to have someone to help me.”

Deb smiled. She was very fond of Aunt Alice. Suddenly she felt quite glad she was not in the play. She had been disappointed at first, for it had seemed such a waste of time to have learned all the speeches, but it was not really a waste, for she would never forget the beautiful words. They would be with her always, safely in her head:

“And never, since the middle summer’s spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook,

Or in the beachèd margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind…”

Deb said the words over as she ran to get Aunt Alice’s coat. They gave her a lovely feeling of freedom and space. She could almost feel the cool sea breeze whistling through her hair.

“You’re such a comfort to me, Debbie,” said Aunt Alice as they walked across the moor. “I’m not as strong as I used to be and I daresay you’ve noticed I get a little muddled sometimes. I think I would feel better if Humphrey were here. Sometimes I almost hope they won’t make him an admiral. It would be so lovely to have him at home all the time, wouldn’t it?”

“Lovely,” agreed Deb.

“We’ve been married twenty-four years, but I don’t suppose we’ve spent more than four years together, all told,” Alice continued sadly. “Children are very nice and I’m glad we have them, but sometimes I can’t help being a little envious of people who are free to follow their husbands around the world.”

“It is hard,” Deb said sympathetically. She thought of her mother as she spoke. Her mother had handed her over to the Dunnes and had followed the drum. She was still following it and Deb scarcely ever heard from her now. Occasionally a letter came, a bald “duty letter,” conveying the information that Joan was at Peshawar or Simla or Deira Doone and was having a gay time. Even when Joan and her husband came home on leave they did not seem very anxious to see Deb. Their lives had flowed in another direction and there was no point of contact.

Aunt Alice was still talking. “You know, dear,” she said. “You know it’s a very curious thing (I was just thinking about it last night): I wasn’t at all anxious to have you when your mother married and went to India, and now I couldn’t get on without you.”

“You’ve been perfect to me,” Deb said, and she gave Aunt Alice’s arm a light squeeze.

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