Chapter Text
The buffeting winds of a late March storm wrapped their gray arms around the stalwart old house, reaching gusty fingers into cracks and crevices worn by time.
But the house stood firm against the blustering advances, and so the winds tried their luck over the surrounding fields, bleached brown and gray by winter sunlight. Here and there, spring was peeping through, pushing soft, hopeful green sprouts up past the matted grasses and lending a pleasanter look to the English countryside.
The storm tore at the traces of green, but the slopes of the “biggest bomb crater in England” protected the youthful beginnings of Sally Ingleford’s famous sunken garden.
Inside the White Priory—as the grand old house was called—a boy of fifteen was curled up on the threadbare sofa of the large sitting room, scribbling on a few sheets of a precious exercise book and sending occasional glances out the rain-streaked windows.
Anthony Victor Ingleford, once known as Max Eckermann, was rather glad for the rain. Had the day been fair, he might have been persuaded by Simon and Judy to trek across the downs, or accompanied Thomas into the village.
A walk with the eldest Ingleford was a treat, but as he felt that duty kept him at the copybook, he was grateful that the rain prevented any temptations.
He had promised Dym an air for his viola three months ago. Dym would be home tomorrow morning and the air was only five meager measures so far, all penned this afternoon.
It was true, Dym would not be at all angry if the promise was unfulfilled, but Dym had made—and kept—so many promises himself that it felt like a breach of honor not to keep such a little one.
“Tony!”
The eager voices of the twins’ burst into Tony’s hurried composing, and he shut the exercise book quickly. The air was for Dym’s eyes alone. Simon and Judy had no appreciation for the finer arts.
“Take us fishing?” Simon asked, while Judy pulled at his sleeve. They were thirteen, round-faced and impudent, with sandy hair and bold blue eyes.
“Busy,” replied Tony briefly. He was glad to have such a weighty excuse as a task for Dym; even if he wasn’t writing music he would have declined the offer. Being drenched to the skin with only a few trout as a prize had scant appeal for Tony.
“What is it?” demanded Judy, with an inquiring glance at the book, but Tony drew back.
“It’s for Dym,” he explained, not wanting to proffer any more information than was needed.
“Oh, come on, Simon,” Judy called, tossing her curls. “Tony’s gone all stubborn and German again. He won’t come.”
Tony scowled at her retreating back and returned to his composition. But Simon was not so easily dissuaded. “Come off it, Tony, it’ll be great fun,” he pleaded, But Tony was adamant. He was busy—it was almost teatime—and had Euphemia given them permission anyway?
Simon was rather reticent as to Euphemia’s permission, and retreated, saying sulkily, “When Porgy and Mary and Mousie come, it will be jolly. They’ll be better company than you.”
Tony felt somewhat aggrieved. Whether he would fish or not, Simon ought to prefer his company to theirs. He was not overly fond of his three cousins, who had spent a good deal of the war sequestered in the White Priory. After V-E Day, they had been able to return with their parents to India, where Tony wished they would remain.
“Glad you’re so game for their visit—you’ll be entertaining them without me. Dym will be back home by then.” His lofty tone implied that all his time would be spent with Dym, rather than devoted to the amusements of the three cousins. Tony dared not admit, even to himself, the uncertainty he was feeling as to whether or not Dym would want to spend all of his time with him.
Euphemia’s entrance did not allow him time to muse over the unpleasant thought. She came in with a tea tray of jam-filled biscuits, which she set on the table.
Simon reached for one, but she swatted his hand away. “Not now, dear. These are for tea, and this is the last of the jam.”
“They want to go fishing,” said Tony vengefully, by way of getting back at Simon for his disloyalty.
Euphemia threw up her hands. “No, no! I won’t have you two out of doors, catching your death of cold. It’s not fishing season anyway—it’s not April yet.”
Simon hadn’t thought of this, and scuffed the floor regretfully. “Then, can Judy and I go down to the cellar? It’s sure to be flooded, with all this rain.” He looked hopeful at the prospect.
“May Judy and I,” Euphemia corrected automatically, and then thought about his request for a moment. “Well, alright. Don’t make too much of a mess. This house is untidy enough!”
“Make Tony come too,” pressed Simon, but Euphemia shook her head. “No, Tony is busy. And his constitution is too weak for all that damp—you know that!”
Tony shot Simon a triumphant glance, and then moved stealthily towards the tea table when he had gone.
“Just one, Phemie?”
She pushed a strand of her red hair back into its knot with an exasperated look. “Tony, I wouldn’t let Simon—”
“It’s for my constitution,” he coaxed, and she gave in. Tony savored the biscuit—a bit short on sugar, for rationing was still in rather full effect—and smiled to himself. Even after three years, Phemie was not immune to his persuasive charms.
The door opened, and sixteen-year old Sally came in, pushing her tangled red hair under her green hood. “I’ve got the post, Phemie,” she said cheerfully. “I say, it’s beastly out. And there’s a telegram from Dym—his train’s been delayed by this frightful storm.”
Dym delayed? Tony slumped back into his seat, disappointed. It was a double-edged sword—it gave him more time to write the air, but it also meant more waiting before Dym was home.
He frowned darkly at the painstaking music notes scrawled across the page. They seemed to mock him—his wish for extra time had been rewarded, but at a cost.
Euphemia continued to set things out for tea, but Sally took off her mackintosh and rubbers and sat down beside him. Sally was one of Tony’s favorites among the siblings that still felt like new—she was rather like a mixture of Phemie and James, with a little bit of Dym.
“Rotten luck, isn’t it?” she remarked, after a pause.
Tony thought it was.
Sally rested her pointed chin on her hands and turned her sparkling green eyes towards the crackling fire. “It reminds me of a poem I read once,” she said suddenly, turning to look at Tony. “You remember, during the war, when Dym used to give us something to read…so that we had other things to put our minds on?”
Tony remembered—remembered the very first time Dym had told him of it, during that fateful, wintry train ride over three years ago. He had been Max, then—desperately, defiantly so—and Dym had been “Herr Dym,” a title which Tony had delivered in scornful, haughty tones. He shook the memories away, not liking to think of the old days. He would rather think of now, when Dym—no longer Herr Dym, but dear Dym—was coming home tomorrow.
Then he recalled Sally’s question. “Yes, I know. Do you remember the poem?” He liked poetry, even more than he admitted to his family. Not all of them shared his taste—cousin Porgy, for one, certainly did not.
Sally shook her head, sending her damp, wild curls flying. “No,” she said regretfully. “It was about a fireside, and a snug house with a storm outside. You should ask Dym. He might know. He’s got a good memory.”
“Perhaps I shall,” answered Tony, and then fell silent, staring at the flames. Sally’s mention of fireplaces and snug houses had reminded him of the far-off days in Germany, and of the other question he had for Dym. He did not want to think of it now.
“Where is Jim?” he asked, to change the subject.
Sally looked surprised. “Down at the station, to meet Ginger—didn’t you know?”
Tony had known, but in his haste to prepare the music for Dym, he had all but forgotten that Ginger was coming home too. Ginger had been in the Royal Navy during the war, but when his term of service was up he had gone to school for medicine. It was true that Tony thought Ginger and doctoring a rather poor match, but he kept this opinion to himself. Dym would make a better doctor, but that would mean that he would be away at school for years—no, it was best that Ginger went instead. Perhaps in England, all sorts of people were doctors.
There had been a time when there was no love lost between Tony and Ginger, but Tony liked the loud, boisterous, redheaded brother well enough now. Not of course, so well as he liked Dym. There was really no one to equal Dym in all the world.
“Tony,” said Sally, drawing him forth from his reverie once more, “D’you know, I haven’t yet got used to how empty the house feels. Have you?”
Tony tucked the copybook beside him. It was plain that his solitude was interrupted for the moment. All the same, he did not mind Sally’s company. “I like it better this way. The evacuées did not like me and I did not like them except for Bill, sometimes. Mr. Bland hated me, and…” Tony paused and smiled with bitter satisfaction at certain memories of Mr. Bland, the evacuées’ schoolmaster… “he was entirely ignorant. I would have told him so more often than I did if I had not wanted to hurt Thomas and Phemie. I am glad that they are gone.”
Sally turned the subject a little, knowing that Tony’s rebellious self could still flare up on occasion. “What about Porgy and Mary and Mousie, though?”
Tony paused cautiously. Sally was a good confidante, but there were certain things he would not tell even her.
“Cousins are cousins,” he said evasively at last, repeating something James had once said to him. “Siblings are better, I think.” He smiled a little, thinking of one sibling in particular.
“Like Dym,” murmured Sally, seeming to read the thought. “Everybody loves Dym.” She sighed. “It’s too bad about his train. But what were you doing just now, when I came in?”
“Writing an air for Dym’s viola,” Tony explained, a little shyly. “I promised him one.”
“That’s jolly good of you,” said Sally, smiling brightly at him. “You know, Tony, Porgy used to say you were the most like Margaret”—Sally was too tactful to say why—“but I think you’re like Dym. You’re both thoughtful.”
Tony pretended to brush off the compliment, but he was secretly pleased. He liked being compared to Dym.