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  Mrs Pendray turned to her daughter. ‘Zillah,’ she said shortly. ‘Go outside.’ Zillah disappeared like a shadow.

  ‘Listen, miss. No doubt you’re thinking you’re trying to help our girl. But we know what she’s worth, and very little that is. And we are trying to bring her up as a good God-fearing girl, and get rid of all this stupid dreamy nonsense she’s got in that head of hers. So I’ll thank you kindly for the interest you’ve shown, and ask you to let well alone.’

  Lyn blushed, feeling very snubbed, and looked round at the others.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Sandra, getting up hurriedly, ‘then we won’t trouble you any longer—’

  But Mrs Pendray unbent slightly. ‘Now please don’t think I’m meaning to be unneighbourly. I’d be glad if you’d have a bite of tea with us while you’re here.’ Sandra frowned at Lyn, hoping she would refuse, but, seeing the more kindly expression on the woman’s face had given Lyn fresh hope.

  ‘That’s very kind. We’d love a cup of tea.’ But when they were shown into the large farm kitchen, it was more than a cup of tea that was set out on the table. There were large golden loaves of home-made bread, a slab of rich farm butter, large pastry flans, Cornish pasties and an enormous apple pie. The girls stared in amazement.

  ‘Now make yourselves at home, do. Her dad’ll be in in a minute, so I’ll ask you not to mention that you’re—theatricals.’ She lowered her voice as though she were saying ‘convicts’. They agreed, and sat down at the table. The kitchen was a much pleasanter room than the drawing-room, and the delicious tea warmed them up and made them feel more kindly disposed towards Zillah’s mother. Zillah waited on them silently, running back and forth into the scullery for hot water.

  ‘What wonderful pastry,’ observed Sandra.

  ‘That’s Zillah’s make—that’s mine.’ There was no difference between them, and the girls looked at Zillah admiringly. Perhaps there was something in her mother’s idea of upbringing after all.

  Then the back door slammed and in strode Mr Pendray. He was a giant of a man with bushy bristling eyebrows, a tanned heavy face and a thatch of grizzled hair. His rough working clothes suited him so well that one could not imagine him wearing anything else. He stopped in surprise at the sight of the three girls.

  ‘These are the three young ladies from the school. They’ve been helping out,’ said Mrs Pendray with careful truth.

  ‘How d’y do,’ he said gruffly, and sat down at the table, obviously wondering what they were doing in his house. Lyn looked at him calculatingly. After all—she had only promised not to say that they were on the stage themselves.

  ‘We are very interested in Zillah,’ she began. Mrs Pendray, Zillah and the other girls looked up in alarm.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ He sounded suspicious already.

  ‘We—we think she ought to go on the stage.’ Lyn’s voice trembled slightly.

  There was a long pause and then he said with ominous calm, ‘Oh, y’do, do you? And might I ask why?’

  ‘Well—she has a lovely voice, looks and imagination, and well…’ Lyn trailed off, terrified by the anger in his eyes.

  ‘And now I’ll tell you why she’s not going to. Our Zillah may be dull but she’s a good girl, and we’re trying to bring her up to be useful and ladylike, and that’s as much as a girl needs. Stage, indeed—why they’re nothing but a lot of painted—’

  ‘Father—’ broke in Mrs Pendray, but he swept on.

  ‘Painted good-for-nothings. I wouldn’t have my daughter associate with such folk for a fortune. Why, I wouldn’t have an actress set foot in my house.’ Lyn, Sandra and Vicky stole glances at each other, hardly able to believe their ears. Vicky looked round for the door in case they had to make a hasty exit. Zillah and Mrs Pendray showed signs of distress but the farmer took no notice.

  ‘It’s all this schooling,’ he shouted. ‘It goes to a girl’s head. Actress indeed! Now if she had to do something for a living—which she doesn’t, mind—she’s got a good enough home and she can stay in it—but if so happen she did have to work, I’d have her do something respectable—in a shop—or the teaching, like you.’

  Lyn sat up. She saw light.

  ‘You mean—you think that teaching is respectable—that we seem like respectable girls?’

  He looked at her taken aback, and raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Why, yes, miss. I wasn’t meaning to be insulting to you—I can see you’re nice decent girls, of course—and if you’re interested in book-learning—well—’

  ‘You don’t think that we’re painted good-for-nothings?’

  ‘No—no, of course not—’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if Zillah grew up like us?’

  ‘She’ll be lucky if she does. I can’t see her ever being a sensible young woman, able to speak up for herself.’

  ‘You mean that if she ended up as a “sensible young woman” you wouldn’t mind her going on the stage?’

  ‘Impossible! She’d be a skittle-witted hussy by the time she was your age.’

  ‘Mr Pendray,’ said Lyn quietly, ‘I’m afraid you’ve been misled by us. We are teaching at the school at the moment, but we are and have been—actresses. We were trained at the British Actors’ Guild Academy, and have our own theatre in Fenchester in Fenshire.’

  His mouth fell open. ‘But—but you’re not—professionals, like—are you, miss?’ he stuttered.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lyn. ‘Quite professional. And just as much “sensible young women” as we were five minutes ago.’ She rose. ‘Well, Mr Pendray, as you feel as you do about our profession, we had better remove our soiling presence from your house,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I would just like to tell you that if you happen to change your mind and decide to give your daughter a chance, I’m pretty sure she could win a scholarship to the British Actors’ Guild Academy in London. At the moment, my friend Sandra here has a younger sister at the Academy. She stays with a very homely and respectable old lady who chaperones her wherever she goes and Zillah could share her digs.’ Lyn crossed her fingers behind her back, shuddering at the thought of Mr Pendray seeing the way that Maddy and her little friends ran wild about London. ‘And then when your daughter had finished at the Academy, there would always be a place for her in our theatre at Fenchester. One of our mothers would put her up. Our homes are there, you see.’

  Mr Pendray seemed to be having difficulty swallowing his apple pie. ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘It’s kindly meant, I’m sure…’

  They turned to go.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Pendray. Thank you for the tea. I’m sorry we’ve been causing you such a lot of trouble. Goodbye, Zillah. Oh, and by the way, after all this, I suppose you would rather be an actress than stay at home—or work in Woolworth’s?’

  Zillah looked thoughtfully at them and then at each of her parents in turn. ‘Yes, please,’ she said at last.

  As they walked away down the lane to the main road, Sandra said to Lyn, ‘Well, you put on a performance, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was terrific,’ said Vicky. ‘What a pity it didn’t do any good. Still we got a good tea—’

  Lyn smiled to herself. ‘I’m not so sure that it didn’t do any good,’ she said. ‘I bet you that one day in the future we’re applying for a job, and a beautiful and soignée creature turns up and cuts us out altogether—and it will be Zillah!’

  13

  ILL WIND

  The following evening when Vicky arrived back at the cottage, she found Sandra sitting by the fire looking worried.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she demanded, as she untied her scarf from her head. ‘Is there bad news from Maddy?’

  ‘No, it’s Zillah. She didn’t turn up today.’

  Vicky whistled thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what’s the matter? Do you think her parents have taken her away or anything?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sandra, ‘and I’m worried. I hope they haven’t made her leave school altogether. The teacher didn’t seem a bit surprised. She says she’s always stayi
ng away.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Vicky thoughtfully, ‘if we should do anything about it? Or have we done our worst already?’

  ‘Let’s ask Lynette when she gets in.’

  Lyn did not arrive until past eleven, dead tired and very cold, after an infuriating rehearsal and a long bus journey back. When she heard Sandra’s news, a determined look came into her eyes.

  ‘We’ll go visiting again tomorrow,’ she said, and then flopped into bed and fell asleep without discussing the matter further.

  The following afternoon they found themselves trudging along the rough lane to the farm once more.

  ‘Do you know,’ confessed Vicky, ‘I really feel quite frightened in case something awful has happened.’

  ‘But what could happen?’ said Sandra, trying to be sensible. ‘You don’t think she’s run away—or—or they’ve locked her up on bread and water, or anything, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lyn. ‘But I just have a feeling that we’re needed!’

  When they knocked on the door there was a long silence. They were just exchanging worried glances when running footsteps were heard in the house. It was Zillah who opened the door and said, not very welcomingly, ‘Oh, it’s you—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lynette. ‘Is anything wrong?’ For Zillah looked worried and dishevelled and almost on the verge of tears. Her face was pale and her nose was very pink. She sniffed miserably.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a pack o’ trouble…’ she complained. ‘Mum and Dad are in bed with flu. Dad won’t ever have the doctor, but we know it’s flu all right. I’ve got it coming on too, and now the bread won’t rise…’ She nearly subsided into tears, but sneezed instead.

  Vicky and Lynette laughed with relief, and Sandra stepped into the hall and said briskly, ‘Now then, Zillah, off you go to bed. What wants doing first?’

  Zillah sat back weakly at the foot of the stairs. ‘Well, there’s the bread needing looking after, and Mum and Dad need their hot-water bottles filled, and they ought to have some tea soon, I suppose—’

  ‘Vicky,’ said Sandra in her most ‘organizing’ voice, ‘you take Zillah upstairs and see that she gets to bed all right. Lyn, fill the three hot-water bottles, and I’ll see to the bread and get some tea ready.’

  Mr and Mrs Pendray were a trifle surprised as they lay in their enormous oak four-poster bed to see Lynette enter the room, untuck the bed-clothes at the foot, collect the stone-cold bottles and exit without a word. But they were feeling too ill to care, and merely grunted their thanks when she returned with piping-hot bottles, carefully wrapped up in little woollen jackets. Vicky had to help Zillah undress, and soon after she was in bed the girl was sleeping a heavy influenza sleep. Down in the kitchen Sandra wrestled with the range, stoking it up with cinders and looking doubtfully at the bread in the enormous oven. After the compact kitchen of her home and the large modern one at her school, this stone-flagged immensity and the large dark pantries and cupboards were a bit bewildering, but she soon found her way around and set out tea on three trays which they carried up to the invalids. Zillah did not waken, so they took hers down again.

  ‘It will do her more good to sleep,’ said Sandra. Mr and Mrs Pendray seemed quite glad of their tea, and Mrs Pendray said in a cold-ridden voice that it was ‘good of them to help out’.

  ‘Have you got any friends or relations who would come in tomorrow?’ Sandra asked. ‘Because Zillah has gone down with it now.’

  Mr Pendray raised his eyes to the ceiling, and Mrs Pendray sniffed mournfully. ‘No, I can’t say as we have. There’s my sister—but she’s a good eight miles away, and she’s got six children—’

  ‘Oh, well, don’t you worry,’ said Sandra. ‘We’ll look after things as best we can.’

  ‘But what about the milking?’ cried Mr Pendray desperately. ‘Zillah’s gone down now, you say?’

  The three girls looked at each other horror-stricken. Sandra saw Lynette open her mouth to say, ‘Oh, we can do that—’ but Mrs Pendray put in with, ‘If you can catch the man before he goes, he’ll do it. Tell him Zillah and I can’t, and ask him to come early in the morning.’ Vicky flew down to the yard, wondering what on earth they would do if ‘the man’ were gone.

  ‘I’d die if I had to milk a cow,’ she thought. But fortunately the farm-hand was still in the stables, and she delivered the message.

  ‘I’ll manage, tell the master. Don’t ’e worry,’ he assured her, grinning cheerfully.

  When she got back to the house, she found Lyn and Sandra in conclave in front of the kitchen range.

  ‘We’re wondering what we ought to do,’ said Lyn.

  ‘Whether we ought to stay here or what—’

  ‘Yes, I think we ought to stay for a few days.’

  ‘But what about our work?’

  ‘I think we could fix it all right,’ said Sandra, ‘so that one of us at least would be here all the time.’

  ‘You see, Lyn doesn’t go out until the evening, and we two are always free after school hours.’

  ‘But would Miss Felton mind?’

  ‘I’ll walk to the nearest phone-box,’ said Lyn, ‘and ring her and see what she says. I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  Miss Felton was quite definite on the telephone.

  ‘Yes, by all means stay at the Pendrays’ for a few days if they really can’t get on without you. You can get to your classes just as easily from there as from here, but don’t kill yourselves with work, will you? Because, after all, they weren’t very pleasant to you the other day, were they?’

  ‘No, but if only you could see what a miserable state they’re all in—’

  ‘Very well. You’d better stay then. But mind you don’t go down with flu too.’

  Sandra knocked gently on the door of Mr and Mrs Pendray’s bedroom.

  ‘We’re going to stay here tonight, if you don’t mind,’ she told them. ‘Just so that we can get things straight in the morning. Where had we better sleep?’

  ‘There’s plenty of spare rooms. Mind you air the beds. Linen’s in the chest on the landing—’ and Mrs Pendray’s voice was lost in an onslaught of sneezes.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and choose our rooms.’ After struggling with an oil lamp they found out how it worked, and, carrying it in front of them, they started off on a tour of the house. It was terribly dark and draughty and a little frightening, so after inspecting all the rooms they decided for the sake of cosiness they would all sleep in one room, where there was one large bed with an enormous feather mattress, and another smaller bed.

  ‘Then we can light a fire,’ said Sandra, ‘to air the room a bit.’

  The evening passed in a flurry of bed making, fire lighting and preparing supper for the invalids. When they had eaten their supper with many expressions of thanks, Sandra appeared with bowls of warm water and towels.

  ‘Now out you get,’ she told Mr and Mrs Pendray firmly, ‘and while you’re having a wash, I’ll make your bed. It looks as though it could do with it.’ They seemed unwilling but Sandra was adamant, and when they were settled in their newly made bed again, they admitted they were more comfortable. After dispensing aspirins and banking up the fire, Sandra said good-night and turned the lamp out.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, she said to the other two girls, ‘Isn’t it amazing how different people are when they are ill? Mr Pendray terrified me the other day, but now he’s just like a difficult child.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m tired! Let’s have something to eat and get to bed,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Yes, I must say this Florence Nightingale act is rather tiring,’ yawned Lynette. ‘What’s in the pantry?’ They found a hunk of beautiful creamy cheese and a large jar of pickled onions, which went excellently with slices of the newly baked bread which had turned out quite well eventually.

  ‘Beautifully indigestible,’ said Vicky with her mouth full.

  As they lay in their strange beds that night, watching the shadows cast on the ceiling by the flickering fire, Sandra s
aid suddenly, ‘What on earth are we doing here? In a farm miles from nowhere, looking after a horrid old farmer who thinks we’re painted hussies, and a girl we’re trying to make into an actress—who is so beautiful that she would cut us out any day—’

  ‘Can’t imagine,’ said Lyn sleepily. ‘We seem to have strayed a bit from what we were intending to do, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vicky, ‘but it’s quite interesting. I wonder how the boys are getting on,’ she added drowsily.

  Next morning was not quite such fun. It was freezingly cold when they got up, and the stove had to be relit before they could get any hot water. Vicky, nearly in tears, held a piece of paper in front of the grate to encourage it, wailing, ‘And I always thought hot water came out of a tap…’

  At last they were washed and dressed and Sandra was frying bacon and eggs. The patients were inclined to be fractious, the mother and father worrying about the state of things on the farm and in the house, and Zillah suddenly realizing that the ‘actress ladies’ were working like ‘skivvies’ in her home.

  ‘No, you stay where you are, Mr Pendray,’ Sandra said firmly. ‘Then you’ll be better all the quicker. We’re muddling along all right, and the man is looking after everything outside.’

  Sandra and Vicky had to go out to their classes next afternoon, so they left Lynette to hold the fort. On returning, to their amazement they found her reading aloud from the Bible to Mr and Mrs Pendray.

  ‘Sh!’ she said, as they entered the room. ‘This is an interesting bit…’ And with great drama she continued the story of David and Goliath. When she had finished Mr Pendray gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Ay, this young lady can certainly read the Scriptures,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, we did a lot of it at Dramatic School,’ said Lyn with truth; then added quickly, ‘well, I expect you’d like your teas now and I must be getting off to my rehearsal.’

  Zillah seemed much better by this time and was anxious to talk.

  ‘Why—why are you doing all this, miss?’ she demanded of Sandra, over her tea-tray.