Barbara Todd - Miss Ranskill Comes Home

She had expected life to be simplified by clicking of switches, striking of matches, and turning of taps, but the faces of her own country-folks were less friendly than the sneering profiles of the sea-gulls on the island.

The sound of steps on the landing reminded her that it was time to move away from the telephone. Then the door opened and a new strange Marjorie came in – a Marjorie turned wary, an overgrown schoolgirl trying to be a sleuth.

‘I say,’ she began, ‘I meant to ask you before, only there’s been so much to do; you will stay the night, won’t you? You simply must.’

She had only glanced once at her school-friend’s face and now she was addressing its reflection in the mirror. Miss Ranskill answered a reflection too.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said.

‘Are you – were you going to stay in Hartmouth for long?’

‘No, I – I’ve got to make other arrangements as soon as possible, get in touch with my sister and buy some clothes; I haven’t any but these.’

She touched her threadbare skirt and glanced down at her bare feet.

‘You mean you’ve no other clothes at all?’

Miss Ranskill shook her head.

‘Why not?’ Suspicion edged Marjorie’s voice.

‘I tried to get some this morning but they said I must have coupons or something. I hadn’t got any, of course.’

‘Why, of course? People in the Services ’ (there was slight emphasis on the last word) ‘don’t have coupons because they have everything given to them. Everyone else has a book of clothing-coupons. Of course, if you’ve lost yours, or used them up, it’s your lookout.’

‘I thought perhaps you could have helped,’ said Miss Ranskill. ‘I asked in the shop and I gave your name. I didn’t think you’d mind, but it wasn’t any good.’

‘Of course I’d like to help.’ Marjorie’s fingers were fiddling with the tufts of her old friend’s scattered hair. ‘You ought to know that. Only there are some things one just can’t help over. I mean, it’s so frightfully difficult to explain, I mean–’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Miss Ranskill, because quite suddenly she did. ‘You mean that if I were a Cavalier and you were a loyal cottager, you’d hide me up the chimney until the Roundheads went by, but that if I were a modern spy or–’

She stood up, because the relief of having hinted that she knew what was thought of her stimulated her tired limbs and she was not frightened any longer.

Marjorie strode to the door and struck a Casabianca attitude with her back to it. No, decided Miss Ranskill, she was playing Kate-Bar-the-Gate now, as she snipped at the air with inadequate nail-scissors.

‘I mean,’ said Marjorie, ‘I mean that if my puppy, and I adore my puppy, chewed up the Union Jack I almost think I’d have him shot. He could have my last pair of silk stockings. He could destroy anything I have but not the Flag .’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Ranskill. She flopped down on to the bed, laid her shaggy head on the pillow and burst, not into sobs for lost loyalties, but into laughter. ‘I’m sorry, but if only you knew how funny you are!’

‘I don’t see anything funny about it.’

‘Except that I haven’t chewed up the Union Jack.’

For the moment Miss Ranskill had forgotten all her horror and loneliness and fear. She shook with laughter. The sight of Marjorie, looking so exactly like the Marjorie of St Catherine’s, almost made her forget the torment she had been through. The link of past laughter was between them: she was the impudent mocker again, and her friend stood for dignity.

‘Spiritually, you may have done. How do I know what you’ve done? You’ve behaved very oddly and now you begin laughing at things that matter . I mean–’

‘Yes,’ Miss Ranskill checked her laughter, ‘but your trouble is that you’ve always fancied yourself as Joan of Arc and an out-and-out Britisher.’

‘Well,’ Marjorie chucked up her chin, ‘what’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing except historically – and it’s rather a strain on the loyalties.’

‘If you had any loyalties–’

Miss Ranskill stood up again and Marjorie braced herself against the door.

‘You needn’t think you can get away. I wouldn’t have taken this job on if I hadn’t known I was jolly strong. I’ve never let myself get out of training ever.’

Miss Ranskill looked at the firm straddled legs. They were muscled certainly, but there was a good layer of fat. Marjorie had not wrestled with boulders and tides, or fought for food and warmth and shelter.

Strong as most men you are, I reckon, Miss Ranskill, nearly as strong as me.

A little puff of sea-air came in through the slightly open window, fluting the curtains and soothing Miss Ranskill’s cheek. What was she doing in this conventional room, bickering with an old friend?

Your friends will be mighty glad to see you when we do get ashore, Miss Ranskill. When I think what you’ve been to me. Lots of friends, anyone like you must have.

For years she had lived and thought in freshening sea-air. She must try to think clearly now: she went to the window and pushed it up.

‘Not that way!’ shrilled Marjorie. ‘You can’t get out.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Miss Ranskill wearily. ‘I thought you’d asked me to stay the night. Didn’t you?’ She gasped a little as she returned to her seat on the bed. ‘I’m not used to being shut up in rooms. I only wanted some air. If I did go away I’ve nowhere to go.’

For a moment or two there was silence in the room. Then Marjorie’s lips began to tremble like a troubled baby’s.

‘This is perfectly beastly,’ she gulped. ‘You don’t know how I’m hating it. When I think of the good times we used to have and now you …. If there’s anything you’d like to tell me, I wish you would. I mean, I can’t promise to do anything, but… I don’t know how to put it…. We were pals at school… if you’d sort of give me your parole.’

Miss Ranskill made no reply.

‘Haven’t you anything you could tell me that would make it easier?’

‘Nothing, really,’ said Miss Ranskill, ‘except that I only came back to England this morning. I’ve spent nearly four years on a desert island.’

‘A desert island? But there aren’t any now.’

‘There is one, because I’ve lived on it.’

‘Was it a British possession?’

‘I don’t know: there wasn’t anything to show. It wasn’t coloured red, if that’s what you mean.’ Miss Ranskill nearly explained that sea-gulls do not sing national anthems, but she restrained herself.

‘And were you quite alone for four years?’

‘No, there was a carpenter there as well.’

‘A carpenter . What sort of a man was he?’

I never was much to look at, Miss Ranskill, but I’ve always been well set up. Seems to me if you’re born with a good body it’s right to use it right, keep it clean and healthy and don’t let it sag…. This I can say, I’ve never owed a penny for a minute more’n I could help. I’ve never ill-treated an animal or a child or been rude to a girl. I’ve not been what you’d call a vicious man.

‘He was a good man,’ answered Miss Ranskill.

Marjorie left the door, her watch and ward forgotten for the moment.

‘A desert island – for nearly four years. How frightfully thrilling. Why didn’t you tell me at once…. It must have been queer, living there all alone with a man like that, I mean. It must have seemed a bit funny.’

‘No funnier than being alone with a woman.’

Miss Ranskill’s mouth shut firmly on the words.

‘Oh! I know you wouldn’t go in for any Blue Lagoon sort of stuff, but was he quite all right all the time, I mean –?’