Above Rubies Read Free Page A

little Miss Merry.” He picked up an electric kettle and began to fill it in the small kitchenette. “Commercial artists have to be surprisingly methodical, and we need lots of files for reference. I mean, suppose I were doing a cartoon strip and I find that jungle natives have killed a Kongoni. What is a Kongoni, and what does it look like? Maybe I ought to know, but quite often I don’t. So I look it up.”
    “I see,” said Merry, interested in spite of herself. “So you do cartoons.”
    “Cartoons, book jackets, children’s annuals, magazine illustrations ... whatever brings me in some bread and butter. And don’t ask me if I ever try some real art, or I shall want to strangle you, Miss Merry. I’m not ashamed of being commercial, and I might dispute that any one form of art is any greater than another. My African native’s hand needs as much care in drawing as ... as...”
    “Mrs. Cameron’s at the vegetables,” suggested Merry, and he shouted with laughter and lifted down a detective novel entitled With These Hands.
    Merry grinned as she recognised Mrs. Cameron’s white enamel bowl and strong fingers grasping a carrot.
    “No wonder you never let her see it,” she commented, handing back the book, “and don’t keep calling me Miss Merry!”
    “Merry, then, and I’m Benjamin. Not Benny. Benjamin.”
    “Benjamin,” she agreed, accepting a piece of fruit cake with her steaming hot mug of strong tea.
    "Who keeps house for you?” she asked, biting into the cake.
    Benjamin gave her a cool look.
    “Who else but myself?” he asked, squatting down beside her on an ample pouffe. “I’ve been my own master since my grandfather died, and I’ve learned how to live alone, and like it. Once or twice I might have been tempted to change that happy state of affairs ... though I usually manage to resist temptation!”
    He drank his tea, his eyes twinkling, and she felt again that he was laughing at her.
    “Joe Weir and his wife come along three times a week and keep my house in order, when Joe hasn't a taxi job. But that’s enough about me, Merry Saunders. What about you? What do you intend to do with yourself in a quiet place like Kilbraggan?”
    Merry considered before answering. Her efforts at writing were still fairly new to her and rather precious. She hadn’t yet grown tough enough to take all criticism, and her rejection slips often hurt for longer than they need; She couldn’t bear it if this professional artist, used to doing book jackets for professional writers, laughed at her efforts. But as she looked into his strong square face, the broad forehead, the firm mouth, and the eyes bright and alert, she felt that he might understand.
    “Well, do I pass?” he asked softly, and she laughed and coloured rosily.
    “I hesitate to tell you, but I want to write.”
    “What kind of writing?”
    “Oh, various things ... short stories, articles, and I would like to try a novel.”
    “Then I can only wish you every success and hope you will still speak to me when you’re famous.”
    Merry coloured angrily, feeling that he was laughing at her again.
    “I must go,” she said, rising swiftly, then hesitated, feeling that she was being rather abrupt.
    “Thank you for the tea and cake. Perhaps you would come over for a meal one evening soon?”
    “Next Wednesday,” said Benjamin promptly. “It’s the day I send off my weekly cartoon series, a n d I’ll be free in the evening. Drop in when you want someone to talk to, though my guess is that you’ll soon have plenty, of friends.”
    “Who, for instance?” asked Merry curiously. “Is there a busy social life in the village?”
    “You’ll see,” promised Benjamin, ushering her through the solid front door. “Cheerio, little Merry.”
    She turned to wave and watched, him shut the door, then stepped out into the road, only to leap back again as a low white Jaguar turned the corner and pulled to a stop.
    Merry saw that the driver was a fair young