Читать книгу The Day of Small Things - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 4

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‘It is more in our power than is commonly believed to soften ills.... Strictly speaking there is but one real evil—I mean acute pain. All other complaints are considerably diminished by time. ...’

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

When Rutherfurd was put up for sale and Lady Jane Rutherfurd, with her daughter Nicole and her niece Barbara Burt, had to seek another home, the Harbour House in the Fife village of Kirkmeikle had seemed a heaven-sent refuge.

Away from the Borders, so that they would not be worried hearing of the doings of strangers in their old home, small enough for their means and large enough for their needs, a dignified old house with high-pointed roof and crow-step gables; with its front door to a narrow street, a little secret garden behind, and nine small-paned windows looking out to the sea. Sitting in the long drawing-room at high tide it was as if they were surrounded by water. Nicole said it smelt salt and fresh and, she might have added, fishy. Certainly not a house for everybody. To many the large bleak villas at the top of the Brae—Knebworth, Lucknow, Ravenscraig—would have seemed much more desirable, but the Rutherfurds being what they were, found in the Harbour House a habitation after their own hearts, a house to love.

Three years had passed since that October afternoon when Lady Jane had first seen her new home. Barbara had gone to Edinburgh to travel back with her, and Nicole, helped by Nature, had staged the scene. The tide was out, and beyond the low wall that bounded the road before the house, hard, ribbed sand lay white in the half-light, a very new moon hung bashfully in a clear sky, and the mast of a sailing ship stood up black beyond the Harbour.

The hall had glowed with welcome. A great bowl of red berries stood on a Jacobean chest; sporting prints that had come from the gun-room at Rutherfurd hung on the walls; the clock, the chairs, the half-circular table were all old friends. And when Lady Jane had entered the drawing-room she had cried out with pleasure. The curtains had not been drawn, for Nicole liked the contrast between the chill world of sea and gathering dusk outside and the comfort within. The firelight fell on the old, comfortable chairs, the cabinet of china, the row of pictured children’s faces over the mantelshelf—Ronnie, with his serious eyes and beautiful mouth; Archie, blue-eyed and obstinate; Nicole, bright-tinted, a firefly of a creature; and Barbara, their cousin. The tea-table stood before the sofa, with the familiar green dragon china on the Queen Anne tray; Lady Jane’s own writing-table was placed where the light of the window should fall on it—It was not Rutherfurd, but it was home.

Three years ago! Nicole was thinking of those years as she sat in her favourite window-seat, looking out to the sea.

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, without turning, she put her own hand up and held it.

‘Mums—I didn’t hear you come in. Sit beside me for a minute and look. It’s just as it was the first time you saw it—a baby moon, a tall mast in the Harbour, the sea, and the lights beginning to blink. Can you beat it? And away over there somewhere is Edinburgh, with its high, mysterious “lands,” and the bugles sounding from the Castle Rock, and the wynds through which Queen Mary rode to sing French songs in Holyrood. Isn’t it wonderful? To come back to it after three months in England and—oh, but I forgot, you’re English, poor darling!’

Nicole put back her head and smiled provokingly up at her mother who merely said:

‘Yes, it’s hard to have to labour under that disadvantage! But come and have tea now. You know you hate it in the least cold.’ She gave a glance at the table. ‘I wonder if Effie has everything here to-day?’

‘I should think so,’ said Nicole. ‘She has tiptoed about for the last quarter of an hour, breathing heavily, and surveying the results of her labours with her head on one side, and then darting downstairs for something she’s forgotten—a painstaking child.’

‘Yes, Mrs. Martin tells me that both Effie and Jessie have the makings of good servants. I’m glad, but I confess I miss Christina and Beenie.’

Nicole sank into a low chair opposite her mother, remarking, ‘Oh, so do I. It takes me so long to get used to strange faces. Don’t you think, Mums, slaves must have been a great comfort? Slaves can’t tell you that they are wanted at home—like Beenie, or that their “lawd” has now got a house and can marry—like Christina. You could really settle down comfortably with slaves! Has Effie forgotten milk after all? Just give me the merest dab of cream.’

‘I’m afraid poor Beenie will have to stay at home now indefinitely,’ Lady Jane said, leaning forward to lower the flame under the kettle. ‘Mrs. Martin heard from her that her mother will never be able for much again, and there are six in the house to cook and wash for.’

Nicole nodded. ‘It is hard for Beenie, especially when she compares her lot with Christina’s. You saw Jean Douglas’s letter this morning? I left it on your table. Yes, here it is. She’s been to see Christina.’

Nicole leant forward to get the light of the fire to read by. ‘This is what she says: “I climbed up to Shielgreen yesterday—heavenly it was, golden bracken and flaming trees under a pale-blue October sky—and found Christina most comfortably tucked away in a fold of the hills. Her cottage, as she proudly pointed out, was not only two ‘ends,’ but a garret, and I explored every inch of it.

‘ “Christina does credit to whoever trained her. Such a shining little house for any young husband to come home to in the gloaming! Christina, neat in a jumper suit and a shingled head”—That’s something new, Mums—“was singing as she ironed ‘Elick’s’ shirts. I saw traces here and there of what she had learned at the Harbour House—the glass of berries and red leaves on the dresser, a window open and unobscured by geraniums in pots, old brass candlesticks polished lovingly. The presents you gave her were pointed out, and your photographs hang prominently on the wall. She insisted on stopping her ironing and making tea for me in what she described as ‘ma granny’s Britannia-metal teapot!’ and produced excellent home-made scones and butter and honey, also a cake from the baker’s cart, which she kept wrapped in a cheese-cloth in the meal-kist! She came out to show me the garden all ready for next spring, and she told me she had some bowls of bulbs put away in the dark, for she ‘aye liked to watch Miss Nicole’s bulbs.’ I mustn’t forget her message to The Bat. ‘Tell Maister Alastair that I’ve got a burn at the door, and a pool and a flat stane where I can scrape ma pots, and get silver sand to scrub ma table white.’—

‘ “I said ‘I needn’t ask if you are happy,’ and she said in her soft Tweeddale voice, ‘Ay, mem, I’m happy. Elick’s a guid man to me, an’ I’m rale content.’ ... That isn’t bad for five miles from a station and ten from a picture-house!” ’

Nicole drank her tea hurriedly and passed in her cup.

‘Boiling hot, please, Mums. I let the last get cold. ... That’s good hearing about Christina.’

‘Excellent hearing. “Elick” is to be envied.... Shielgreen used to be our favourite picnic place—you remember, Nikky?’

‘Of course I remember. Once Archie lost a gold sovereign he had been given, and we all helped to search. I must have been very small, for the bracken nearly met over my head. More than twenty years ago! My word, how old we are, Mums!’

But Lady Jane was not listening. Her thoughts had flown far from the Harbour House. It was an August day in the south country, and she saw a long vista of rushy park and wild thorn-trees, the heather flowering, and Lammerlaw hanging like an amethyst in the pale heavens. She heard children’s voices, and towards her came her husband’s tall form in his old tweeds, Ronnie and Archie at his heels....

She came back from the past, which seemed almost more real than the present, to reply to her daughter’s question as to what she had been doing all afternoon.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I was putting things away, and going over my clothes with Harris. We shall have quite a lot for Mrs. Lambert’s Jumble Sale, I can see.’

‘Have you anything suitable for old Betsy? I thought the shawl she was wearing this afternoon most inadequate—washed-in and skimpy.’

‘You’ve been to see Betsy?’

‘Not only Betsy,’ said Nicole. ‘I’ve seen almost the whole population of Kirkmeikle since luncheon. First, I put my head round Mrs. Brodie’s door. She said, “Mercy! what a fricht!” but showed no other emotion on beholding me. Two of her nine are now working in the “Roperee,” six are at school, and the “wee horse” was a train when I saw him, shunting up and down on the flagged path and giving painfully realistic squeals. He is four, and his mother is looking forward to getting him away to school and off her hands in another year.’

‘Is the “wee horse” four? It seems only yesterday that he was jumping like a hooked trout in his mother’s arms, and she said to him, “Ay, I ken ye’re a wee horse.” ’

‘I remember,’ said Nicole, and continued: ‘Dr. Kilgour bounded down an outside stair in the Watery Wynd and proceeded to tell me tersely his opinion of the household he had just left. He also told me his age, as he always does, and that of his sister. He’s a young and vigorous seventy, I’ll say that for him. He went down the Brae like the east wind, his voice trailing behind him. I think he was making enquiries about you.’

‘Very unlikely,’ said Lady Jane. ‘What other people did you meet?’

‘Well, I was exchanging the time of day with “Roabert” in the bakeshop when who should darken the door but Mrs. Heggie! That good lady is larger than human, but I do think she is glad we are back at the Harbour House. She gave me such a welcome, and poured out streams of news. How she gleans it all from such barren soil I know not. She didn’t want “Roabert” to hear, so it was said in a hissing whisper which left both Roabert and me unenlightened. Then I met the Bucklers walking about with two dogs. Mr. Buckler said it had been the most wretched summer on record—did you notice that?—and they are thinking of going to Tenerife for the winter to get a little sunshine; so that’s that. I saw, too, the people who have taken Ravenscraig; unemployed-looking people, the man delicate, the woman robust, with a fixed grin. Rather painful people.’

‘Did you see the Lamberts?’

‘For a second. The children have grown both up and out, and perhaps it was their increased size that made their parents both look shrunken, or I may have forgotten how small and thin they always were: I think their zeal eats them up. I asked them and Mrs. Heggie and her daughter to lunch on Friday; was that right?’

‘Quite right. I’ll enjoy seeing them again. But, tell me, how is my friend Betsy?’

‘More crabbed than ever. I knocked at the door before I opened it and went in saying, “Well, Betsy,” trying to be very bright and genial.’

‘ “It’s you,” she flung at me over her shoulder, not troubling to look round. I got myself into her line of vision, and she said, “You’re a great stranger.” ’

‘I pointed out that we had been away for three months and had only just got home, and that here I was at once on her doorstep. She thawed a little then and asked for you, and if we had been at Rutherfurd. I told her that we had, and she said, “Are thae Jacksons aye there yet?” I reminded her that Barbara was now Mrs. Jackson, and that she had a son and heir, but all she would say was “Tets,” and mutter under her breath. She was interested, though, to hear of Christina being settled at Shielgreen. When I told her of Jean Douglas’s letter this morning with the description of the burn at the door, and the flat stone at the pool for scraping pots, her poor face got pitifully eager. She said, “Eh, I hope the lassie kens hoo weel-aff she is. What wud I no gie to get awa’ frae that nesty jumblin’ sea that’s aye stare starin’ at me when I gang to the winday, and see the lang fields o’ Tweedside, and the canny sheep, an’ the burns rinnin’ an’ singin’, an’ each wee hoose wi’ a gairden—nane o’ yer ootside stairs.” ... I was sorry for the poor old body, Mother. It’s a terrible thing, heart-hunger. Go and see her, won’t you? You are the only one who can really comfort her.’

‘We’ll comfort each other,’ said Lady Jane.

Nicole looked up quickly, crying, ‘Mother, aren’t you happy then to come back?’

Lady Jane smiled at her daughter. ‘Well—very content anyway, darling. Happy is too—too rich a word for me now. I had my day of happiness and, thank God, I realised I was having it. But it’s you, Nikky——’

Nicole sprang up from the stool on which she had been crouching by the fire, and sat down on the arm of her mother’s chair.

‘You needn’t give a thought to me,’ she said. ‘I’m absurdly pleased with life. Of course things are different now, but once you accept that fact it’s all right. To you and to me this is the day of small things—. Who said that? Some one in the Bible, wasn’t it? And the small things keep you going wonderfully: the kindness of friends; the fact of being needed; nice meals; books; interesting plays; the funny people in the world; the sea and the space and the wind—not very small, are they, after all?’

She put her arm round her mother’s shoulders.

‘It is lovely to have you to myself again, after sitting for months in other people’s rooms. True, they were very charming rooms—though not to compare with this sea-chamber! Don’t you always connect this room with tea? A room where it is always afternoon. Some rooms are quite obviously of the morning and breakfast, and others speak of lit candles and port——’

‘It is a dear room,’ Lady Jane said, ‘I looked forward to being in it again with you. Let’s read Trollope aloud this winter.’

‘Shall we? That reminds me there’s a box of books from The Times. I do hope there will be something in it that will appeal to Mr. Lambert, and Dr. Kilgour wants the latest famous trial. That man positively steeps himself in crime ...’