Читать книгу The Day of Small Things - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 6

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‘Girl, there were girls like you in Ilion . ...’

HUMBERT WOLFE.

They had expected to miss the small Alastair from the Harbour House, but they were hardly prepared for the very large hole his going to school made in their daily life. Alastair had lived most of his short life in Kirkmeikle, having been sent home from Canada when his father died, to his aunt, Miss Symington of the villa Ravenscraig. She had given him a home somewhat grudgingly, and the child had led a dreary existence until Simon Beckett took rooms next door, and Nicole Rutherfurd came to the Harbour House. They had both taken an instant liking to the lonely, small boy in the too large overcoat whom they christened The Bat, and had tried to make things gayer for him.

When Miss Symington surprised every one—herself most of all—by marrying Mr. Samuel Innes, a widower with two schoolgirl daughters, it was obvious that she regarded Alastair as an encumbrance, and when Lady Jane, urged on by Nicole, proposed that they should take the boy and bring him up, she, though amazed at such an offer, gladly accepted it.

Since then, for Alastair, the desert places had blossomed like a rose. His nurse (known as Gentle Annie, owing to her partiality for a song of that name) went with him to the Harbour House, and when she left—very reluctantly, though she was going to ‘better’ herself—a cheerful young governess took her place and tried to guide The Bat’s unwilling feet along the thorny track of knowledge.

He had still the same Puck-like face and concerned blue eyes, but he had grown tall and his legs were brown and firm. He was not, perhaps, such a virtuous child as he had been while an inmate of Ravenscraig, though Nicole declared that he was much too virtuous for her liking. Because of his gentleness they had been a little afraid of how he would get on at school. But Barnabas, a young cousin of Nicole’s, and a great friend of Alastair’s, was at the same school, and he seemed to have settled down without trouble. Rather dirty, oddly spelt letters arrived at intervals at the Harbour House containing such items of news as: ‘I am quite hapy.’ ‘A boy gave me a founting pen it won’t write but it was kynd off him....’

A few days after their call at Windywalls Nicole and her mother sat at breakfast in their dining-room with its white panelled walls, striped silk curtains, and Hepplewhite chairs. There was something particularly fresh about morning in the Harbour House, a tang in the salt air, a feeling of life and activity from the Harbour; fishwives passing with their creels, cheerily gossiping; fishermen working with their nets.

‘Posty!’ said Nicole, as that worthy passed the window. ‘Dr. Kilgour was telling me yesterday that this postman’s predecessor was a great character. He was old and lame and amazingly casual. He would sit on the Green Brae with his letters laid round him, and read all the postcards; then he would begin his rounds, shouting at one door: “Mistress Speedy, yer gude-dochter’s comin’ tae see ye the morn’s mornin’,” and at another, “Mrs. Johnston frae Langtoun’ll be here to tea this afternoon. See ye bake.” One day he announced to Dr. Kilgour, “There’s a caird to ye from Nice” (which he pronounced to rhyme with mice), “an’ there was a letter but it blawed intil the sea.” As Dr. Kilgour was expecting an important letter he didn’t think it was as good a joke as Posty did. But wasn’t it amusing?’

Lady Jane smiled and said, ‘Almost too amusing. I’m glad we don’t live in his day.... Here comes Effie with our budget. What a lot! And I was congratulating myself on having got out of debt with a lot of people—Yes, there’s one from The Bat. His writing hasn’t begun to improve yet....’

Nicole glanced over her share of the letters, and leaving her mother still engrossed, took Alastair’s dog, Spider, for a run. Spider was a cross between a wire-haired terrier and a Sealyham, with a black patch over one eye and the disposition of an angel.

It was a bright morning, but earlier there had been an ominously red sky, and Nicole distrusted the brightness.

‘It will be pouring by luncheon,’ she prophesied, ‘so we’ll gather sunbeams while we may....’ Spider evidently agreed and scurried out of the front door as if escaping from jail. It was an anxious business taking Spider for a walk; for he had a trick of squatting in the middle of the road when he saw a motor approaching, which turned his owner’s heart to water. Nicole’s own private conviction had been that he was a surprisingly stupid dog, but this morning when she lost sight of him, and after calling and whistling wildly, turned round to find him standing with a distinct smile on his face so close to her heels that she had failed to notice him, she began to wonder if he were not more knave than fool.

At luncheon Lady Jane was rather silent, and her daughter asked if she were still thinking about her morning’s letters.

Lady Jane was peeling a pear, and she waited till Effie had left the room before she said:

‘I had a letter from Blanchie this morning. She is terribly worried, poor dear, about Althea.’

‘That’s the Gort girl?’

‘Yes, her only sister’s child. I don’t think you ever met Sybil and Freddie Gort? It was a miserable business. Freddie was a likeable creature to meet but he made a wretched husband, and Sybil wasn’t without blame either. They were divorced, and this poor child, Althea, lived between the couple, not much wanted, I fear, by either. When her mother died last year Blanchie took her to live with her and brought her out—you remember she wanted you to go up for the coming-out dance?—and really gave her every chance. I was so pleased about it, for Blanchie has had rather a lonely life since James died, and Althea might have been such an interest to her, but the child seems to have got into rather a bad set and got entangled with some undesirable—Blanchie isn’t very coherent....’

Lady Jane held out several scrawled sheets to her daughter who seemed rather callous over the tale of woe. She took them, remarking:

‘ “Written from bed,” I see it’s headed. As St. Paul might say, Written from Rome. Bed always was a very present help in time of trouble to poor Aunt Blanchie. It’s amazing what a defence sheets and blankets are to some people against fortune’s slings and arrows.’

Nicole puzzled over the letter for a minute, then looked up at her mother and shook her head.

‘So far as I can make out, the wretched Althea does what she pleases, frequents night-clubs and comes in at any old hour, while Aunt Blanchie lies in bed and weeps. What a situation! Of course she never was fit to look after a girl. Providence knew that and sent her only boys.’

‘You see what she suggests?’

Nicole took up the letter and read aloud:

‘ “My one hope, dear Jane, is in you. The idea came to me suddenly in the night: an inspiration, I am sure. Will you take Althea to live with you for a little? She would be away from temptation and surrounded by your wonderful influence. I always say that no one does me so much good to be with, and dear Nicole would be such a splendid example for Althea——” Mummie, she is a fool. What a preposterous suggestion!’

‘We might think it over!’ her mother said mildly.

‘Mother! You don’t mean to say that you would entertain even for a moment the thought of having that girl here? Why—why she would simply shatter us. Have you any notion what the girl of to-day is like? With a mild Victorian creature like me for a daughter you’ve been shielded from the worst.... What would a girl like Althea do here? A restless creature, probably never happy except when amusing herself, caged in the Harbour House! And what would we say to her? There was a girl at Bice’s last month; just out, frightfully attractive to look at, but to speak to—Nothing interested her, not plays nor pictures nor books. She said she didn’t mind games, but the only thing that really amused her was to wriggle her body in time to the latest tune. I thought I could talk to any one, but I was beaten that time.’

‘Althea doesn’t sound uninteresting,’ Lady Jane said meekly, ‘but she may be exactly what you describe. Only—she hasn’t had much of a chance, has she? I can’t think that either Sybil’s friends or Freddie’s were very improving; however—. It’s really for poor Blanchie’s sake. Naturally she feels responsible, and it would be such a pity to let the child ruin her life by marrying some undesirable if it can possibly be prevented. And with The Bat at school—and you did say, darling, you wished you had more work——’

‘This wouldn’t be work, this would be martyrdom,’ Nicole said bitterly.

The discussion continued in the drawing-room until Nicole, exasperated, cried: ‘Mums, you really are a provoking woman! You pretend to be convinced by my unanswerable arguments, but you always return to the attack—I can’t think why you want the creature here....’

About three-thirty Mrs. Jameson appeared, announcing as she entered ‘You said the first wet day, and here I am.’

Lady Jane gave her a kind greeting, while Nicole remarked: ‘You are particularly welcome, because at the moment there are strained relations between my mother and myself.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Jane, ‘we’ve been quarrelling for about two hours.... Is that where you like to sit, Mrs. Jameson? Won’t you be cold so far from the fire? No?’

‘I love a window-seat—and you have three, all looking to the sea: what riches! Do please go on with your work, Lady Jane.’

‘Then take off your coat and look as if you were going to stay for a while—It’s for the seat of a chair. Yes, it is rather a good design.’ Lady Jane chose a thread of silk and asked: ‘Have you done any more to your rock-garden?’

Esmé Jameson laughed. ‘It would hardly know itself under the name. At present it is nothing but a mud-puddle with some stones in it. I shall have to give it up till spring—’ She looked round the quiet, pleasant room full of treasures out of other days, and made a discontented face. ‘How this room makes me hate my own drawing-room. All your things seem to mean something; mine look so accidental, somehow. I expect I haven’t caught the knack yet of making things look homelike. You see, although I’m thirty-five, this is the first time I’ve tried my hand at home-making.’

Lady Jane nodded. ‘You have lived abroad....’

‘Yes—for about nine years. I married in July 1914. That in itself explains a lot.’

There was silence for a minute, then Lady Jane said: ‘I think you said you had a long time of nursing.’

‘Nearly three years. We were married in July, and we had got a little house in Westminster that we meant to furnish by degrees, just as we picked things up. We were always finding treasures and storing them up, even on our honeymoon we were looking out for old brass and lacquer and having it sent back ... but that all came to an end on August 4th. After that my husband was in camp training, and I lived in rooms as near as I could get to him, and in six months he was in France. In 1916 I got him home, broken.... I was in Nairobi with my brother for some years—then he married and I travelled about, longing yet dreading to come back. At last I was driven back by my desire to have a house, a place to dig myself into. I found Windywalls—and that’s all about me.’

‘I think,’ said Lady Jane, ‘this is favourable soil. When we were pulled up from our home in the Borders we came here and quickly struck root—We are fortunate, Nicole and I, to have each other.’

‘Fortunate!’ said Nicole darkly.

Dr. Kilgour walked in with Effie and the tea.

He was a man of nearly seventy, with white hair, a high-coloured face, and a manner as brusque as the prevailing wind of his native place.

On being introduced to the stranger he said:

‘Windywalls? So you’re the new tenant! It’ll take you all your time to fill Mrs. Drysdale’s shoes.’

‘So Grierson the gardener seems to think,’ Esmé said ruefully.

‘Old Grierson’s staying on with you? I dare say it would kill him to leave, though he must hate to see strangers about the place. He’s about the last living example of that loyalty to a family that used to be so common. Not that he ever let the Drysdales know he adored them, but to the world outside he boasted late and early. I remember meeting him when Pat the youngest Drysdale joined up. “Ye canna keep them back,” he said, and the pride and grief in his eyes was almost too much for me. I saw a lot of him at that time, his wife had a long illness and I was in and out of the house. When she was getting better she knitted constantly for lonely soldiers whose names she had been given, and every fortnight they sent away a parcel. She told me “We pit in socks and comforters, and cigarettes and sweeties, an’ Fawther there pits in a cheery word aboot killin’ Germans.”

‘ “Fawther” was one of the few bright spots in the War. He was, or pretended to be, enormously confident. The first thing he pinned his faith to was “The Rooshians.” Thousands, he told me, were on their way through Scotland to France. A cousin of a man he knew saw them knocking the snow off their boots as they passed through Galashiels in August. The Rooshians were going to finish the War almost at once. Then it was the Ghurkas: “thae wee fellays wi’ the crooked knives,” they were the men to tackle the Germans. Russia, the road-roller, was the next prop. “When they get gaun,” he said, “I quaiston what’ll happen.” But Russia broke in his hand. His sole remaining prop was the Drysdale boys. He bore Norman’s death, but when Pat the baby went, it was too much for him. “We’ll win through yet,” I said, trying to cheer him, and I felt as a country we had reached our lowest, when he answered: “Faigs, I doot it.” ’

‘Oh,’ said Esmé, ‘I’m glad you told me that. I thought he was merely a cantankerous old man. I’ll be more patient with him now.’

‘A great fellow old “John Grumblie.” Let him go his own way. He’s worked in that garden, boy and man, for nearly sixty years, and it can’t be long now before he goes to give in his account. I think myself he’ll get an abundant entrance.’

All the time when speaking, Dr. Kilgour was devouring, rapidly, scones, sandwiches, cake, and draining several cups of tea, and he now sprang to his feet and announced his departure.

‘Just like the beggars—eat and go. Good-bye, Mrs. Jameson, hope you’ll like Fife—Miss Nicole, I’ve got a job for you.... I’ll tell you again. Good-bye, Lady Jane, and thanks for my good tea——’ He disappeared out of the door, still speaking, and in a second they heard the front door slam behind him.

Lady Jane poured some boiling water from the kettle into the teapot and said placidly: ‘A country doctor has a busy life,’ while Nicole remarked:

‘I know no one who gives me such an impression of the shortness of time. When I meet him tearing about the wynds, or far out on the country roads, he shouts, “There are twelve hours in the day.” ... He is terribly conscientious about his panel patients, and all the poor folk, but somewhat short with the leisured classes. Can you wonder? His one great desire is to work at the book he is writing on the town and district—he is exceedingly learned—and very rarely does he get a few hours off in the evening. No sooner does he sit comfortably down by the fire with his books round him than he is called up. His sister says he always begins by saying flatly, “I won’t go,” but in a little while she sees him drawing his old boots from their hidy-hole. He sometimes says, “If I go, it’ll be simple colic: if I don’t go it’ll be appendicitis.” ’

‘Still, it must be lovely to be busy,’ Esmé Jameson said, looking into the fire. ‘I envy him more than I pity.’

‘But,’ said Nicole, ‘you must be a contented person or you wouldn’t contemplate settling down in this quiet neighbourhood. Most of your evenings you’ll be alone, except when the Fentons have their house full, or the Erskines are feeling lively. Every day you’ll do more or less the same thing.’

‘Ah, but I love a routine. It doesn’t bore me to do the same thing at the same time every day. And I like to fiddle in the house and play myself in the garden and read by the fire at nights, but that is only pleasing myself. I’d love to help a little.’

‘It’s not so easy to help,’ said Nicole. ‘One is apt to do more harm than good. So long as one takes a hand with the local things, and gives what one can——’

‘And,’ said Lady Jane in her gentle voice, ‘does any bit of work that comes to one’s hand.’

Nicole nodded her head at the guest. ‘That remark’s aimed at me,’ she said. ‘My mother wants me to take on a bit of work.... Let’s put it to Mrs. Jameson, and get her advice—Would you like to take a young girl of nineteen to pay you a long visit, a spoiled, very modern girl who will hate the country ...?’

Lady Jane demurred at this, but her daughter insisted. ‘She’s sure to. Why, she only knows cities—London and Paris—Monte Carlo.’

‘I wouldn’t like it much,’ Esmé Jameson confessed, ‘but I’m not very good with young girls; they make me feel shy, they are so confident—most of them. But you’—she turned to Nicole—‘you are young enough to cope with the modern minx.’

‘But why should I? Why should we spoil things for ourselves by bringing a strange girl into the house? She will never come with my goodwill....’

Lady Jane smiled at her daughter.

‘You sound very firm, Nikky, but I’ve a hope that you’ll be like Dr. Kilgour and the man in the Bible who “afterwards repented ....” ’