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How had his father known about Phemie?

Andrew had not used her name, but Euan felt sure that he knew what her name was. For, if not Phemie, who else? Euan was held by the delusion, common to all heart victims from the age of five, that a mistake regarding the identity of the beloved object is impossible. There is, naturally, no other. True, it was only lately that he had discovered Phemie himself. But that was a mystery. How he had been able to exist beside her for years without perceiving her entire unlikeness to every one else was something which he could not understand.

For Phemie was undoubtedly the most beautiful of girls. Just look at her! She was pleasingly small and round. (Was it possible that he was the same boy who had once called her ‘Stumps’?) Her hair was—well, certainly not exactly red. It shone in the sun like brass wire with kinks in it. (If ‘Frizz-Top’ ever reminded him of his unenlightened past, his mind refused to recognize it.) Her eyes were blue and big and liable to become dewy with tears. (‘Cry-Baby’—certainly not! He would slam any boy who said so.)

Phemie sat in the first row of the girls at school and Euan sat in the first row of the boys and just two desks behind. It was very wonderful.

Phemie was not brilliant. Mathematics troubled her. She simply couldn’t. Why should she?—a girl like that! What a cute little nose she had!

Euan had become conscious of the nose and of all its accompanying wonders in a rather sudden fashion. It had happened one day in school when the sun shone directly on Phemie’s desk. Euan, in an off moment, had stared at Phemie, and Phemie, turning had stared at Euan. Her blue eyes, wide and misted (not watery), had met his and in them Euan had fancied an appeal. As if automatically, his lips had moved giving her the answer to the problem which it would presently be her lot to solve.

Euan hoarsely whispered behind his hand, ‘120 yards, 2 feet, 4 inches.’ And when, a moment later, the teacher had said, ‘Your turn, Phemie,’ Phemie’s throaty little voice had piped ‘120 yards, 2 feet, 4 inches,’ without even a second’s hesitation.

‘Right!’ said the teacher, surprised. ‘Come and work it out on the board, Phemie.’

Well, Euan had hardly been to blame for that! A fellow couldn’t foresee everything, and Phemie was too perfect a creature to bear malice.

This had happened three weeks ago, and for three weeks Euan had stared at Phemie and planned advances which he had not made. There had been an orange—to be offered in a casual way with an offhand ‘Have a suck, Phemie?’ But the proper moment had never come. There had been loiterings around the school-gate with the intent to say ‘Hello, Phemie,’ without seeming to intend to say it. But that chance, too, had not arrived. Euan had begun to feel the throes of hope deferred, and then, only yesterday, the head of golden kinks had turned his way and, quite naturally and as if nothing wonderful was happening, the throaty little voice had said, ‘Going to singing school, Euan?’

Euan, by a miracle of self-control, had muttered, ‘You going?’

The golden head had nodded. ‘Yes, I am. You come on, too.’

It had been an invitation, no less.

But how had his father guessed it?

And how fortunate that it was not his mother who had guessed. For if his mother had guessed, she would have laughed. And if she had laughed, Euan could not have borne it. His father had at least treated him as man to man.

Well, the main thing was that he was going. Presently he would be there. He felt the bag of sweets in his pocket—cream almonds, they were, pink-and-white ones—the colour scheme unconsciously a tribute to Phemie. Euan clutched them with a warm, damp hand. He was determined that they should not suffer the fate of the orange. No more hesitation! He settled his cap with an air.

The singing school was held at that time in the old frame hall on Mundie Street, once occupied by the Primitive Methodists, now vanished. Why Primitive, and why vanished, Euan did not know. But the Hall, seated with benches and heated by a great round stove with drums, made an excellent singing school. No one in Blencarrow was fussy about acoustics. Besides the benches, the hall contained a small platform for the organ and possible orchestra and a music-stand for Mr. Williams who conducted the singing. Its use was donated by Joseph Tiddy, twice ex-mayor, who through devious byways of interest and principle had become its owner.

How pleasant it was to be out on Saturday Night! To be out, not as a small boy playing black-lie-low in an empty lot, but as a person in a clean shirt, buttoned coat, and Sunday boots. Saturday Night was always spoken as if in capitals by Blencarrow. It was as if an eighth and very special day, hidden for ages among the seven, had been rescued from obscurity for Blencarrow’s special needs. All the stores kept open until ten o’clock. The whole main street was lined with shining windows—at least the south side was, and, of late, even the north side was brightening up. From Tom Forbes’ grocery store at the top of the hill to Little Billy Henderson’s tailor shop, two blocks past the post-office, was a perfect riot of night life. Thrilling!

Every one was downtown. The Madock Organ Company paid its men on Saturday and so did the Tiddy Agricultural Implements. So the stores were full. Those who did not buy watched others buying, and social reunions were constant at counters and corners. The long double step, higher at one end, which ran along the front of Roger MacIvor’s harness shop (sign of the bay horse on wheels), was a recognized grandstand for the town’s oldest citizens. There they sat and smoked and watched the world go by very much as one might do on a boulevard in Paris (France).

Newspapers had nothing on Roger MacIvor’s Step. Newspapers sometimes miss something, the Step, never. Even the Reverend Ronald McKenzie had been known to pause there for a chat upon occasion of desiring information hard to come by, and Andrew Cameron, though seldom sitting upon the Step itself, would smoke a pipe at times leaning against the bay horse, while Janet did some shopping at Caldicott’s across the way.

Euan walked all four blocks of Centre Street with serious delight. Then, on the brow of the hill, where the shops ended, he turned into the darker quiet of Yorke Avenue. Here, too, it was Saturday Night, and young Blencarrow was engaged in its pleasant weekly promenade ‘round the block.’ Arm in arm, they walked—or almost. Euan, with a small boy’s uncanny sight, recognized several couples. In times past he would certainly have whistled (just to let them know), but to-night—no. Was he not one with them? That is to say, in a way and after a fashion. Of course he would never be silly enough to let a girl hang on his arm.

Before the singing school stood an ornamental iron post supporting a frosted globe of mellow gaslight, the same erected by subscription. But when Euan turned the corner, the circle of its radiance was empty. There was no one on the Hall steps, either. Euan, it appeared, was early. But better early than never. He advanced cautiously and peered in at the open door of the Hall. The gas inside was lighted, but not turned up. He must be very early, indeed, for there was no one there. At least he thought there was no one, but, as he advanced between the benches, a slight swishing sound seemed to hint otherwise, and suddenly he caught a glimpse of a girl’s skirt whisking quickly behind the organ.

Euan’s heart (or something) flew to his throat and hammered there. Could the girl be Phemie? Had Phemie, too, come early—no, of course it was not Phemie. The skirt had been of faded blue, while Phemie’s dress, he knew, was gloriously pink. Kathrine Fenwell, then? Yes, it must be Kathrine. She alone wore that curious faded blue. His throat ceased to trouble him. Kathrine Fenwell was merely a girl as other girls. But what was she doing behind the organ?

‘Hi, Kathy, I saw you! Come on out,’ he commanded.

There was a small silence. Then, ‘Go on out yourself,’ said a girl’s voice very clear and decided. ‘You’ve no right in here till a quarter to eight.’

The cheek of her!

With one agile bound Euan was over the two front benches. Another bound landed him upon the low platform. Only one gasjet was lit here and behind the organ was shadow. But in the shadow, Euan saw a surprising thing—a girl of his own age, with her blue skirt pinned up over a dark petticoat, gathering a pile of waste paper and dust with a battered dustpan.

The sight held him petrified with the shame of seeing it—all unwittingly he had caught Kathrine Fenwell sweeping out the Hall!

Why hadn’t he stopped to think? Why hadn’t he guessed it? He remembered, now, having heard that Gilbert Fenwell, Kathy’s father, had ‘come down’ to doing janitor work. He remembered the lowered tones of the woman who said it and his mother’s sharp retort that any kind of decent labour would be a ‘come up’ for Gilbert Fenwell—and that all she wondered was who would do the work for him?

And here was Kathrine, that proud little piece, sweeping out a public hall!

Euan grew very red and gulped miserably.

‘Please stand out of the light,’ ordered the clear voice.

Euan mechanically moved aside, and Kathrine Fenwell, with his startled eyes upon her, gathered up the remaining dust and rose without a tremor. But let no one underestimate the tragedies of childhood.

‘W-where is your father?’ asked Euan, stammering.

It was the wrong thing to say. The Fenwells were known to have nice manners, but Kathrine’s answer was instant and classical.

‘None of your business!’ said she.

She had moved from behind the organ now and faced him in the dim gaslight. Euan realized that, though they had always known each other, he was seeing her for the first time. What was the matter with him, anyway? First Phemie and now Kathrine. Only, of course, there was a great difference. Kathrine had dark hair. She was almost as tall as he, and thin. Her cheeks had sharp curves, and her eyes were not round and wide open, but long and half hidden by dark lashes. He couldn’t tell what colour they were, but at present they were lit with angry fire.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ asked Euan, pointing to the betraying dustpan. His practical idea was that she had better do something with it quickly. People might come in at any moment. His outstretched hand offered aid.

‘If you will stand out of the way, you’ll see,’ said Kathrine, ignoring the hand.

Euan stood out of the way. The girl moved easily, as if disdaining hurry, toward the big, round stove. Evidently its pre-winter use was that of a dustbin. But here her pride had a fall, for the door was too small for the dustpan and the dustpan too full for experiment.

‘You’ll need to slide off the top,’ instructed Euan. She couldn’t do it, he felt sure, and that would be a good thing. He wouldn’t mind helping her if she asked for help. And he wished she would hurry. But she didn’t hurry, and she did not ask. Very carefully she placed the full pan upon a bench and prepared to climb upon another. She was going to slide off the top herself!

Euan vaulted a few benches and had the stove uncovered before she knew he had left the platform.

‘Give it here!’ he demanded in a tone which tolerated no nonsense.

Kathrine handed up the pan. And then, just as he was tipping it neatly in, a stifled ‘Oh!’ made him glance aside. There, wide-eyed in the doorway, stood Phemie.

‘Look out, it’s spilling!’ came in angry warning from Kathrine. Euan collected himself. He thought quickly. Phemie had not seen Kathrine. The stove stood between them. He bent his head.

‘It’s Phemie Ellis in the door,’ he whispered, ‘and your skirt’s pinned up.’

Kathrine stamped her foot. ‘Give me that pan!’ she said. Her voice was clear, even loud. Then, in full sight of Phemie, she walked, skirt up, dustpan in one hand and broom in the other, the open length of the hall.

And Phemie giggled.

That was all for the moment. Just then Mr. Williams entered, followed by some of the singing school. The gas flared up. The grown-ups were laughing and talking. They may have seen the three children, but they certainly saw nothing else. For between the worlds of twelve and twenty is a great gulf fixed.

Euan sought a bench disconsolately. The night was spoiled for him. He didn’t know why. It ought to have been a perfect night, for all the things which he had intended to do, he did with unexpected ease. He sat near Phemie. Not beside her—that would have been silly—but behind her and slightly to the side so that she could speak to him if she wished by turning her head. She did turn her head and she did speak to him. She said:

‘Wasn’t it f-funny?’

‘What?’ asked Euan.

Phemie giggled. ‘You know!’

‘I don’t,’ said Euan.

‘Why—Kathy Fenwell cleaning out the Hall!’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Euan. He was a truthful boy and he knew the lie was useless. Yet he lied instantly and with fervour.

‘Oh, Euan Cameron, she was too!’

‘Silence, please!’ Mr. Williams tapped the desk and cleared his throat. ‘We will now come to order. I see we have some new members with us. Will all the new members please rise and come forward to the front row?’

Several new members, feeling very new indeed, rose and went sheepishly forward.

‘The children present had better come forward too.’

Euan looked condescendingly around. But he saw no children. Great Scot! Could the man be referring to persons of twelve years of age?

‘Quickly, please.’

Apparently he could. Euan wavered to his feet. He hadn’t bargained for this. But Phemie, sly thing, had expected it. Already she was moving sedately up the aisle. Could he cut it and run?—No, he couldn’t—Well, luckily he wasn’t the only one. Johnnie Carter was standing up and Ellen Nichol and—oh, the relief of it—Garry Emigh, who must have come in at the last moment. Garry Emigh was Euan’s ‘special.’ Things couldn’t be too bad with Garry to share them.

But they were going to be bad enough. Mr. Williams inserted a finger between his collar and his neck as if to prepare a gangway, cleared his throat again and took a tuning-fork from his pocket.

‘If the class will oblige me with perfect silence,’ he said, ‘per-fect silence, we will try the voices of our new members. The youngest first. Now, little girl—you with the pink dress—your name is? ... Phemie? ... oh, Euphemia, no doubt ... Ellis, do you say? ... Euphemia Ellis ... Now, Euphemia, let us hear you sound low ‘do.’

He touched the fork with his teeth.

‘Do-o,’ sounded Mr. Williams with raised finger.

‘Do-o,’ echoed Phemie’s throaty little voice.

‘Hum!’ said Mr. Williams. ‘Now the octave—do—do!’

‘Do—do,’ trilled Phemie, very squeaky.

‘Hum! Mouth open, please. A long breath. Now again, “do—do” ... that’s better. Soprano, I think. Next.’

Euan looked desperately at the door. But there were chairs in the aisles now.

‘Per-fect silence,’ said Mr. Williams. ‘Whom have we next? Ah, I see. Elder Cameron’s son. Euan, is it? Now then, Euan, “do”—hold the note.’

‘Do,’ said Euan conversationally.

‘What? ... oh, not that way! Don’t say it! Sing it! Mouth open, child. Shoulders back. A long breath. Now, the octave “do—do”!’

Euan, scarlet, ‘do—do’d.’

A ripple passed over the room. Phemie giggled.

‘Hum!’ said Mr. Williams. ‘We must try again, Euan. Another time. Yes. Privately, perhaps. Next.’

Garry was next. He had managed to squeeze in beside Euan. And he had scowled awfully at Phemie when she giggled. Garry was a good singer. He sang in the choir in his uncle’s church. His uncle was the Reverend James Dwight, Rector of the Church of England. And he was a year older than Euan. Perhaps he was going to be a musician when he grew up.

But to-night he sang flat. At least Mr. Williams, in surprise, said he sang flat. Euan didn’t know what flat was. But he did know that Garry was being a true friend. And his heart felt warm. His lacerated feelings were soothed. Boys are much nicer than girls, anyway. Garry grinned at him cheerfully as he sat down.

‘Next!’ said Mr. Williams. And, would you believe it, Kathrine Fenwell was next. She had put on a hat and unpinned her skirt and was staying for the singing in the very Hall which she had lately swept. Moreover, she was not in the least embarrassed. Her lips, which were red but much tighter than Phemie’s, were closely pressed together. She looked neither to the right nor left and she ‘do—do’d’ without a quiver. She even ‘held the note.’ Mr. Williams said, ‘Very good.’ The pride of some people!

‘Think of her staying!’ whispered Phemie.

‘Why shouldn’t she?’ Euan’s usually set, fair mind was like a twirling weather-vane.

‘Silence!’ said Mr. Williams. ‘We will take number five as an opening chorus.’

The singing school, controlled by the tapping of Mr. Williams, burst into song with ‘Men of Harlech.’

Men of Harlech! march to glory!

Victory is hovering o’er ye,

Bright-eyed Freedom stands before ye,

Hear ye not her call?

Euan thrilled; there was something in singing after all.

Echoes loudly waking ...

Tap, tap, tap! Why was Mr. Williams stopping them? The bass a note behind? Euan hadn’t noticed it. Now they were off again ...

Echoes loudly waking,

Hill and valley shaking,

Till the sound spreads wide around,

The Saxon courage breaking!

Why, it was grand! Euan began to sing too. It was glorious to join one’s voice to that volume of sound. And Euan’s voice, whatever its deficiencies, was strong.

Our foes on every side assailing,

Forward press with heart unfailing,

Till invaders learn—

Tap, tap! Tap!

What was the matter now; why couldn’t he let them get on with it—?

‘I will request the first row not to sing this time. Hum!’ said Mr. Williams.

‘He means you, Euan,’ whispered Phemie, giggling.

Euan, scarlet, recognized that this was even so.

Was it possible that he had ever admired Phemie?