Читать книгу Blencarrow - Isabel Mackay - Страница 5

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What was the matter with the house? Euan, waking suddenly as always, was conscious of a lack of something. Then he remembered. It was Sunday.

And last night had been Saturday Night, and last night—oh, well, he was done with girls! Absolutely and forever done with girls.

From the position of the autumn sun upon the window-sill, he gathered that it must be after eight. In a few moments his father would rise, for, although one may rest somewhat longer on the day of rest, laziness is a thing not to be tolerated at any time. Besides, morning prayers were longer on Sunday, and, although church did not ‘go in’ until eleven, the preparations for it must not be hurried lest the mind be distracted by worldly things. Euan gave vent to a prodigious yawn.

But what was wrong, anyway? Something more than the Sabbath quiet of the house ... something missing ... lost ... Phemie? ... yes, undoubtedly Phemie.

‘And a good thing, too!’ muttered Euan. How had he ever been such a ninny? Had Garry noticed? He hoped to goodness Garry hadn’t noticed. His aberration, brief and inexplicable, was over. He was done with girls.

Having affirmed this solemnly to the ceiling, he felt more cheerful. The world, which had threatened to disintegrate, joined together again, round and compact, a boy’s world. A world for himself and Garry and Con-of-the-Woods and perhaps a few others, all boys. His eye fell upon a whitey brown paper protruding from his jacket pocket. The cream almonds! He had forgotten the cream almonds. How fortunate! Everything was really quite all right. Very carefully he drew them out so that the paper might not crackle ...

At breakfast that morning Euan could eat only one plate of porridge. His mother looked at him thoughtfully. It was a good thing that his mother was not the soppy kind. He had washed his face carefully, but if she had kissed him—

‘Are you not feeling yourself, Euan?’ asked Janet.

Euan, with an air of modest fortitude, guessed that he would be feeling all right to-morrow.

‘Have you a pain anywhere?’

Euan considered—in the case of a bad pain church was sometimes remitted. And there certainly was a certain tightness—‘It’s not a very bad pain,’ he began, and then, as his father’s deep-blue gaze was turned upon him, ‘Maybe it’s not exactly a pain,’ he ended tamely.

‘It will be much better after church,’ said Andrew mildly. Euan sighed.

He was glad that he had saved a few of the almonds. Not only had he eaten all he could at the time, but an almond or two in the pocket of a Sunday coat is a great help. An almond is not hard and crackly like sour-drops, nor sucky like gum-drops, nor smelly like peppermints, nor conspicuous like bull’s-eyes—if one is careful to keep it out of one’s cheek.

If only Garry went to church, too, it wouldn’t be so bad. But Garry went to the Church of England, on account of his uncle. Garry’s mother had been the uncle’s sister and had left Garry to his uncle when she died. The two of them lived at the Rectory with Mrs. Binns. Garry’s uncle had never got married. He didn’t believe in it. That is, he didn’t believe that ministers should get married. Garry said that he said it distracted them from their work. But that was silly because the Reverend Ronald McKenzie was married and was not distracted at all—quite the contrary.

Some one had to keep house, didn’t they? Mrs. McKenzie did it for Mr. McKenzie and Mrs. Binns kept house at the Rectory, and a nice mess she made of it. Why Garry stood it, Euan didn’t know. But Garry had explained that his uncle seldom thought about things to eat, and, though he himself often thought about them, he had found out that it was better to keep his thoughts to himself. Mrs. Binns had feelings of the tenderest and to hurt Mrs. Binns’ feelings meant short commons for days afterwards. It was, according to that injured lady, a matter of atmosphere. ‘Seeings as ’ow trust and ’armony is necessary to all good feelings and nobody can be expected to do otherwise,’ said Mrs. Binns.

Given these essentials, which meant a free hand and no questions asked, Mrs. Binns did well. At least there was a sliding scale of wellness, beginning with very well for Mrs. Binns, fairly well for the Reverend James Dwight, and well enough for Garry.

For Euan this would never have done—he being energetically conscious of a world to be remoulded nearer to the heart’s desire. Had he been in Garry’s place he would certainly have had a shy at remoulding Mrs. Binns. But Garry was like his uncle, anything for peace.

Euan had attended Garry’s church once, but once only. On that occasion he had been confused to the point of exasperation by the standing up and the kneeling down. That the congregation should take part in the church service, otherwise than by singing, offended his sense of fitness. The service proper surely belonged to the minister. Certainly nobody ever dared to interrupt Mr. McKenzie. The chanting he had rather liked, if they would only keep still while they were doing it. But the wearing of vestments had embarrassed him dreadfully. It had seemed like grown men playing at dressing up. Such a foolishness!

The one thing which had really made an impression had been Garry’s behaviour. Garry had been very quiet. He had acted as if he liked it. He had been able to find all the places in the prayer book. He had felt no embarrassment in reading aloud. He had not sucked a peppermint and he had not yawned. Also, there had been a look on him—oh, a queer kind of look. Was it possible that Garry was ‘saved’? Surely Garry was much too young to be ‘saved’? Euan felt very uncomfortable.

Garry had come once to Euan’s church, too. He had been abstracted afterwards, an attitude which Euan had resented. He, himself, had had his manners when he visited Garry’s church and had said afterwards that he had ‘enjoyed it very much.’ Garry might at least have done the same. But he had said nothing, and Euan had at last burst out:

‘It’s different from your church, but it’s just as good.’

‘It’s for different people,’ said Garry.

‘It’s for sensible people,’ said Euan, conscious, suddenly, of partisanship.

Garry generously ignored this. ‘Yours has a lot more sermon,’ he admitted.

Euan looked at him doubtfully. He had not always seen in this an undiluted blessing. Nevertheless:

‘That’s what church is for,’ he declared stoutly.

‘Not ours,’ said Garry.

‘What’s yours for, then?’

But Garry had blushed and hesitated and looked queer again. ‘It’s to w-worship God,’ he had blurted out ... the silly thing! As if that were any difference! Wasn’t Mr. McKenzie’s sermon worshipping God? There wasn’t anybody in Blencarrow who could worship God better than Mr. McKenzie.

But on this particular Sunday Euan reverted to his friend’s attitude with a certain sympathy. It was a glorious autumn morning. There was a haze in the air, a beautiful, vague blueness against which the half-bared branches of the maple trees made faint tracery. Here and there flamed a burning bush. Had Moses’ bush looked like that? The feet fell softly on sidewalks of damp leaves. The sun shone, friendly, but remote. There was a delicious earthy smell. But inside the church it was close with the closeness of a week of closed windows.

During the second and longer prayer, Euan, sitting decorously with elbow on hymnbook, and fingers across closed eyes, fell peacefully asleep. Whereupon the traitorous hymnbook fell upon the floor with a thud, and Euan’s head pitched forward with a dislocating jerk. His father’s end of the pew squeaked ominously. It was one of those misfortunate happenings which are always taking place in church, and Euan’s only comfort was that time had moved during his nap, for from ‘fruitful fields’ Mr. McKenzie had proceeded to ‘the Government and all-those-in-authority-over-us.’

Presently they sang. At least the congregation sang and Euan’s father and mother sang. Euan was shy of singing since last night. He preferred to watch and listen and to make a bet with himself who would hold the end notes longest. It was a psalm they were singing and very interesting, for the older people in the congregation liked their psalms long-drawn-out in the ends, whereas Mr. Williams and the organist were breathless and red-faced with the effort to ‘keep up the time.’ To any one not immersed in praise the result was fascinating. But that morning Euan was not to continue this diversion to its end, for in the middle of the last verse a terrifying thing happened. Phemie Ellis turned round in the Ellis pew and openly smiled at him.

Had the girl no sense at all? Euan felt his face grow furiously red. He frowned horribly. Geewhilicker! the girl would have the whole church looking at them! Had she no propriety whatever? He sank into his seat, limp and perspiring.

For once the sermon came as a relief. Phemie couldn’t turn round during the sermon. Euan hoped it would be a nice loud one. Something about the Priests of Baal, perhaps. Mr. McKenzie was fine on the Priests of Baal. It might serve to take his mind off Phemie. But, of course, just because he needed it, it wasn’t that kind at all. It was the quiet kind with no people in, no fighting, nothing. Euan coughed and raised his clean handkerchief to his lips. The handkerchief contained a pink cream almond. Thereafter, save for certain convulsive movements of his throat, he was still. The delicious melting cream sucked slowly down, the pulpit at which he solemnly stared grew misty, the minister’s voice became a pleasant monotony, far-away, faint ... peace descended ...

Euan was in a meadow picking a bouquet of cream almonds, pink-and-white bees were humming cheerfully, buzz, buzz ... very delightful ... but the buzzing was growing louder ... and louder ... and louder ... and ... BANG!

Mr. McKenzie had struck the desk a resounding blow. You never knew when he was going to do it. It really wasn’t safe to go to sleep at all.

The start sent the, as yet unbitten, nut of Euan’s almond into his throat, where it stuck firmly. Frightful noises proceeded from his windpipe, his head was bursting, he waved feeble hands ... Ach! a smart smack between the shoulders, a perfectly good almond-nut irretrievably lost, a stupendous gasp as breath returned—and perspiring shame for the rest of the service.

It wasn’t exactly Euan’s lucky day.

With the benediction came a new anxiety. What if his mother were to stop by, or near, Mrs. Ellis? If they met at the church door, she might easily do so, and if she did, Phemie might—well, judging from the behaviour in church, Phemie might do anything.

He wished his mother were not an elder’s wife whose duty it was to speak to people. He hoped if she spoke to any one to-day it would be to some one who hadn’t any daughters. Since last night he felt safer in the company of grown-ups. But ill luck was surely at his elbow. Mrs. Cameron with a peremptory, ‘Come, Euan,’ made directly toward Mrs. Ellis and an encounter would have been inevitable had not another face suddenly diverted her attention.

‘I declare,’ said Mrs. Cameron, ‘there’s Mrs. Fenwell and her little girl in Minna Irving’s pew. Wait you for me, Andrew. Euan, come with me.’

It was apparent that Mrs. Fenwell was a more important duty than Mrs. Ellis, just as the one sinner engages the attention of the angels in preference to the waiting just. Not that Mrs. Fenwell, like her husband, was a sinner. Far from it. But she was an ‘adherent,’ whereas Mrs. Ellis was a church member. Also, she seldom came to church, whereas Mrs. Ellis never stayed away. Also, she was suspected of having ‘views.’ Nobody could suspect Mrs. Ellis of views. The duty of the elder’s wife was clear.

‘I hope this fine weather finds you feeling more yourself, Mrs. Fenwell?’ said Mrs. Cameron, shaking hands. It was tactfully taken for granted that Mrs. Fenwell would have come to church oftener if she had been in robust health.

‘Thank you, I am quite well.’ Mrs. Fenwell’s voice was low and pleasant. There was a fugitive accent, too, musical and strange. It was reported that she was of foreign parentage and had once been a singer. But she had lived with old Mrs. Danvers as a kind of lady companion and it was from there that Gilbert Fenwell had married her—poor thing. Certainly she had the remains of a cultivated voice, just as she had the remains of beauty and, no doubt, of many other things.

‘It is so nice to see you in church,’ said Mrs. Cameron, ‘and little Gilda, too.’

‘This is Kathrine, not Gilda,’ said Mrs. Fenwell, and something in her tone had subtly changed. ‘She wanted to come,’ she added rather inconsequently, covering Mrs. Cameron’s chagrin at her blunder.

Euan, whose eyes had been bent carefully upon his boots, looked up suspiciously. But Kathrine was not looking at him. He might not have existed as far as she was concerned.

‘I wish,’ said his mother severely, ‘that I could say the same of Euan.’

Mrs. Fenwell looked at Euan and smiled. It was an understanding smile, and Euan, with his newly awakened susceptibility, decided that she might be quite nice.

‘Boys don’t—usually,’ she said.

Euan wondered why he had never noticed how awfully pretty she must have been once—ages ago, of course—

‘Euan.’

It was only a whisper and it came from behind him. But Euan did not need to turn to know whose voice it was. Nor did he wait for a second summons.

‘Where are you going, Euan?’ His mother’s voice brought him up sharply.

‘Just—going on,’ said Euan.

‘Who with?’

Euan glanced around desperately. He knew if he said, ‘With myself,’ he would be denounced as impudent and told to stay where he was. And if he stayed where he was—

‘I was going on with K-Kathy,’ he stammered, and then froze with terror.

Would the girl give him away? ... no. She stared a little in sober surprise. But she moved toward him. Euan sighed with relief. Anything was better than Phemie.

‘What did you do that for?’ asked Kathrine, frowning, when they were out of hearing.

‘Oh, well, they’ll talk all day,’ said Euan gloomily.

‘My mother never talks all day.’

‘Oh, well, she might.’

‘Wasn’t Phemie Ellis calling you?’ asked Kathrine curiously.

‘I don’t care whether she was or not.’

‘Are you afraid of Phemie?’ with more interest.

‘I’m not afraid of anybody,’ gloomily.

‘Don’t you like her because her hair’s red?’

‘It isn’t red,’ said Euan; but this was the result of habit, there was no conviction in it. Euan had admitted to himself that morning that Phemie’s hair was red.

‘It is,’ said Kathrine, ‘but some red hair is very nice. Not the kind Phemie has. My sister Gilda has the nice kind—like this—’

She opened her Bible and between the maps of Palestine at the back lay a coil of hair that glinted like copper in the sun. Euan scarcely looked at it.

‘Your sister who?’ he asked vaguely.

Kathrine closed the Bible with a snap.

‘I’d kind of forgotten you had a sister,’ explained Euan politely. ‘She doesn’t live at your house, does she?’

‘She lives with my cousin Elizabeth,’ said Kathrine. Her tone was cold.

‘Why doesn’t your mother bring her home?’ There was no malice in this. Euan was merely making conversation. But he saw at once that he had better have left it unmade. Kathrine’s narrow eyes snapped.

‘I shan’t tell you,’ she said, tight-lipped.

A tone like that, naturally, could not be ignored. Euan was quick with the obvious retort.

‘You don’t need to. I know.’

‘You don’t!’

‘I do. It’s because—’ Euan, as the forgotten memory came back would have been glad to ignore it, but he had gone too far to back down now. ‘It’s because she’s afraid of your father,’ he finished in a rush.

‘It’s not—it’s not!’ declared Kathrine passionately ... ‘Who told you?’ she added in a funny, breathless voice.

Euan did not like that voice at all.

‘Oh—I guess I just made it up,’ he said.

‘You didn’t make it up.’

‘Well, I guess it wasn’t your folks they were talking about, anyway.’

‘Yes it was. Who said it?’

‘I don’t know. Honest, Kathy, cross my heart; I don’t.’

‘What else did they say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Please, Euan, tell me?’

What strange eyes she had—so long and fringy! And he could see their colour now—like some of the pansies in his garden.

‘Nothing—much,’ said Euan, weakening.

‘I want to know.’

Euan wiggled. ‘You won’t like it,’ he warned, ‘and, besides, it’s silly. They say your sister doesn’t come home because your father gets—gets—’

‘Drunk,’ helped Kathrine. ‘Go on!’

‘Gets drunk and that once he hit her—when he didn’t know it, of course—that Mrs. McCorquodale will say anything!’ finished Euan with lofty scorn.

Kathrine was looking the other way.

‘Is that all?’ she demanded.

‘Y-es. Except that she turned and bit him—served him right!’ said Euan valorously.

‘Oh,’ breathed Kathrine, ‘aren’t people dreadful?’

‘Shucks!’ said Euan, ‘what do you care?’

‘I don’t!’ said Kathrine. Her small chin went up. ‘But if you had McCorquodales living opposite to you, you’d want to kill them, too, I guess.’

‘I’d move first,’ said Euan pacifically. ‘Why don’t you move, Kathy?’

This suggestion, so eminently practical, met with no favour at all. Its recipient merely requested Euan not to be silly.

‘You turn off here, don’t you?’ she asked as they reached the corner.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Euan. ‘I’m going down to meet Garry Emigh.’

‘Good-bye, then,’ said Kathrine pointedly.

‘I can go past your house if you like.’

‘I’m not going home,’ with reserve; ‘I’m going to wait here for Mother.’

Euan touched his cap awkwardly. He usually remembered to do this on Sunday.

‘All right!’ he said with relief. ‘See you at school to-morrow.’

The phrase, of course, was purely polite and rhetorical. At school to-morrow Euan had no intention of seeing Kathrine or any of her annoying sex. More than ever he was done with girls.