Читать книгу As a Watered Garden - Mary Esther Miller MacGregor - Страница 3

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Islay Drummond paused at the low window. Through it she looked at the old apple orchard, at green fields stretching behind the barn—far to the blue sweep of Georgian Bay. Islay looked with a feeling of satisfaction and of emancipation. She looked with an owner’s eye.

This was the last room, Islay remembered with relief. They had concluded their tour of the old farm house, poking about from the dim, cool cellar to this hot, stuffy little bedroom over the kitchen, her fastidious sisters becoming increasingly dubious as room after room was explored. There was an ‘old house’ smell, a smell of old plaster, a ‘closed in’ smell of old furniture, old clothing, old air. Now Jeanette sniffed delicately, drew her trim, tailored skirt from contact with Great-Aunt Christena’s old feather bed. Tiny curls of soft down sprouted from its striped bed-surface, drifted lazily up, as Kate prodded the soft depths, gingerly. Like stirring up old memories, old ways, thought Islay.

“There’s the identical old log-cabin quilt we slept under, remember Jen? Three in a bed. Twenty years ago!” Kate spoke with mounting irritation. “For heaven’s sake, Islay, don’t invite any of our friends out week ends this summer, if you’re still determined to stay. This is just too quaint!”

Jeanette was amused. “Scared the elegant Wades or old lady Halliday might view the dirt from which the Drummonds were digged?”

“Don’t be archaic! It doesn’t suit you.” Kate had decided that old houses didn’t suit her. “Can’t imagine why Great-Aunt Christena left you the place,” she complained to Islay’s back.

Kate was not imaginative, Islay remembered.

“More sensible if she had left it to me.” Jeanette had been wanting to say this ever since the will was read. “What a wonderful place to leave the children summers!”

Islay was preoccupied with the view.

“A wonder she didn’t saddle us with it, she knew how I hated the old farm. She was quite capable of it!”

Kate was like Great-Aunt Christena, Islay supposed, wearily, and turned her attention again to the view. Below were the rosebushes and lilacs, the sprawling, untrimmed orchard trees that her forebears had planted. Beyond, the fields her great-grandfather had cleared, laboriously with his axe. A smile, probably prompted by intense speculation, broke slowly over her face, wiped away a vaguely defined discontent, which had been settling into something chronic.

“I never hated it,” she declared. “I always loved to come here when we were little. I’d really love to try it!” Islay was the youngest sister, and even yet had the absurd feeling that Kate must be deferred to, placated. “Just for one summer!” She felt herself almost pleading. Like a little child coaxing for sweets. “Poor old Mr. Francis will never give me such a vacation again, I don’t suppose. And when the summer’s over I’ll be glad enough to take up the old routine again.”

“You’ll perish of loneliness in the interim, hon.” Jeanette was singularly cheerful about the scheme.

“There’ll be absolutely no social life you can join in.” Kate was reminding her. “Unless you’re planning to raise pigs or something equally revolting, I can’t see how you’ll put in your time.”

Islay was looking far out—across the bay. Silent. Difficult to think things out with this staccato in the background. So much to think about ... Would they soon go ...

“Mum-my! Mums Mitchell!” It was a young voice, flute-like, but strangely shrill. “What’s keeping you? We’re all waiting and Uncle Foster’s car is red-hot!”

Jeanette Mitchell turned, abruptly. She and her husband prided themselves on being modern parents. Their children expressed themselves and they obeyed. Kate Lawrence followed her directly. She had a distinct picture of the red-hot car, and of her husband, Foster Lawrence, smouldering in it. Not safe to keep him smouldering.

“You don’t suppose for a minute, do you,” Jeanette turned to whisper to her sister, as they managed a cautious descent of the narrow stairs, “that Islay has another reason for wanting to spend her summer back here in the sticks. You know ...” Kate glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder to see that Islay was not within earshot. “Mack Wallace? Oh heavens no! Not at her age. Anyway Islay’s too good a hater. She’ll never forgive him!”

Islay felt vaguely guilty of family disloyalty. She lagged behind her sisters. Out in the summer kitchen where they had made a fire that morning to boil coffee for the picnic, she felt warmth still radiating from the huge farm cook stove.

“And she has an electric range in her apartment!” Kate looked briefly, and with no great favour on this sulking substitute.

“And frigidaire,” Jeanette marvelled at such perversity in the family.

“And three radios above her and two pianos beneath,” said Islay, bringing up the rear.

Outside, four cars were lined up at the head of the lane before the front door, ready for the return to the city. This had been the Drummond’s first visit in many years to their mother’s old home. In their childhood they had scampered over these fields and romped about the hay-mow. Now their mother was dead. And her children, no longer children, had been too intent on success to take time to look back. Great-Aunt Christena Laird had lived here alone for years, and had never encouraged visits from relatives, anyway. When the old lady died, and the will was read, it had been a matter of great amazement to find that the farm, together with the Old Laird Home had been left to her great-niece, Islay Drummond. The whole Drummond family had taken a holiday, and had driven out, protesting but curious, to picnic under the orchard trees, and to see the new tenant established.

“You girls leave her alone, if it’s what she wants.” Robert was the head of the family, and liked telling his sisters what to think. “Islay’s had a few knocks. This place may give her a new lease on life. She’ll be fed up with it by September anyway.”

Pete was younger. Younger than Islay. He was already in his smart little coupe, in a hurry to get off. What girl was waiting for him tonight, Islay wondered. Pete was nice!

“Bye, Sis,” he called gaily, “when you bring your butter and eggs to market give us a shout.”

She laughed as she caught his arm and shook him. Pete was a pet!

“What do you think, Pete? Do you think I’m crazy to live here alone for the summer. Do you?” she persisted.

“It’s your party. Why shouldn’t you stay. The only thing ...”

“What?”

“Well, of course I’d be bored stiff in a week, myself. But... Well... Rob says there’s a doctor from Carlisle runs up and down this little old road peddling pills an’ everything.” Pete looked a little embarrassed, but his eyes twinkled, genially.

Islay stiffened. Hard to be angry with Pete though. “I can’t see why that should affect me, Pete,” she said, quietly.

Pete laughed. A certain relief. There, she’d been warned, and he hadn’t had what might be called a rebuff. That was that. “Atta girl! I’ll run out and see you some day,” he promised, his foot on the starter.

“Do, Pete,” she cried cordially. Yet in her heart she half-hoped she might be left alone by her family. Pete was different, of course. He really counted.

Jeanette and Syd Mitchell were assembling their family. There were four little Mitchells, but it was unusual to find four little Mitchells in the same place at the same time. The flute-voiced Mitchell, who had instigated the home round-up, was discovered high up in the old apple tree. He was enticed down, and finally three other little Mitchells appeared from somewhere or other, and were bundled in the car without ceremony.

“This would be a wonderful place for them while I’m at the I.O.D.E. convention, Islay.” Jeanette had not given up hope.

“No you don’t!” Syd spoke squarely. “Don’t go wishing this pirate crew of ours on Islay, while you’re off lecturing on Child Care.”

Islay’s regard for Syd deepened.

“I never lectured on Child Care, but it’s a thought.” Jeanette tucked her hair under her smart little hat.

Robert’s car was a long, sleek beauty, with soft, feline purr. Robert had acquired a sleekness too, Islay reflected. ‘R. Fraser Drummond’ was what Rob had lately evolved into, she reflected in quiet amusement. He was prosperous, and Mrs. R. Fraser Drummond and daughters were social. ‘My husband’s great-grandmother, the Lady Islay Fraser’, Mrs. R. Fraser was given to bringing her out at the tea tables. A subdued, incidental mention, in harmony with the well-bred tinkle of old, thin silver on egg-shell cups. ‘The Lady Islay!’—she was half-myth, half-tradition. She had married beneath her, fled across the ocean with courage in her heart and a husband at her side, had helped to found a home in this Canadian backwoods. And the husband, Robert Laird, a memory now, a slab in the old country churchyard, had felled the first tree on this very farm. Had made land. Had lived a good life.

“Well, Islay Isabel,” Rob was speaking in his urbane, but kindly fashion. “Mother must have had a second sight when she gave you our great-grandmother’s name. The Lady Islay has returned to her inheritance,” he bowed, mockingly.

Two smart young daughters in the back seat were frankly bored.

“Step on it, daddy,” Angela urged, sweetly. “Gwen has a date.”

“Aren’t you a lamb!” Gwen raised one expertly shaped eyebrow, skeptically. “Angela’s dithering over two dates. Why don’t you toss up?”

“Well, if you get too lonesome for us, Islay, just shut up the old place and come out to us. We’ll be at the lake all month.” Mrs. R. Fraser Drummond was human enough to hate leaving her.

In fact Mary was always kind. Islay waved, and watched them off, serenely aware that Foster was waiting, impatient, behind.

Kate’s husband had started his car fully ten minutes before. It was against his principles to turn off the ignition. That would be an admission that he’d been kept waiting. All right to be late—that was something you did to other people. Now, both Foster and Foster’s motor were spluttering and inarticulate.

“Where’s my handbag?” demanded Kate, looking at Islay as though she might have it.

“Where’s everybody,” fumed Foster. “What do you think this is! I’ve got an appointment. And I’m half an hour late now!”

Mr. Drummond, junior, appeared miraculously, leaned wearily against the car door. He grinned affably at Islay. “Dad’s always half an hour late,” he confided. “It’s chronic.”

Foster Drummond looked at him murderously.

Kate and the handbag reappeared, and Harriet was with her—a tall, graceful girl, with pouting, discontented dark little face.

“I really don’t know what’s got into her lately,” Kate was telling Islay. “Fancy, Mrs. Wade asked her to stay with them till we got back! I thought she’d be thrilled! Just as good as admitting she’s engaged to Denton Wade! And here ...” She gestured, helplessly, caught an expression in Foster’s eye, and hurriedly climbed to her place beside him.

Harriet was in no hurry.

She turned to Islay. “This old dump of yours is a riot, Islay. Even the telephone won’t function.”

“Certainly not. It hasn’t been connected yet. Did you want to use it?”

“Shush up,” whispered Harriet, “can’t you see mums’ ears hanging out of the car window! Darling! I honestly think this place is tops and you’re the only one in the family with a mind. I might come out and live with you. What say?”

Islay looked so frankly dismayed that Harriet roared. Kate’s spoiled, over-dressed daughter was the very last one of Islay’s relatives she wanted with her.

“You’d be awfully bored, Harry. Nothing to do here.”

“Don’t coax me so!” Harriet grinned, boyishly.

“Harry! CAN’T you see I’m in a HURRY. I’m half an ...!”

“There, there! Foster’s fuming! DON’T FUSS, father! I’m coming!”

“Don’t forget, Auntie Islay,” she persisted from the car. “I might toddle out. I’ve warned you.”

“What nonsense are you talking, Harry?” asked her mother suspiciously. “I’ll write you from Vancouver, Islay. Hope you won’t be too lonely. I think this is the most absurd sch ...”

Both Foster’s temper and his car were finally unleashed, disappeared down the lane, leaving a little cloud of dust.

Islay stood watching. The little procession turned out on the dusty road, up the long white highway that led out of the valley. She waved till they passed out of sight. A faint, farewell blast sounded from somebody’s horn. That would be Pete, she thought, and smiled softly. She went back to the old house and sank down on the smooth old door stone. She leaned back against the cool stone wall of the house. It had sheltered four generations of her family. It was good to feel its solid backing now.

A great stillness fell on the old garden. Bees hummed in the tall lilac bushes like a far rumbling of thunder. Or was it thunder? The old farm dog, Great-Aunt Christena’s dog, had slunk about all day. Now he crept up to her and dropped at her feet. Islay patted his head, glad of a friend. Now they were all gone she felt her resolution a little shaken. She was town-bred, and the old farm house was silent and isolated. Her nearest neighbour, Cousin Steve Laird, lived on the other side of a low hill, his barn just visible above the trees. Peace and quiet was what she wanted, though, she told herself. She hadn’t been living at all. Ten years a secretary. Ten years was a long time. A long time sitting at an office desk, doing work the irritable and exacting Mr. Francis didn’t like doing. Ten years going to club meetings, ten years being a minor Drummond social light, struggling, in off hours, through a welter of bridges, teas, dinners, receptions. Her sisters expected it. But now this amazing thing had happened to her. It made you rather take stock, think what you’d grown into. Like stepping outside yourself to look in. What did you see? Did you ever see yourself, or was self-scrutiny an impossibility. Assets? Vitality, Islay thought, and an urge to make something of her life yet. Liabilities? She’d got to the middle thirties. Nobody believed in your doing much now. If you hadn’t mapped out your course by then. Nobody cared much whether you did do anything or not ... You had to care yourself, she told herself. Had to think what you tried to do was important yourself. Had to think the thing out alone. Then you could do things ...

She had another, immediate reason for wanting to be alone. It was her secret. Even Pete didn’t know it. That winter when she broke her ankle ... she’d been laid up for weeks. And somehow she’d started scribbling—little sketches of the office staff—‘profiles’ the editor had called them, whisking through them, competently. Ought to be a story. Must have a plot. Make a real yarn out of it. That’s what people asked for ... Well, this summer she was going to see what she could do.

What a sensation she would have aroused at the orchard picnic, if she had said, complacently, ‘I’m going to write a book this summer. So I want very much to be alone. Please don’t give me a thought.’ She could hear Pete’s delighted laughter (Put me in your book, Islay), Kate’s caustic comments on literary women, the pained incredulity of R. Fraser Drummond’s sophisticated daughters.

When Pete had assisted her to unpack and arrange her belongings, he had exclaimed at her typewriter, as he carried it in from the car.

“Hey, Islay, what in heck did you have to tote this machine out here for? Better swap it for a churn.”

“I’ll write to you on it,” she told him.

Now she looked about her with some satisfaction. It might be lonely. But that’s what you needed for writing. Everybody said so. She’d pray for absolute quiet. And if Dr. Mack Wallace’s medical practice extended to her neighbourhood, that was just another reason for keeping strictly to herself.

“For the first time in my thirty-five years,” she patted the old farm dog, stretched out at her feet, “I’m going to live my own life in my own way.”