Читать книгу Trouble in the Glen - Maurice Walsh - Страница 12

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Gawain Micklethwaite thought he would go out for a stroll this fine morning. A stroll—and no more—across a field or two, while smoking a before-breakfast cigarette. And, moreover, his head needed the morning air to clear and cool it. That second punch last night was, probably, a mistake, but, after all, what was one quart of good whisky amongst three growed-up men? Pounding one’s ear in a down pillow was never a cure for a thick head. Get out into the air, and souse the thick member in running water: that was as good a cure as any hair of any dog—if no better.

Gawain opened the red gate and stepped out on the brown road, instinctively glancing left and right for traffic. There was not a wheel-track or a hoof-mark or a sheep-dropping on that brown road between its ragged-green edges. And who was he to work a miracle? There were no miracles any more, he told himself, as he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and watched the match burn down to his fingertips in the still morning air.

He spread his feet wide, thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets, and looked up the slope. The road, fenced by low dry-walls, curved up among stone-fenced fields, and the fields were green as green under a translucent veil of gossamer that glowed like pearl in the shade, and sparkled like diamond where the sun struck. Half-a-mile up, along the breast of the hill, were the croft houses of the township of Ardaneigh: twenty, maybe forty, grey houses in a straggling line, and many others scattered amongst the stone-fenced fields: some of them blue-slated, but most of them thatched, and all of them squat and deep-planted. This early in the morning no one moved about the gable-ends, but, here and there, a plume of peat smoke, delicately-blue, rose straight up and faded in the still air. On the hearths, down below, porridge skillets would be bub-bubbling over peat fires.

Away behind the houses the slope rose in easy ridges, dappled with the yellow-green of young bracken and the orange-gold of the whin, and curved over into a brown crown, beyond which, miles and miles away, lifted up, purple-blue and aloof, the saddleback of Corran Aiternach. And above the Corran stood the morning sun with one bar of pink below it, and a film of pink above.

Seven o’clock in the morning, and warm for that early hour—or was that only the heat in Gawain’s head? No, this was that short spell of salubrity that sometimes comes before summer is ready. There might be ground-frost next week, and Lukey Carnoch cursing himself out of bed at dawn to water his potato shaws. But the air this morning was washed and clear and young and fresh, not like the air in the Jungle that was always old and stale, and perfumed to hide decay.

This, indeed, is the place where peace should be and not trouble. Peace and a new civilising force. No, not civilising! Civitas a city—that is the wrong word, and has in it the spores of decadence. Who was it that contemptuously said there was no trace of civilisation in the Highlands away back in the seventeenth century? There was something better, and now it is dying—dying in this glen too; and Gawain Micklethwaite can do nothing about it....

That was Gawain thinking as he drifted down the road. He could not go far in this direction, to-day, but not so many years ago this was the way he regularly went for a morning dip in Cobh Echlan. He had no thought of a dip this morning. What was the old saying: “April and May, keep away from the say!” And, anyway, he couldn’t get down to the cove, and, besides, he would not start anything that he couldn’t finish.

But, still, he kept drifting along, hands in pockets, head down, smoke curling about his ears. If he looked up he could see the back of the house now, with its four windows blank in the morning, for the sun would not be shining on them yet awhile. One of the four, the far one, would be little Alsuin’s, open at the top, but, surely, she would still be asleep at this hour.

The road dipped and curved before him, and the banks, grown with bramble, lifted and steepened. This would be about the spot where the little lady would get her first or last glimpse of wayfarers—all the friendly people waving hands to her. He turned then and looked up; and there was her blank window, and it was open at the top. He could not see into the room with any clearness, but, against a cream and blue background, he caught a yellow gleam that he recognised as the brass rail at the head of her bed. If she were awake she could see him, and would expect a morning salute. Better make sure! He lifted right hand above his head and wagged it cheerfully.

By the powers! She was awake and watching. That was the white of her arm signalling back in that live way she had. The poor little mite! Lying awake and still and watching! Lying awake how long? Watching the dawn come in, watching the light seep through the woods and over the water, watching the brightness of Stob Glas facing the sun, waiting for the sun to come round to her side of the house, waiting for a friend to wave to her from her lonely road? And patient as death is patient.

Gawain felt a small knot in his throat. He lifted his hand again, made a saltire cross in the air, turned, and moved out of sight into the dip of the road. For a moment he had thought of mounting the short slope of grass and talking to her through the window. But, no! Alsuin would not want that. He knew what Alsuin wanted done this morning. And he did not know how, in heaven or hell, to do it for her.

He went slowly round the easy curve, and there was the closed South Gate of the Tigh Mhor obdurately facing him. It was a double-winged gate, ten feet high, with a concave top, and blunt spikes projecting through a solid bar. No flimsy obstacle this. It was meant to keep people outside, or hold people securely within. And Gawain was outside.

Hands still in pockets, he leant shoulder against close-set, perpendicular steel bars, and looked through. Inside, and to the left, was a one-storeyed gate-lodge with a chimney on each gable-end. The door was shut and the two windows blinded, but from the far chimney a plume of smoke drifted blue against the bright green of a larch. A broad drive, arched over by smooth-trunked beeches, ran away, line-straight, for some two hundred yards, and then dipped out of sight. Beyond the dip, under the arch of polished green foliage, Gawain caught a glimpse of the sparkling, salty green of Loch Easan.

This is a place I knew of old, thought Gawain, and now it is closed against me—the domain of a foolish tyrant and a woman that sings in the wood—blast her! And a certain little one wants this gate open, so that friendly men shall move under her eyes—down to Camelot. Alas, the day!

He straightened, grasped two bars, and shook at them powerful-handed. Open sesame! But that gate did not open; it did not even rattle a protest, but seemed to stiffen obstinately against his hands. He stepped back and looked up.

You dumb brute! I could show you a trick learned in war—and bedam! but I will.

The hard thing he did then looked easy. He stepped further back, flexed his knees like a stiffly-taut bow, and took the air. A toe-tip found the cross-bar at the middle of the gate, and thrust him upwards; his hands reached towards a couple of blunt spikes; and he pivoted over in one smooth movement, dropping ten feet, and yielding to the shock until his fingertips touched the ground.

That for you! he said, straightened up, and faced round to the lodge. The lodge gave no sign.

Gawain gave it plenty of time, for he would not play sneak for any lodge-keeper. Then he lit a fresh cigarette, again thrust his hands into pockets, and in an easy slouch strolled along, dead in the middle of the drive. The morning sun, shining aslant through the beeches, made a laced pattern on the brown road, and Gawain’s own shadow drifted across the lace in front of him.

He had vaulted that gate merely to show that he could; and here he was, now, in forbidden territory. What would he do next? He knew that too. He would stroll down and look at Cobh Echlan, and, maybe, give his hot head a douche in salt water. That was all, and not a thing more—even if he had to make up a bit story to please Alsuin.

But would he get as far as the Cobh? Probably not! For here came one that might dispute the way. A big, brawny fellow had come hurriedly up over the dip in the drive, striding along close to one margin after the manner of hireling men. If he had any authority he might tell a trespasser to get to hell out of here. And Gawain would hate to be rudely ordered off a place that had once been free to him.

Take it easy, my lad, he advised himself. Just stroll along in the middle of the road as if completely at home, in a friendly domain.

He saw that the man coming was in working overalls, and evidently a mechanic, a smudge of oil on one cheek, and his hands greasy.

What the mechanic saw was a tall, lean, brown-faced man—and arrogant as hell—in a black high-necked polo jersey, grey flannel slacks, and with rope-soled sandals on bare feet—and his black helmet of hair should ha’ been cut weeks ago. No one but a bluidy gent would go round like that!

“Good mornin’, sir!” said the man, lifting a finger, and going by without stopping.

“A fine morning,” said Gawain agreeably, and went on pacing.

But behind him he heard the footsteps slacken and stop, and a voice lifted.

“Beg your pardon, sir!”

Here it comes! thought Gawain, and swung round boldly. His craggy face was more intolerant than ever, and it made the mechanic hesitate before speaking. But he said:

“Might I trouble you, sir, to do me an obligement?” That was a Scots voice, but not Highland.

“Why not?” said Gawain. Of course! The Tigh Mhor has visitors, and I am one of them out for a morning stroll.

What the mechanic thought was: Another o’ they gents, pride an’ bawbees stiffenin’ his backbone—out to waylay Miss Iosabel by accident—as it might be. Ah well! he might serve my turn. Aloud he said:

“Miss Iosabel—Miss Mengues, sir! You’d oblige by giving a message from Thompson—the shover, sir?”

Gawain moved a hand. “Miss Mengues—she is to be found?”

Dam’ well you know! “She is out riding, sir. Her car will be ready for noon, and she wants to know. I’ll be back at it in ten minutes after a bite o’ breakfast.”

“Go thou and bite,” Gawain said. “If the damosel be encountered—which God forfend—the word shall go forth.”

Another bluidy foreigner, by dam’! “Thank you, sir!” The man Thompson lifted a finger, and went striding away rapidly.

Gawain went striding too, but leisurely, and smiling a little. Miss Mengues—Isabel—no, Iosabel! That might be Highland, or it might be Spanish! The lady that sang? And out ariding? But no one was singing this morning! It takes a good man—or maid—to lift voice of a morning. I couldn’t myself—not this morning, and damn punch!

He came to the dip in the drive, and there he paused, boldly at mid-road, to look over a scene that he well remembered. The road he stood on went straight on down the slope, and at the end of it he got a glimpse, through the thinning trees, of the green waters of Loch Easan. The pier was down there. But another road, just as wide, branched off on the left, went between open ornamental gates, and curved deeply across a wide lawn to the front of the Tigh Mhor. That Big House stood high on a balustraded terrace, and towered to six storeys: a big house, a wide house, and yet too tall for its width. Scots baronial of the glen’s grey stone, with tall narrow windows, steep roofs, pointed turrets, and massive chimneys. A solid tall house, but not beautiful, yet the grey solidity of it toned with the grey bulk of Stob Glas across the water.

Hello! someone has been making improvements. That’ll be a sun-porch, I suppose.

The front of the house, left of the porch, from wall to balustrade, was covered in with glass, and the morning sun shone through it to show cream walls at the back and open windows. No one moved in there yet; not even a gardener worked on the lawn, where clumps of rhododendron cast long shadows. Gawain had the whole place to himself.