Читать книгу The House That is Our Own - O. Douglas - Страница 10

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When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

By the end of the next week Isobel was in the Royal Scot on her way to Glenbucho.

Kitty had been the hustler. Shocked by her own selfish desire to keep her friend near her, and convinced that this break in Isobel’s life was the best thing that could happen to her, she had written to the parish minister of Glenbucho, asking if there were any suitable rooms to let in or near the village, and at the same time begging for information about the family of Veitch of Glenbucho Place. The reply she got (written on paper headed “Agnes Home, Merchant, Glenbucho”) explained that the minister being away on holiday, he had sent Mrs. Baillie’s letter to the present writer to answer. She begged to state that there were comfortable rooms to be had at the house of Mrs. Bruce, whose husband was the grieve on Glenbucho Place. The old laird had been dead for over a year and most of the land had been sold. The young laird, Mr. Gideon Veitch, had kept only the house itself, and the home-farm, and, shortly after his father’s death, had gone out to Canada, leaving Bruce, the grieve, in charge. The writer was certain that anyone would be very satisfied who took Mrs. Bruce’s rooms.

Kitty, having handed the letter to her friend, said:

“The Veitches, like so many others, seem to have fallen on evil days. They were never rich, but, unfortunately, they lived as though they were, so I expect the boy found everything in a sad muddle. When I say ‘boy,’ I forget that he must be thirty and over.”

Isobel read the letter, and said, “I like the sound of Agnes Home, Merchant, and I believe I’ll take Mrs. Bruce’s rooms. Glenbucho sounds quite a good place to view Scotland from. I needn’t stay there long, of course. I’ll journey about till I find what seems to me the ideal place to make a home.”

“I’d like to come with you,” said Kitty, “but I can’t. This flat’s going to take every penny I possess—and more.”

“But you don’t regret it?”

“Not yet,” said Kitty cautiously. “Already I’m fond of it. When I wake in the morning and see my own things round me; when I take my bath in my own spotless bathroom; when I eat my dinner with my Raeburn great-great-grandfather watching me; when I read and write letters in my book-room, and drink tea in my modish drawing-room, I can’t be sufficiently thankful that you gave me courage to take the plunge. And now you’re taking the plunge.”

“Yes,” said Isobel, rather bleakly, and went on, “but you don’t know how reluctantly! I’m safe here in London at the Queen’s Court, with my own small circle of friends, my little jobs of work safe and happy. But what I’m going to I don’t know.”

“That’s the fun of it,” said Kitty, polishing a Jacobean glass goblet as she spoke. “You’re going out to meet adventure.”

“Are there likely to be many in Glenbucho?”

“You never can tell. I’m sorry Gideon Veitch has gone to Canada. I’d have asked him to look after you. I expect the little red-haired ruffian has grown up a good fellow.”

“I’m rather glad,” said Isobel, “that there’s no one ‘to take me up.’ I’ll be entirely on my own, and if I need help or advice, there’s always Agnes Home, Merchant. But it’s to be hoped that a woman of thirty, large and muscular and sane, can look after herself! Have you seen anything of your neighbours?”

“Have I not,” said Kitty. “The ‘retired couple’ called yesterday. They have no family, and when Mr. Boothby retired (he is—or was—a barrister), they got rid of their house and settled in here. They go away for the summer, so they told me, so it suits them very well. They’re both very easy to get on with, smiling and agreeable. There must be thousands of such couples in London. Mrs. Boothby dresses well, and looks after her hair and complexion. They were very nice about noticing things, picking out this and that to admire. I’m sure they will be pleasant neighbours, though I doubt at the end of a year if I’ll know them any better than I do now.”

“They sound ideal flat dwellers,” said Isobel.

“Mrs. Temple, on the ground floor,” Kitty went on, “sent up a note asking if I’d waive ceremony and call on her. I went at once, and found a real old lady, a thing I thought had vanished from the world in these days of night-club-haunting grandmothers. White hair, and a cap—a cap, I ask you—the most seductive thing in cream lace, and a black silk dress and shawl. Eighty-five, she told me she was, and so pretty, with a pink and white face, and blue eyes hardly faded at all. She’s been a widow for twenty-five years, has had six children, and lived a very busy life until, five years ago, she broke her leg, since when she has been more or less a prisoner in the house. But she still knits, and collects for her pet charities, and keeps herself very contented.”

“Where are all her family?”

“Oh, I heard all about them. Two sons were killed in the War, the third is in London, I think she said in business. The three daughters are married; one, the youngest, is in China with her diplomatic husband; one married a man in the I.C.S., now retired and living in Devon; the third I got no information about except what I gathered from the fact that she was alluded to with a sigh as ‘Poor Monica.’ ”

“You must have had quite an entertaining visit,” said Isobel.

“I had. I protested that I must be tiring Mrs. Temple, but she really seemed to enjoy telling me all about everything as much as I enjoyed listening. She is what in Scotland we call ‘innerly.’ Just the opposite to the Boothbys. You can cry and laugh with Mrs. Temple and talk about real things without embarrassment. Pleasant as the Boothbys are, you’d never think of talking to them of anything but surface things. In ten minutes I felt as if I’d known Mrs. Temple all my life.”

Isobel was thinking over that conversation, as she looked on the Westmorland hills, and wondered how she could have been so foolish as to spend so many spring days in a crowded city, missing so much. Kitty would be quite happy with a circle of old friends, and Mrs. Temple to visit daily and devise interests and amusements for. She wouldn’t miss her friend of the Queen’s Court Hotel, except just at first. Isobel realised, without bitterness, that nobody would miss her much. Patty, a bit, perhaps, when she got depressed about Jack’s helplessness. (By the way, she must remember to send Patty’s jumper-knitter any ideas she had.) The Hospital people had said she would be a loss, for she had been dependable, but she had got a girl to promise to take her place there; and various lonely people might feel a little more solitary because her visits had stopped, but these she could write to from time to time. In a way, Isobel thought, it was rather a good thing to be alone, to have no-one to worry about, though, she admitted, it must be rather wonderful to have people of one’s own, whom one had a right to agonise over, to rejoice over.

A short stop at Carlisle, and they were over the Border. Lockerbie, Beattock, the uplands of the Clyde, and then, at last, Symington, the station at which she had to change.

The guard of the train, who had shown a fatherly interest in her from Euston, came to her help, and soon she was standing among her boxes on a windswept platform. She pulled up the collar of her coat, for though the sun was still bright the May air was snell, and asked the porter when and where she got a train for Glenbucho.

“Ower the bridge,” she was told. “It’s the Tinto Express frae Glesgae that ye get. She’ll be in in anither twenty minutes. I’ll bring yer luggage.”

For half an hour Isobel walked up and down the platform, wondering what this exposed station, lying among moorlands, would be like in winter, when the land was held in icy grip, and blizzards swept down from the hills. It must be fine, thought the city-bred girl, with a thrill at her heart.

At last the Glasgow train came in, and away they went. It was a soft pastoral country she saw, rounded green hills and spreading fields, farm-houses and white-washed cottages; here and there the glint of water. One and another small flowery station was passed, till they pulled up at Glenbucho.

To the porter who came to collect her luggage, Isobel said, “I’m going to Glenbucho Place. D’you know if there’s anyone meeting me?”

The porter nodded his head towards the gate, and said, “Aye, Jardine’s man’s here wi’ the big car. Wait you here an’ I’ll get a barra’.”

“Jardine’s man” was called Dan, a friendly person who fitted Isobel and her belongings into the shabby Daimler, and with a parting salutation from the porter of, “Weel, that’s a’ richt, then,” they were off.

Glenbucho Place was about a mile from the village, and the grieve’s house, Isobel found, stood beside the stackyard, some distance from the cottages of the shepherd and the ploughman, and had a neat garden in front, at present bright with wallflowers, forget-me-nots, and tulips.

As the car stopped, a middle-aged woman came down the path to the gate, and, holding out her hand, said, “You’ll be Miss Logan. Come awa’ in, and Dan’ll bring the luggage. Ye’ve had a lang journey, a’ the way frae London. What the’s weather like there?”

“Rather stormy,” said Isobel; “it’s to be hoped it clears before the Coronation. You know London?”

Mrs. Bruce seemed almost affronted at the question, and said hastily, “No’ me. I’ve never had the time for gallivantin’, nor the money either. But a’body travels now whether they can afford it or not. It’s thae motor-cars and buses and things that make folk restless. I was born two miles from here, and I’ve never been further than Glasgow and Edinburgh, and once to Melrose when the Big Show was there.”

“Will I carry up the boxes, Mrs. Bruce?” the chauffeur asked.

“Aye, ye might, Dan. Davy’s no’ back from Lanark yet.”

Isobel opened her purse and was startled when Mrs. Bruce hissed in her ear, “A shilling’s plenty, mind.”

Feeling that she must not allow herself to be intimidated, Isobel took out half a crown, and handed it with a smile to Dan, who was not out of earshot when Mrs. Bruce entered her protest.

“There was no sense in giving him half a crown, when a shilling was plenty. It’s a pity to spoil folk.”

“But he carried up my boxes,” Isobel said.

“And what for no’? . . . Here’s your room. And here’s the bathroom. Hot and cold,” she added proudly.

“Oh, the window looks out on the hillside,” Isobel cried. “I’m so glad it isn’t obscured glass.”

“Nobody’ll see you but the sheep,” Mrs. Bruce assured her. “They wanted to put in that kinda glass, but I wouldna have it. It’s dearer, anyway.”

“This looks like a new bathroom.”

“Aye, it was only put in a year syne, and ye may say it’s hardly been used. The laird was compelled to put bathrooms in here and in the cottages. Sic a norie! And him no’ well off. And he never lived to see them either. Mr. Gideon saw them, of course, and he said it was but right that everyone should have as comfortable a house as possible. Poor lad! I wonder what sort of place he’ll be living in in Canada. A wooden hut as likely as not. . . . I’ll put your towels in here, for there’ll be nobody using it but yourself.”

“But——” Isobel began.

Mrs. Bruce broke in. “We’ve a place downstairs that suits us better. It’s done us for thirty years and it’ll do us to the end. D’ye think I’d let Davy—tha’s ma man—gang up ma stair carpet every time he wanted to wash his hands? When would ye like your tea?”

“Oh, thank you. I had tea on the train.”

“Eh? Oh, you mean ‘afternoon tea.’ We’ll call this supper, then, or tea-and-till’t.”

“ ‘Tea-and-till’t’ sounds delightful. What is it exactly?” Isobel asked.

“Just tea and till’t—tea and something to it. It’s ham and egg, as a matter of fact. Ye’ll get your dinner at one o’clock every day, for Davy comes in for his at twelve. I hope ye don’t expect London cooking? I can give ye good broth and meat, or mince or stew, or whiles a roast, but nothing fancy. We’d better understand each other from the first.”

Isobel replied meekly that she was sure everything would be delightful, but Mrs. Bruce did not care for soft sayings. “I can promise nothing ‘delightful,’ but I’ll make ye as comfortable as lies in ma power. When you’re ready come downstairs and ring the parlour bell and I’ll infuse the tea. The parlour’s on the left of the front door.”

Isobel, feeling a little like a new pupil under a strict governess, washed her hands, and while drying them admired again the view. Beyond the fence there was a delicious miniature glen, through which ran a burn overhung with rowan-trees, and beyond that the hillside.

Her bedroom was spotlessly clean, and very neat, but it was rather disconcerting to find the toilet-table crowded with all manner of impedimenta—evidently bought at Sales of Work: three pincushions, a handkerchief sachet, a box with its lid ornamented with coloured sealing-wax, and a hand-glass. She wondered if Mrs. Bruce would be offended if she lifted them all into a drawer and put out her own ivory brushes. There was very little room in the wardrobe, but a large old-fashioned chest of drawers would hold a lot, and there was a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. The room had the same delightful view as the bathroom and Isobel would fain have stayed to enjoy it in the evening light, but remembering that her landlady had seemed to want the supper over, she hurried downstairs.

The parlour she found looked to the garden and the stackyard, and was furnished with a suite upholstered in brown plush. The table was spread for supper, lavishly spread, Isobel considered, with a pile of sliced “loaf” bread, a plate of scones, another of pancakes; oatcakes, also honey, and a home-made gingerbread. Mrs. Bruce added to it a large brown teapot and a covered dish, and withdrew without a word.

“I shan’t starve,” thought Isobel, as she helped herself to some ham and egg, and buttered a scone. She was surprised to find how much hungrier she was for this meal than she had ever been for the rather pretentious dinner at the Queen’s Court. In the window there was a small table, bearing a tall plant which obstructed the view, so she lifted it into a corner and sat happily munching and looking out. It was delightful to be so near the sound of the farmyard, and to be able to see something of the life that went on there. The work of the day was done, the workers had time now for a gossip, for a game, for a walk, or a run on a motor-bike with a companion. When Mrs. Bruce came in to remove she looked round the table, and said, “Ye’ve eaten nothing.”

“Nothing?” said Isobel. “Ham and egg, delicious scones and pancakes, and honey, not to speak of the best gingerbread I ever tasted!”

“Well, it’s mebbe me that’s no used to London appetites. We wouldna call that a tea in Glenbucho. Davy’s away to the bools.”

Visions of matadors floated through Isobel’s mind, and her surprised stare made Mrs. Bruce explain, “The game, ye ken. Mebbe y’re used to hearing it called ‘bowls.’ ”

“Oh yes, of course. I know about bowls. Have you a bowling-green near here?”

“Aye, at the village. Ye passed it coming from the station, but ye wouldna know to look. Aye, and tennis courts too we have. The young folk waste a terrible lot of time at tennis.”

“But it’s splendid exercise,” Isobel said.

“I daresay,” her companion responded and, with a sniff, added, “It’s surprising what an exercise folk need nowadays. In ma young days our work gave us a’ the exercise we needed. But we worked then. Now they just dawdle through their job till it’s time to start amusing theirsel’s.”

She lifted what was on the table on to her tray, and soon all trace of the meal had disappeared.

Before her landlady left the room Isobel asked her if she might use the table that held the plant to write on.

Mrs. Bruce pulled down her long upper lip, and said severely, “That’s a castor-oil plant. I’ve had it for years, and ye see how healthy it looks standing in the light.”

Isobel agreed that it looked healthy, but added that it seemed a pity to block up such a pleasant window.

“I’d like,” she said, “to sit there and work and write letters. I promise to put back the castor-oil plant every night before I go to bed, and it’ll get all the morning light. Will that do?”

Mrs. Bruce stood with the tray in her hands, looking far from pleased. “It’ll have to do, I suppose,” she said at last. “Will ye be wanting anything more to-night, milk or anything? And when’ll ye want yer breakfast?”

“Nothing more to-night, thank you. About breakfast, would nine o’clock suit you, or perhaps we might say half-past eight? It seems a pity to waste part of a May day.”

“I was just wondering how ye were going to put in your time,” said Mrs. Bruce, “but half-past eight’ll suit me fine. . . . I may tell you I never had a lodger till last summer, but we’re terrible anxious to make some money. Ye see, with Mr. Gideon in Canada the place is our responsibility. We canna be askin’ the lawyer for every sma’ repair, and ye ken fine a place is aye needing something. We’ve lodgers for five months this summer, so that’ll give us something to work wi’. Ye see, Davy’s ay been at Glenbucho Place; he was born here where his father was grieve afore him, and he’s fair bigoted on the Veitches. The old laird was the kindest, canniest man that ever walked. The tenants had just to ask and they got. It was fair ridiculous, and we knew there was but the one end to it. He had to sell most of his land afore he died—it was that that killed him. Maister Gideon has only the farm here, and the house and garden, and how long he’ll have them I don’t know. I’m vex’t for the laddie, but he’s young and he’s got his life afore him. I’m vex’ter for ma Davy. He’s one of the old kind. I don’t believe folk now care much for anything but makin’ money, but Davy cares for Glenbucho Place like a mother. As the Psalmist says, ‘Its very dust to him is dear’—and whiles I wish it wasna! Mebbe if we’d had a family he wouldna have been so set on the place, but there’s just him and me—and Glenbucho. Mercy! I don’t know why I’m standin’ here deaving a stranger with our troubles. I beg your pardon, I’m sure. Half-past eight. Good night, then. I hope you’ll find your bed comfortable.”