Читать книгу The Cone-Gatherers - Robin Jenkins - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

Next morning was so splendid that as he walked through the policies towards the mansion house despair itself was lulled. The sky was vast and bright; the withered leaves underfoot were iridescent with melting frost; the very air glittered. As if in contrition for last night’s mistrust in the dim shed, his dogs showed him how to enjoy such sunshine as they ran here and there, giving holiday sniffs and yelps, and barking up at squirrels as tawny as themselves darting along red pine branches. It was a morning that seemed to beguile the mind with recollections of a time of innocence before evil and unhappiness were born.

Peggy and her mother had been asleep, and the stars still shining, when he had slipped out. He had taken no breakfast and hadn’t shaved.

He walked under the squirrels, gun under his arm, smiling.

When he came near the house he heard cries and the crack of ball against bat. They must be playing cricket on the lawn. Young Roderick would have coaxed his uncle to play with him. The boy was useless at games, as far as Duror could judge; his awkwardness, physical and mental, prevented him from being proficient no matter how zealously he persevered. Duror had watched him once kicking a football for an hour; at the finish he had been clumsier and keener than at the beginning. Perhaps because he was like his father outwardly, with startled deer’s eyes and hare’s teeth, he was his mother’s favourite, although his sister Sheila, two years younger, was beautiful healthy, courageous, and as assured as any lady. Roderick from birth had been weak in body and complicated in mind. He had had to be removed from school, and now was tutored at home. He had never liked Duror, and when little had not hesitated to say so. His mother more than once had had to apologise for him.

Duror was early. He stood behind a thick holly to watch the players on the lawn; his dogs sat at his feet. Roderick batted; his uncle bowled; and Sheila was supposed to field, assisted by her dog, a small short-legged terrier called Monty. Roderick was very earnest as he faced up to the ball, swiped out at it, missed, and shouted an explanation for his miss. He immediately ran behind the wicket to retrieve the ball and throw it back to his uncle so that the whole thing could be repeated as soon as possible. Once he struck the ball, and began to race between the wickets as if those runs would mean the winning of a Test Match. His uncle called to him laughingly that there was no need for such hurry. Roderick paused to glance towards where the ball had flown. He was obviously displeased to see that Monty had it in his mouth and was playing a game of come-and-get-it-if-you-can with Sheila. Roderick shouted to his sister that she was spoiling the game; but his uncle, still laughing, came down the pitch and put an arm round his neck. He was a tall almost bald man of about thirty-five, in peacetime a lawyer from Edinburgh, where his father, Lord Forgan, had been a judge. Duror knew him as a quiet, pleasant, considerate man, with his only vanity a moustache as black and glossy as a snail.

Duror came out from behind the holly and walked respectfully along the path by the side of the lawn. His dogs too recognised the presence of superiors; when Monty came scampering along to sniff and yap insolently at them they endured it with glances up at their master as if to make sure he was noticing their forbearance.

Captain Forgan waved his hand; then, as if that gesture had not been cordial enough, he came striding across the lawn.

‘Good morning, Duror,’ he cried.

‘Good morning, sir.’

Forgan smiled up at the sky and held out his hands as if to catch some of the benison dropping from it. His face, ruddy but hardly military from open-air life in army camps, beamed with gratitude as if he thought this spell of magnificent weather was being provided in his honour.

‘This is a real honey of a morning, Duror,’ he said, ‘and no mistake. Air like champagne.’ He breathed it in deeply and gratefully. Although he was smiling he was serious: in two or three weeks he would be in an African desert.

‘Well, is there going to be a deer drive?’ he asked.

‘I think we’ll be able to arrange something, sir.’

‘Good man. I knew I could rely on you.’ He bent down to pat the dogs. ‘Handsome creatures,’ he said, with zest. ‘Why do we talk about a dog’s life, Duror? What right have we to feel superior to these chaps?’ He glanced up at their master with a smile. ‘They have no wars, Duror.’

‘No, sir.’

Forgan rose up and laughed. It was a comprehensive laughter, at the fine scenery, at his sentimental envy of dogs, at the forlorn wickets on the lawn, at Roderick with bat at rest like a sentinel, and at himself in well-creased khaki trousers.

‘We were playing cricket,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

Forgan gazed all round. ‘It’s really a beautiful place,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad I could come. It’ll be very pleasant to have these memories so fresh. You know, Duror, I envy you your life here.’

Duror did not smile back.

‘If you’ll pardon me for saying it, sir,’ he said, ‘I’d prefer to be going with you.’

The captain was taken by surprise; his smile turned foolish, and he did not know what to say. These days he tried to think like a soldier, and often reached no conclusion.

‘I’m too old, sir,’ said Duror. ‘They won’t have me. I’ve tried three times.’

Forgan thought he had hurt the keeper’s pride as patriot.

‘No, no, Duror,’ he cried, shaking his head. ‘When I said I envied you I wasn’t meaning that you were lucky to escape the big and bloody war.’ He laughed. ‘Not in the slightest. I was just carried away by the beauty of the morning. We all know you’re more than willing to do your bit. You’re a stalwart of the Home Guard here, aren’t you?’

Duror would not be appeased.

‘I’ll try again, sir. Perhaps they’ll be glad enough to have me yet.’

The captain twisted his snail-black moustache with rueful whimsicality.

‘You mean, when all the young cock sparrows have been shot off the tree?’ he asked.

‘I hope not, sir. May I be allowed to wish you a good journey and a safe return?’

‘You are allowed, Duror; you are allowed, as the kids say, with knobs on. But I see Master Roderick glowering at me like a sergeant-major. Jove, he wanted us to start before the frost was off the grass. How glorious to be young! When d’you think the drive will start?’

‘About two o’clock, sir. After I’ve seen her ladyship, I’ll let you know where I think the best place will be.’

‘Thanks, Duror. It’s all in your hands, as far as I’m concerned. Just show me where to stand. I hope I get a kill.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s a funny thing, Duror, we moan about the vast amount of killing going on in the world, and here I am thirsting for more.’

‘Deer are vermin, sir. They must be kept down.’

‘I suppose so.’ He hesitated, and cast a glance at Duror which seemed to the gamekeeper to be a prelude to a rebuke about his unshavenness; there had already been several of these glances. But he was wrong.

‘And Mrs Duror? How’s she keeping?’

Duror smiled. ‘Not too well, sir.’ He flicked his chin. ‘I’m afraid we had a disturbed night. I see I’ve forgotten to shave.’

Embarrassed, Forgan looked away: he had never seen Mrs Duror, but had heard about her from his sister. He remembered he had said he envied Duror. He remembered too unshavenness was a military offence.

‘Don’t worry about that, Duror,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll get back to my cricket.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Touching his cap, Duror walked on. His dogs followed, glad to escape from the tyranny of Monty.

As he made for the servants’ entrance at the back of the house, he realised that by lying to the captain about Peggy he had in some way involved him; and in a few minutes, by persuading Lady Runcie-Campbell to conscript the cone-gatherers, he would involve her too. His tragedy was now to be played in public: it must there-fore have a crisis, and an end.

Out of sight round the corner of the house, he paused. They were talking about him on the lawn. Roderick had said something shrill and petulant.

‘Be quiet, Roddy,’ cried his sister. ‘He’ll hear you.’

‘I suggest we get on with this manly game of cricket,’ called their uncle.

‘Oh, all right, I’m sorry,’ said Roderick.

‘That’s more like you, old chap,’ said his uncle. ‘Now I think it’s my turn to bat.’

‘But I’m not out yet,’ protested the boy.

Smiling, Duror walked along to the door, tied up his dogs, and entered.

Mrs Morton, the cook-housekeeper, was alone in the kitchen, preparing the silver tray for the family’s morning coffee. She was a widow of about his own age, cheerful, shrewd, pink-faced, bonny and buxom. She was one of the few regular visitors to his wife. His mother-in-law had recently insinuated that the housekeeper’s interest was in him, not in Peggy. He had dismissed the insinuation, but later had found himself wondering whether he wished it was true. To a man she liked, she could no doubt bring joy and oblivion; but, though neither religious nor prudish, she had a sense of fairness and a quick reliable judgment. He knew she was attracted by him, but she was genuinely sorry for Peggy and would not readily betray her.

This morning, as she welcomed him into the sunny kitchen, he thought that surely the next step in the drama should be his involvement of her.

She had no apprehensions of evil. Round her plump neck, indeed, like a talisman protecting her, was a gold locket on a chain: it contained the picture of her twenty-year-old son Alec, who was in the Merchant Navy.

‘You’re just in time for a cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Effie.’ He sat down, smiling at her deft ministrations, like a proud husband. ‘I’m due in the office at ten.’

She glanced at the clock on the dresser.

‘Plenty of time,’ she said. ‘And how’s Peggy?’

Still smiling, he milked and sugared his tea, and stirred it.

‘Peggy?’ he murmured. ‘There’s no change in her.’

She offered him a plate heaped with scones freshly baked. He took one, and contrived to make the offering and his acceptance seem significant.

‘You’re my favourite baker, Effie,’ he said.

She laughed but turned pinker.

‘Och, I’m sure Mrs Lochie’s as good as ever I could be.’

‘At baking?’

‘Aye, John, at baking. What else?’

For a few seconds he did not answer. Apparently composed himself, he noticed she was a little flustered.

‘When I said there was no change in Peggy,’ he said, ‘I was really hinting there was a change in somebody else.’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘Maybe I ought to say no more, Effie. You see, you come into it.’

‘Me, John?’

As he nodded, it never occurred to her that he was lying. She had always thought that suffering had brought to him distinction of body and mind. With his black hair now thickly powdered with white at the sides, and his lean brown meditative face, he seemed to her a more distinguished man than Sir Colin himself. Never had she heard him say an indecent or false word. Several times she had found herself, deep in her own mind, regretting that his ordeal seemed to have purged him of passions. She had also indulged in the supposition of Peggy’s death and his freedom to remarry: if he asked her, she did not think she would refuse.

‘Aye, you, Effie,’ he said. ‘But maybe I should change the subject. There’s something else I want to ask you.’

‘But I’d like to know how I come into it, John, whatever it is.’

He laughed. ‘Och, why not? You’re a sensible woman, Effie, and not likely to let silly tittle-tattle upset you. Somebody has got it into her head you and I are too fond of each other.’

She seemed more agitated than indignant.

‘Mrs Lochie, do you mean?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘I don’t think she’s really got a spite against us, Effie. It’s God she blames, but where’s the satisfaction in slandering him?’

‘I was aware she slandered you, but I didn’t think she’d started on me.’

‘Don’t blame her, Effie.’

‘I’m certainly not going to be sorry for her either, if she spreads dirty slanders.’

He chuckled. ‘So it’s a dirty slander, Effie, to say that you and I are fond of each other?’

She was blushing; her throat was aflame, and perhaps her breasts.

He leaned towards her.

‘I didn’t think that was what she meant,’ she said hoarsely.

‘It wasn’t, Effie,’ he whispered. ‘She made it plain enough what she meant. She accused us of being in bed together; but she put it more coarsely than that.’

‘My God!’ she cried, and made to rise.

He put his hand on her breast and gently pushed her down.

‘She’s an old woman, Effie, crazy with anxiety. She sees I have difficulty whiles in showing affection for Peggy; which is the truth, I’m sorry to say. She thinks then I must be showing it to somebody else. It doesn’t occur to her I might be empty of affection altogether.’

She stared at the table.

‘I hope that’s not true, John,’ she said, still hoarse.

He wondered if he could risk kissing or embracing her. Were her scruples sufficiently annulled by desire for revenge, or by lust, or even by genuine affection for him? To his own destruction, and the cone-gatherers’, ought he to add hers?

He sat still.

‘I think we should drop this subject in the meantime, Effie,’ he said, at last. ‘I see I’ve just got a minute or two left to ask your advice about a different matter altogether.’

‘It would be a mistake,’ she said, in such a low voice he could scarcely hear, ‘to let affection die in you altogether.’

He stretched out his hand and laid it on hers.

‘Given the circumstances, Effie,’ he whispered, ‘I could blossom again like a gean-tree.’

With a shudder, she withdrew her hand.

‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’ she murmured.

‘Oh, aye. You’re a Lendrick woman, Effie, and you know all that goes on there.’

‘I like to take an interest in folks’ affairs.’

‘Which is to your credit, surely. Maybe you know we’ve got a couple of men from Ardmore Forest working in our wood here.’

‘I heard about it. They’re gathering cones.’

‘That’s right. Cones are really seed, tree seed. Before the war this country got its supplies from abroad, from Norway and Canada and Corsica, I believe, among other places. You’ll appreciate better than most that our ships have more important cargoes to fetch these days. Yet if we’re to replace the multitude of trees being felled for the war, we must have seed. It’s the same with human beings: after a big war they’ve got to be replaced as well; but in their case the seed’s easily come by.’

‘I don’t think this is what you wanted to talk to me about, John.’

‘No, Effie. To tell you the truth, I’m as tongue-tied as a tree with everybody else; with you I talk, it seems, too much.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I was thinking of the time.’

‘These two men from Ardmore, Effie. I wonder if you can tell me anything about them.’

‘Ardmore’s a good eight miles out of Lendrick,’ she said, ‘though most of the men there come in on Saturdays. But I know the two you mean.’

‘Brothers,’ he murmured, ‘one a hunchback, the other tall and dour.’

She nodded. ‘Their name’s McPhie. They’re well enough known in Lendrick.’

‘I thought they would be.’

Something in his tone made her glance up.

‘There’s nothing known to their discredit, if that’s what you mean, John. It’s true the small one’s not as God meant a man to be; but that’s God’s business, not ours.’

‘Maybe it is our business, Effie.’

‘What do you mean?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I hope you’re watching your time.’

‘How long have they been at Ardmore?’

‘I couldn’t say for certain. About four or five years.’

‘They’re quartered in the wood yonder in a hut as small as a rabbit-hutch, and as filthy.’

‘Is that their fault? Simple men like them, John, aren’t asked where they’d like to live. But what’s all the mystery about? What have they done?’

‘I’ll tell you. But it’s what they might do that worries me.’

She waited for him to explain. He paused, searching for words that would bind her and him and the imbecile dwarf together in common defilement.

‘The hunchback’s not right in the head,’ he said.

‘He’s a bit simple.’

‘More than that, Effie. Indecency’s not simple. The papers are often full of what such misbegotten beasts have done.’ He smiled, marvelling at the steadiness of his hand holding the tea cup; within him was a roaring, like a storm through a tree. ‘I’m referring, of course, to assaults on wee lassies. There was one reported just the other week.’ He began to describe it, calmly, in the coarsest terms he knew.

She stopped him. ‘I understand well enough,’ she said. ‘I’m not a child. But it’s a serious charge to make against any man, stooped or straight, daft or wise.’

‘I’m making no charge, as yet. But I’ve got to remember that if anything of the kind was to happen here the responsibility would be mine. There’s Miss Sheila sometimes walks in the wood alone; and of course the mistress.’

‘You hinted they’d already done something. What?’

He stood up, with a smile at the clock, now at a minute to the hour.

‘I saw that imbecile exposing himself,’ he said; ‘and worse.’ He described it briefly, enjoying her fascinated embarrassment. A lie, he saw, could cause as much distortion as the truth.

‘Where was this?’ she asked.

‘In the wood.’

‘And nobody saw it but you?’

‘There was a thrush, I think.’

She would not smile. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said, ‘and surprised too. He’s been in and out of Lendrick dozens of times and there’s never been the slightest hint of anything like that. I thought that sort of abnormality liked an audience.’

‘Seed,’ he murmured, with quiet intense disgust; and then he smiled.

The clock struck ten.

‘It’s a minute or so fast,’ she said. ‘They’ve been kicked about that pair, from what I’ve heard. Nobody can say life’s been generous to them. A thing like this if it got about would destroy them completely. The wee one would be dragged off to jail or the asylum, and the big one would break his heart. There’s affection between them.’

‘Likely enough, Effie. Even the murderer on the scaffold has a mother weeping for him.’

She came close, panting.

‘Don’t become embittered, John,’ she said.

Lightly he put his hand on her head, and then snatched it away again.

‘Will you help me to stay sweet, Effie?’ he murmured.

She closed her eyes, as if not to see her own surrender; she nodded.

‘Thanks, Effie,’ he said, but he did not, as she evidently expected, embrace her. He walked over to the door. ‘That’s a promise I’d better give you time to consider.’

‘I’ve considered it, John, many a time.’

For a moment, realising that her feeling for him was genuine, he saw another way, clear, like a sunlit ride in a thick wood.

‘You’re in danger too, John,’ she whispered, ‘of being destroyed completely. I couldn’t stand by and watch that happen, if there was anything I could do to stop it.’