Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Is there a bathroom, Zilla?’

  ‘My dear girl, you don’t suppose I could exist in a place without a bathroom? I put it in myself and piped the water from the burn. It’s peaty, of course, especially when the burn is in spate. Oh, did I tell you that there’s no electricity? I thought of having it put in but it would have cost the earth.’

  ‘There are lamps, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, lamps. Isn’t it frightful? You can’t have television or a fridge or a radiator, you can’t even have an electric blanket. I told you it was primitive, didn’t I? There’s no telephone either.’

  The waitress came with our coffee and Zilla continued to talk.

  ‘I don’t know why I bought the place,’ she said. ‘At least I do—really. I thought it would be amusing to go up there for an occasional week-end—just pigging it, you know. I had a craze for fishing at the time. Fishing is quite fun if you catch lots of fish, but so often the conditions are wrong; it’s too bright or too calm or too windy or something. Alec doesn’t mind; he can fish for hours quite happily when there isn’t a fish within miles.’

  ‘Zilla,’ I said, ‘what do you cook on?’

  Zilla laughed. ‘My dear, there was an old-fashioned kitchen range made of iron! I wish you could have seen it. Really it was fit for a museum and nothing else. It must have been a hundred years old and it used tons of coal, which had to be carted for miles. I tore it out, of course. I don’t know how people existed in the old days, do you?’

  ‘I expect there’s an oil-stove to cook on,’ I said. I simply had to know. Cooking is terribly important when you have three hungry children to feed.

  ‘There’s Calor gas or something,’ Zilla replied. ‘It’s a funny sort of contraption but Mrs. MacRam seems to manage it all right. She’s the woman who comes in daily.’

  ‘Would she come to me, do you think? It would be such a help to have someone in the holidays so that I could go out with the——’

  ‘Of course she’ll go to you. I thought you understood that. The woman is there. I employ her. She’s the wife of the shepherd and they live in a little cottage on the hill. She looks after the place in the winter and keeps it aired. When we’re there she comes in and “does for us” as the saying is. You needn’t have Mrs. MacRam if you don’t want her, but she’ll be frightfully offended.’

  ‘I shall be delighted to have her—and pay her, of course.’

  ‘You needn’t pay her. I employ her and pay her quite enough. You can give her a present if you like.’

  ‘Zilla, this is all terribly kind! Are you sure——’

  ‘I’ve told you at least three times that if you don’t go the cottage will be empty all August. I don’t want it to be empty because the Mitchells are sure to ask for it and I must have a watertight excuse because they’re friends of Madeline Carew. I told you about the Mitchells before, didn’t I?’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Yes, three—lying on the beds and the chairs. If you’re there I can say they can’t have it.’

  The matter was now perfectly clear to me. I wished that Zilla were a little more gracious in bestowing her benefits (her manner irritated me intensely), but beggars can’t be choosers so I thanked her again as warmly as I could.

  Soothed by an excellent cup of coffee and a cigarette, Zilla became more agreeable. She told me that she was going to France in August with the Carews.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it immensely,’ she declared. ‘They’ve got a flat in London—just the sort of flat I want—and they’ve asked us to go and stay there for a few days before we set off. I haven’t mentioned it to Alec yet. I expect he’ll be difficult about it.’

  ‘Is he going abroad with you?’

  ‘No, of course not—he’d be a frightful nuisance—but he really must come with me to London; it’s such a bore travelling alone. I must go now,’ she added. ‘I’ve got some shopping to do before lunch.’

  I, also, had shopping to do and the children’s dinner to prepare so I called the waitress and paid for our coffee (it was at my invitation that Zilla had come) and we went our ways.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday—the day when Simon was due to arrive home for the Easter holidays—came at last. The children had got their holidays so they were under my feet all day, full of excited questions. Where was Simon now—at this moment? Did I think he would lose his luggage, as he had done before? Last, but not least, could they stay up and see him when he arrived? Already I had said no five times. I said it again quite firmly but promised that if they were awake when he came he would go in and see them in bed.

  Simon arrived about nine o’clock—his train was late. I should have liked to meet him at the station (for to be honest I was quite as excited as the twins at the prospect of seeing him again) but as I could not leave the children alone in the flat I was obliged to wait as patiently as I could. By this time the children were asleep, worn out with excitement. I wasn’t sorry.

  As usual, when he returned from school, Simon looked enormous, but I had come to the conclusion that this was not because he had grown like a beanstalk but because I was used to the size of the seven-year-old twins.

  Simon had had dinner in the train so he did not want much supper and when he had finished we settled down for a chat.

  ‘I’ve got a lot to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been making plans about my future.’

  ‘You’re going to Cambridge when you leave Barstow.’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’

  ‘Simon, I told you! Aunt Liz will help. She’s quite willing to——’

  ‘But I’m not willing, Mums.’

  ‘I thought that was what you wanted.’

  ‘Yes, but I hadn’t considered it properly. Listen,’ said Simon earnestly. ‘It’s like this, you see. If I could get a scholarship it would be all right, but I haven’t got the brains. I work reasonably hard but I haven’t a dog’s hope of a scholarship.’

  ‘Aunt Liz said she would pay for you to——’

  ‘I know, but I can’t accept it from her. You see, she doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Whatever makes you think she dislikes you?’ I cried in horrified tones.

  Simon smiled. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t say she disliked me, I just said she doesn’t like me. You can like a person or not like them or dislike them. It’s three different things—three totally different feelings.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Aunt Liz doesn’t like me,’ declared Simon. ‘She adores you and the twins but her feeling for me is—sort of tepid. For one thing she thinks you spoil me. Perhaps it’s true.’

  ‘It isn’t true! Daddy was terribly against spoiling and I’ve brought you up exactly as he would have wanted. I’ve made you behave properly and smacked you when you were naughty. You know that perfectly well.’

  Simon was chuckling. ‘Oh yes, you used to smack me quite hard but I didn’t mind—even when it hurt—because you loved me all the time. You loved me best of all.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Next to Dad,’ said Simon, nodding. ‘You still do. That’s another reason why Aunt Liz doesn’t like me. She’s jealous.’

  ‘What nonsense! She’s a sensible woman.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ agreed Simon. ‘And of course she doesn’t know she’s jealous—she would be horrified at the mere idea—but deep down inside she’s jealous. You ought to love the twins best because they’re your own, and you ought to love her next because she’s your aunt. Instead of which——’

  ‘Simon, that’s enough,’ I said firmly.

  He was silent at once but I saw that he was smiling.

  As a matter of fact I had never thought about it before but, now that Simon had forced me to think about it, I realised that it was true. I loved Simon best. It was partly because he was so like Gerald and partly because he was my very own. The twins belonged to each other in a mysterious sort of way—or perhaps it was not really mysterious for they had shared a cot and a pram in
babyhood and had never been parted for a single day. As they grew older they shared toys and games; they indulged in private jokes—quite incomprehensible to their elders—and although they quarrelled quite often they presented a united front to the world. If you touched Den you touched Daisy—and vice versa. We were a complete family, devoted to each other, but the family, inside itself, was divided into pairs. Simon and I were one pair, the twins were the other. However, I was not going to admit that.

  ‘What do you propose to do if you don’t go to Cambridge?’ I asked rather coldly.

  ‘Earn money,’ replied Simon promptly. ‘It’s high time I started to earn my own living instead of costing you the earth. I shall go into business when I leave school; and you needn’t smile like that because it’s all arranged.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s all arranged—subject to your approval. You know Mark Butterfield, don’t you? I mean you’ve heard me talk of him. We’ve been friends ever since we went to Barstow. Well, Mark’s uncle is the boss of a big firm in the City—export-and-import merchants. Mark has been destined for Butterfield’s since he was a kid and Mr. Butterfield says he’ll take me too. We’ll start at the bottom—Mark and I together—working in the warehouses and learning the job thoroughly.’

  ‘You can’t dash into it like that! We shall have to think about it and——’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Simon. ‘But it’s a fine opportunity—really it is. Mr. Butterfield is awfully decent. He took us out to lunch last Sunday and gave us a slap-up meal . . . and he talked to me a lot and asked all sorts of questions. Then, when we got back to Barstow, he saw Mr. Talbot and asked him about me. Mark told me that. When Mr. Butterfield was going away he said to Mark, “You can tell your friend if he’s in the same mind when he leaves school, I’ll take him.’”

  ‘Simon, we shall have to find out——’ I began in alarm. ‘I mean we don’t know anything about him—or the firm. We don’t know——’

  ‘He’s got a Bentley,’ declared Simon. ‘It’s a terrific machine—absolutely super. That shows you!’

  The Bentley certainly was impressive, though perhaps I was not quite so impressed as Simon had expected.

  ‘Well, not to worry,’ said Simon in soothing tones. ‘I’ve got another two years at Barstow and we needn’t decide definitely until then. That’s what Mr. Butterfield said. By that time you’ll have got used to the idea of your stepson working in a warehouse.’

  ‘It isn’t that, Simon. I’m not a snob. It’s just that I do want you to go to Cambridge.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait for Den,’ said Simon, rising and stretching himself. ‘Den is the brainy one of the family. He’ll get a scholarship to Cambridge as easy as pie. Look at the time, Mums. We’d better go to bed.’

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Maclaren had made me promise not to tell Simon about his offer. It was ridiculous, of course, because any boy who was keen on cricket would have been thrilled at the idea of being coached by a man who had been chosen to bat for Cambridge and had acquitted himself with distinction . . . but Alec Maclaren was modest about his cricket and also about himself. His manner was shy and diffident; I had noticed that. Perhaps Zilla was to blame; she lost no opportunity of putting him in the wrong. I remembered that when I had said, ‘Simon will think you’re simply wonderful,’ he had replied a trifle ruefully, ‘That will be a pleasant change.’

  During the next three days Simon talked a great deal about cricket and about his chances of being chosen to play in the first eleven. Daisy and Den, knowing nothing whatever about it, were certain that he would be included in the side.

  ‘There’s just a chance,’ said Simon. ‘It all depends on my batting. I wish I could have some coaching—but of course I can’t. Don’t worry, Mums, it won’t be the end of the world if they leave me out.’

  I discovered that Mark had gone to stay with his uncle at Wimbledon and was being coached by a professional cricketer who had played for his county some years ago.

  ‘It costs a lot,’ explained Simon, ‘but Mr. Butterfield has bags of money so he doesn’t mind.’

  It was difficult to remain dumb.

  On the fourth day we had just finished breakfast when the door-bell rang. Simon went to answer it and I heard the sound of conversation in the hall; then Simon opened the door of the sitting-room and ushered in our visitor.

  ‘It’s Mr. Maclaren, Mums. He says he knows you. He says he’s going to play golf at Muirfield and can I go with him and have lunch. I said I was sure it would be all right,’ said Simon eagerly.

  ‘How kind of you, Mr. Maclaren! Do you really want him?’

  ‘Of course I want him,’ Mr. Maclaren replied. ‘If I hadn’t wanted him I wouldn’t have asked him. The point is whether Simon would enjoy it. I’m playing in a match, so——’

  ‘I could caddie for you,’ put in Simon. ‘Have you got one of those bags on wheels?’

  Mr. Maclaren laughed and said he had. ‘But I didn’t intend you to caddie for me. I just thought you might like to walk round and then have lunch at the club. I’m going now.’

  ‘I’ll be ready in two ticks,’ cried Simon, dashing out of the room.

  I followed to see what he meant to wear and to warn him not to be a nuisance to the players, not to speak unless spoken to and to do exactly as he was told.

  ‘Goodness, how old do you think I am!’ he exclaimed, tugging at the laces of his shoes.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I said hastily. ‘But when people are playing golf they don’t like talking—that’s all.’

  Simon chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t talk. I’ll take a squib in my pocket and let it off behind Mr. Maclaren just as he’s going to putt . . . or perhaps it would be better to borrow Den’s trumpet; that would shake him!’

  ‘You can’t go in that shirt!’

  ‘Oh, Mums, it’s quite clean!’

  ‘The collar is frayed.’

  ‘But I’ve brushed my hair!’

  ‘You can brush it again after you’ve changed.’

  ‘But he’s waiting!’

  ‘It will be much quicker if you don’t argue.’

  Simon realised that this was true so he bowed to the inevitable. He was not ready in ‘two ticks’ but he was ready in exactly seven minutes, clean and tidy in his grey flannel suit, blue shirt and school tie. I thought he looked very nice indeed and I hoped Mr. Maclaren would think so too.

  As they went off together down the stairs Mr. Maclaren looked up and said, ‘When do you want him back?’

  ‘Mums doesn’t mind,’ said Simon quickly.

  I laughed. ‘I’ll expect him when I see him,’ I said.

  The twins were hanging out of the window gazing down into the street.

  ‘What a great big lovely car!’ cried Daisy admiringly.

  ‘It’s a Rolls,’ said Den. He sighed and added, ‘Simon is a lucky dog.’

  The car drove away and the excitement died down. I began to clear the breakfast dishes which still littered the table.

  ‘To-day’s Saturday,’ said Den suddenly. ‘Had you forgotten it was Saturday, Mums?’

  ‘Aunt Liz is expecting Simon—she said so,’ added Daisy.

  Needless to say I had forgotten it was Saturday. However, Aunt Liz was a sensible woman so I did not think she would mind. The only thing to do was to ring up and explain what had happened.

  Unfortunately Aunt Liz did not seem quite as sensible as usual; she was a trifle astringent. ‘It doesn’t matter in the least,’ she said crisply. ‘There is no need whatever for all those excuses, Kit. Naturally the boy preferred to go off for the day with a total stranger than to come to lunch with me. I suppose I shall see him some time.’

  ‘Yes, of course. When would you like——’

  ‘I’ll fetch the twins at twelve. Are you coming, Kit?’

  ‘Well, not to-day. I’m going to turn out the sitting-room, but I’ll call for them in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’m taking them to the cinema in the
afternoon. If they’re home about six I suppose it will do.’

  ‘Yes, that will be splendid,’ I said.

  *

  2

  It was a pity that Aunt Liz was annoyed, but she would soon recover—and anyhow it couldn’t be helped. I realised that Mr. Maclaren had arranged the expedition to Muirfield so that he could make friends with Simon before broaching the subject of cricket. Perhaps it would have been a good plan if Simon had been a prickly sort of boy but, Simon being Simon, it was quite unnecessary.

  It was a lovely day. I had fully intended to turn out the sitting-room, for with the children off my hands it was a splendid opportunity to get down to the job . . . but it really was a perfectly lovely day: the sun was shining, the sky was blue and there was a westerly breeze. After a few moments’ hesitation I decided that the sitting-room could wait. I made some sandwiches, put them in my pocket and set off by myself.

  There was no difficulty in deciding what to do with my stolen day. I took the bus to Cramond, and from there I walked along the shore and smelt the sea and watched the birds and enjoyed the peace of being alone. If I had been a poet I might have written an ode to solitude. It would have been a good poem, for I felt convinced that nobody who has not been cooped up in a small flat with children can appreciate the bliss of being alone.

  There was quite a strong breeze on the shore, and it was not warm, but I found shelter behind a rock and sat down to eat my lunch. The sea was unusually blue to-day and the wind was blowing white horses down the firth, the gulls were wheeling and diving, uttering their eerie cries. How lovely to be a seagull, to soar high up into the sky and float gently down the wind with wings outspread! How lovely to be clothed with warm white feathers! How lovely to dive into the sea and catch a fish for one’s dinner!

  A seagull has no worries about clothes and butchers’ bills; a seagull does not have to catch a bus. I glanced at my watch and discovered that unless I hurried I should lose the bus back to Edinburgh, so I rose and went home.

  Supper that evening was a very cheerful meal; we had all enjoyed our day and had plenty to say about what we had done. Daisy gave a full account of the film they had seen and Den reported that Aunt Liz was in good form and had asked us all to tea to-morrow. Simon had had a ‘smashing’ time and was tremendously excited at the prospect of batting practice. Mr. Maclaren was calling for him at five o’clock on Monday—it was all arranged.