Eventually I said quite firmly that I was tired of the subject, whereupon they betook themselves to the kitchen to consult Mrs. MacRam.
At first I had tried to keep Den and Daisy out of the kitchen, in case they should be a nuisance, but I soon discovered that Mrs. MacRam enjoyed their company—I could hear them all chatting away together quite happily—so I left them to do as they pleased. They would get nothing but good from Mrs. MacRam.
They were chatting now; I could hear their voices in the distance. I wondered if Mrs. MacRam knew whether or not grasshoppers made nests for their young.
Presently Mrs. MacRam came in to clear away the tea. ‘We have been talking,’ she informed me, quite unnecessarily. ‘They were asking about grasshoppers. They are ferry interested in grasshoppers, it seems.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I agreed. ‘Mr. Maclaren mentioned a grasshopper—it was just a joke, of course.’
‘Chust a choke,’ said Mrs. MacRam, nodding understandingly. ‘It is nice to see Mister Maclaren so full of chokes. Mister MacRam was saying the same. We have never seen Mister Maclaren so happy. He is like a different gentleman altogether. When he is here with Miss Maclaren he has no life at all. She is a very difficult lady. No matter what you do there is no pleasing Miss Maclaren.’
I didn’t like this much—but what could I say?
‘And now there is trouble coming,’ continued Mrs. MacRam. ‘There is a letter from the lawyer to say that Miss Maclaren is going to sell Craig-an-Ron. It will be a sad day for me when it is sold because the money Miss Maclaren gives me for looking after it is ferry useful—ferry useful indeed,’ said Mrs. MacRam sadly.
This was news to me, but not very surprising news. I was aware that Zilla had become bored with the cottage.
‘I wonder when it will be sold,’ I said.
‘Och, Mistress Wentworth need not worry. There are not many people who would be wanting Craig-an-Ron. It is a long way from the railway and there is no electric light. Mister MacRam says it will be a long, long time before it is sold.’
No doubt Mr. MacRam was right—and in any case Zilla’s plans for selling the cottage did not concern me—but all the same I felt sorry. Craig-an-Ron was such a dear little house, such a happy little house, that already I had become fond of it and felt quite at home. I hoped that whoever bought it would love it too and would be kind and good to dear Mrs. MacRam.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alec had said he would come over and see me later, so when I had put the children to bed and had my supper I sat by the window waiting for him. I saw him come through the trees and down the slope. He had a large box under his arm, and when he came in he put it on the table.
‘It’s for Simon,’ he said. ‘A model yacht. I thought it would be fun for him to sail it on the loch.’
‘How kind of you!’
‘I just wish I could be here to help him, but I expect he’ll manage all right. I could easily have taken my holiday in August—it’s a slack time—but Zilla misled me. She said she had let the cottage to the Mitchells. She did it on purpose, of course.’
‘Alec, I don’t think——’
‘Oh, yes, she did. I thought at first she had made a mistake but now I know better. She wanted me to be tied up in Edinburgh while you and the children were here.’
Although my first impulse had been to deny this, I felt that it might well be true (I knew that Zilla disliked my friendship with Alec) but it was a horrible idea so I banished it and changed the subject.
‘Grasshoppers,’ I said, looking at Alec and smiling. ‘Why did you mention grasshoppers to the children? They’ve never ceased asking silly questions about the creatures—and the worst of it is I know nothing about them.’
‘Neither do I,’ he admitted. ‘I only know mine was a burden.’
‘Sit down and tell me about it, Alec.’
He sat down beside me near the open window. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘Not a very pleasant story, I’m afraid, but there’s a special reason why I want to tell it to you—if you don’t mind listening. You remember you suggested that I should go and have a talk with Zilla’s doctor, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t suggest it.’
‘Well, not in so many words, but something you said put the idea into my head. You were quite right, Katherine. He never told Zilla that her attacks were dangerous. In fact he didn’t believe in them at all. He said they were “put on.” Those were his very words. When he saw that I was incredulous he said it was not uncommon nowadays; he had had several cases of the same kind. They were usually women—women who wanted more attention from their families. He asked if she ever had an attack when I wasn’t there—she hadn’t of course—so then he said it was my fault.’
‘But, Alec, you’ve been so good to her!’
‘I thought I was being good to her but in reality I was being bad for her. I was giving in and letting her trample on me—if you know what I mean.’
I knew exactly what he meant; I had seen her trample on him.
‘The doctor said you shouldn’t allow people to trample on you,’ continued Alec thoughtfully. ‘It isn’t good for you and it isn’t good for them. He said Zilla ought to be psychoanalysed—but I knew that was out of the question; she would never consent. So then he said that what she really needed was a firm husband and six children.’
I couldn’t help smiling.
‘Yes, I suppose it’s funny,’ agreed Alec. ‘But I must confess I couldn’t see the joke. Those attacks of Zilla’s had frightened me out of my wits, so when the doctor assured me they were staged for my benefit—to make me do as she wanted—I was very angry.’
‘No wonder!’
‘But aren’t you surprised?’
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘I had a feeling that Zilla’s attacks were a little too convenient to be genuine.’
‘They were very convenient indeed,’ said Alec bitterly. ‘Of course my first idea was to tackle her and have it out with her then and there, but on second thoughts I decided to say nothing, but just take her to London as we had arranged and let her go off to France with the Carews. I decided that when she came home I would take a strong line and if she staged another attack I would deal with it firmly.’
‘Much the best thing to do.’
‘Yes, but wait,’ said Alec. ‘That isn’t all the story. There’s a whole lot more to come. When we got to London we went to stay with the Carews at their flat. I didn’t want to, because I didn’t like the Carews, but Zilla insisted and I thought I could stick it for a few days. The Carews seemed pleased to see us; they were in tremendous form. Jack Carew is one of those hearty types, he laughs loudly at everything you say whether it’s funny or not. He’s the sort of chap who drags you into a corner and tells you a dirty story and pokes you in the chest and roars with laughter. He calls me Sobersides . . . I really can’t see any humour in his jokes. At dinner that night there were just the four of us. Carew began ragging me and giving out mysterious hints: “Old Sobersides isn’t always so sober; put him beside a pretty girl and you’ll see him come to life and laugh like a drain, ha, ha, ha!”’ said Alec in gloomy accents.
‘He sounds ghastly!’
‘Yes, he’s ghastly. Madeline joined in the fun; they were both chipping me. At last Zilla said, “What’s it all about? What has Alec been up to? Why should I be left out of the joke?” So then they told her the joke.’
‘What was the joke?’
‘They had seen us at Moffat.’
‘Alec!’
‘Yes, they were lunching there, at that hotel.’
‘Goodness, how awful! They must have been those people I told you about who kept on staring at us.’
‘I expect so.’
‘Is he bald, with a very red face?’
‘Yes, and she’s as pale as a ghost with enormous eyes and sticky black eyelashes.’
‘The Londony people! Oh, Alec, if only we’d chosen some other hotel! What an unlucky chance!’
‘Wel
l, I don’t know that it was unlucky, really,’ said Alec in thoughtful tones. ‘There was a frightful row, of course, which was extremely unpleasant, but it brought things to a head. Zilla stormed and raged and said the most dreadful things. She said . . . well, never mind what she said. The Carews were horrified, and it takes a good deal to horrify the Carews! Finally Zilla collapsed in a heap on the floor and had one of her attacks.’
‘How dreadful!’
‘Yes, Madeline was terrified—it really is terrifying when she does it. Madeline shrieked to Jack to ring up the doctor, but I said there was no need. I picked up Zilla and carried her to her room and laid her on the bed and I told Madeline to sponge her face with ice-cold water. The doctor had given me that tip.’
‘Was the treatment successful?’
‘It wasn’t necessary,’ said Alec grimly. ‘When she heard me tell Madeline about it she came round at once. Zilla isn’t very keen on cold water.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said sadly.
‘I must say the Carews were very decent,’ continued Alec. ‘They apologised profusely to me for letting the cat out of the bag. Madeline kept on saying, “We aren’t mischief-makers, Alec. We wouldn’t have said a word if you’d been married . . . but you’re just her brother!” They were both astonished that Zilla had been so upset. They thought she would be amused. In fact they thought she would be pleased.’
‘Why did they think Zilla would be pleased?’
‘It was natural, really. You see she had told them I was a dull dog and had no use for girls so she was afraid I would never get married. She had told them that I insisted on her living with me and doing the housekeeping—she had made herself out to be a martyr to duty. Isn’t it amazing, Katherine?’
‘Yes,’ I said—but I was not amazed. Zilla had told me the same story.
‘Oh well,’ said Alec. ‘I don’t want to bother you by telling you about all the fuss and argument. I talked to the Carews and Madeline talked to Zilla and finally it was agreed that what Zilla really needs is a long holiday and a complete change of environment. When they come back from France Zilla will go to New Zealand. We have cousins there and they’ve asked her several times to visit them and stay as long as she likes. Some friends of the Carews are going to New Zealand, so Zilla can travel with them. Madeline said that when Zilla comes back from New Zealand they’ll find her a flat in London and Jack said he would find her a husband.’
‘Alec!’
‘That’s how they talk,’ explained Alec. ‘It’s wild sort of talk and I must say I don’t like it, but they really were extremely kind. I was surprised at their kindness and at all the trouble they took. I think they were genuinely sorry that they had upset things.’
‘Perhaps they’re fond of Zilla in their own strange way.’
‘Yes, I think they are,’ agreed Alec. ‘At any rate they’re going to do what they can for her. They entertain and go about a lot when they’re in London and that’s what Zilla enjoys. I know it sounds queer but I believe if they could find a husband for her it would be the best thing possible.’
‘Poor Zilla,’ I said.
‘Yes, poor Zilla,’ Alec agreed. ‘I told her I was sorry and apologised for everything, and eventually I got her to make it up.’
I looked at him and wondered at his magnanimity. He had apologised to Zilla! It seemed to me that Zilla should have apologised to him. Aloud I said, ‘I’m glad you made it up.’
‘Yes, so am I. She let me kiss her before I came away.’ He hesitated for a few moments and then added, ‘I’m sorry to have bored you with all this but I wanted to tell you because it means I’m free. I’m free, Katherine. Do you realise what that means?’
‘Not really,’ I said doubtfully.
‘I’m free from Zilla,’ he explained. ‘I thought she was ill; I thought she needed my care. I thought it would be my duty to look after Zilla all her life. That’s why I was so terribly depressed when I wrote you that stupid letter. I could see no hope—no future for me. I could never have a life of my own, never have friends of my own . . . never ask any woman to marry me.’
‘No wonder you were depressed,’ I said in a low voice.
‘Katherine, do you think——’
‘I think we’ve talked enough,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘It’s ten o’clock, Alec. I like to go to bed early—and you’ve got a long drive to-morrow, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I must go,’ he agreed.
I went with him to the door. ‘Good-bye,’ I said. ‘Thank you for everything and especially for being such a good friend. Take care of yourself and don’t drive too fast. The roads are always terribly crowded on Sundays.’
‘I shall start early,’ he replied. Then he added impulsively, ‘I wish I needn’t go. I wish I could stay here with you, Katherine. I could easily have taken my holiday in August.’
‘Perhaps you could come up for a week-end?’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ he replied regretfully. ‘One of my partners has gone to Brittany with his family, and the other, Andrew Forth, is having a well-earned rest. There’s nothing much doing at the office but somebody has to be on the spot—I told you that, didn’t I? As a matter of fact I wish I had lots of work to do, it’s pretty sickening hanging about. Oh well, it can’t be helped.’
I wanted to cheer him up so I said, ‘Remember the grasshopper, Alec.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he replied, smiling.
We said good-bye again—it was only afterwards that I remembered it was supposed to be unlucky.
Darkness comes late in these northern latitudes, so there was still enough pale grey light in the sky for me to watch Alec walk away. When he reached the trees he turned and saw me standing in the doorway—and waved.
I waved back to him.
Then he disappeared into the wood.
*
2
It was true that I liked to go to bed early, but that night I lay awake for a very long time. I was trying to tell myself to be careful. Once before I had given away my heart and had experienced the joy of loving and being loved, the happiness of feeling safe, comforted and cherished . . . and I had known the agony of losing it all. I had floundered for weeks in the Slough of Despond—miserable and rebellious—and then, for the sake of the children, I had struggled out. Gradually the pain had become bearable and my spine had stiffened; I found I could stand on my own feet. I was independent now and I intended to remain independent, barricaded in my stronghold. Alec was a dear; I wanted him as a friend—just a friend and nothing more.
Having settled this quite definitely I turned over and went to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday was a quiet day at Craig-an-Ron. There was no church within reasonable distance so I read some Bible Stories to the children and then sat on the shore of the loch and watched them playing. They had put on their bathing shorts so they sploshed about very happily making a harbour with stones. I decided to get them some little boats in the village but meanwhile they were quite contented with pieces of firewood, produced by Mrs. MacRam.
I thought of Alec and wondered where he was and hoped he was being careful. I thought about Zilla and decided that I must write to her and tell her how much we were enjoying our holiday in her charming little house.
On Monday morning at breakfast Daisy suddenly exclaimed, ‘I’ll tell you something. We better go to Inverquill and fetch the grand piano.’
This was Daisy’s joke. ‘Uncle Arly’ had said he could take all our luggage in his car except the grand piano; and he had taken all our luggage except the bicycles. The joke seemed the height of humour to Daisy and Den, but it had palled upon me by this time.
‘How can we fetch them?’ I asked.
‘Mrs. MacRam knows,’ replied Den. ‘She says Mr. Buchanan would take us to Inverquill and we can bicycle home. Mr. Buchanan often goes over to Inverquill to fetch things in his car for the people in the village.’
‘You must come too,’ said Daisy. ‘Then you
can ride home on Simon’s bike. It’s all quite easy.’
The idea did not attract me, but I realised that it would be much cheaper to go over and fetch the bicycles than to have them sent by road, so I put on my old tartan skirt, which was made like a kilt with pleats, and we set off at once upon the expedition.
We found Mr. Buchanan (who proved to be the owner of a funny little tumbledown garage and an extremely ancient taxi) and he agreed to convey the three of us to Inverquill for a small consideration. It seemed to me a quite inadequate consideration for the hire of his car—but he explained this by saying, ‘It would be more if you were wanting back.’
‘Why?’ asked Daisy with interest.
‘It’s chust because I’m always full,’ replied Mr. Buchanan ambiguously.
The two children got in beside Mr. Buchanan and I sat behind. We started off at a good pace—a surprisingly good pace considering the age of the vehicle and the condition of the road—the noise of the engine and the jolting made me quite dizzy. I noticed that the children were talking to our driver in an animated manner and wondered what they were saying. Presently Daisy turned and shouted, ‘Mums, Mr. Buchanan says it’s twelve miles to Inverquill in his car but only seven if you walk. Isn’t it funny?’
I nodded and smiled; there was too much noise in the car to attempt a reply.
Quite soon we arrived at Inverquill and were deposited at the station, where we found the three bicycles waiting for us. By this time I had hit upon a reasonable explanation of the elastic miles so I asked a porter if there were a short cut to Loch Ron.
‘Yes, indeed, but it iss chust for walking,’ he replied.
Another porter joined in, ‘Och, I would take a bike. It iss not as rough as all that. There wass a boy went that way thiss morning early. I wass telling him the way.’
‘But he wass walking,’ objected porter number one.
The boy did not interest me so I left them arguing about it. I had heard quite enough to convince me that it would be better to return by the road.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 19
