Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Unfortunately I was a poor bicyclist at the best of times and I found the bar on Simon’s machine extremely inconvenient. I was unable to mount unless there was something in the nature of a mounting block in the vicinity and the only way I could dismount was to fall off sideways. The road had seemed quite short in the car but now it seemed twice as long; it wound across the moor, uphill most of the way. On either side the moor stretched for miles, open and deserted, there was heather and bog; there was bog-cotton, blowing in the wind, and dark ridges where the crofters had cut their peat. Here and there we saw a lochan and scattered clumps of trees, gnarled and twisted by the winter storms.

  It would have been an enjoyable walk for it was a fine breezy morning, but Simon’s bicycle was so unruly that I began to be quite frightened and to wonder what would happen if I fell off and broke my leg. I was thankful when at last I arrived at Craig-an-Ron with no more damage than a grazed elbow. We put the bicycles into Alec’s garage—Daisy remarking that it was a funny place to keep the grand piano—and went into the cottage by the back door.

  Mrs. MacRam was in the kitchen and welcomed us as warmly as if we had been to the North Pole.

  ‘The young gentleman is here,’ she said. ‘I have given him his dinner.’

  ‘The young gentleman!’ I exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘Yes, it is Mister Simon; he walked over the hill from the station.’

  ‘Simon! But I wasn’t expecting him! He never let me know what day he was coming!’

  ‘Och, the sooner the better. It will not take a minute to make up the bed. I have the sheets airing on the pulley,’ said Mrs. MacRam cheerfully.

  By this time the children had rushed into the sitting-room and were greeting Simon with their usual enthusiasm. I followed and greeted him no less warmly.

  ‘But, darling! Why didn’t you let me know?’ I exclaimed. ‘I could have arranged to meet you with a taxi.’

  ‘Mr. Buchanan could have met you,’ said Den.

  ‘Then you wouldn’t have had to walk,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I meant to ring you up but there’s no telephone,’ replied Simon.

  This explanation was all right as far as it went but it did not account for Simon’s sudden arrival so much earlier than I had expected.

  ‘Didn’t you play in the cricket match?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I just—came home. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Mind? Of course not. It’s lovely to have you.’

  It was lovely to have him but I was worried by his look of exhaustion . . . and by a queer strained expression in his eyes. Simon’s eyes were usually clear and bright and eager; they were not so now.

  ‘You’re tired,’ I said. ‘You were travelling all night—and then you had that long walk over the hills. I think you had better rest this afternoon. What about it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll go to bed,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t sleep much in the train.’

  *

  2

  Simon spent the afternoon in bed. He did not come down till after five, by which time we had finished tea and the children had gone out for a walk with Mrs. MacRam.

  ‘I’ll make fresh tea for you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m not hungry,’ he replied.

  So far he had not told me anything nor explained why he had come without letting me know. He had intended to stay at Limbourne for another week and play in the cricket match, and to ride over to Hurlestone Manor. I wondered if I should ask him about it—or not. This was very strange because Simon and I had always been so close to each other that there had been no need to ‘wonder’ about him.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?’ I asked.

  ‘Quite sure. I found a hammock in the cupboard in my room. I expect it belongs to Alec but he wouldn’t mind us using it, would he?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.’

  Simon took the hammock and spent some time slinging it between two trees. When I went out he was lying in it and he looked so pale and exhausted that I was alarmed.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be feeling all right?’

  ‘You look—rather pale. I thought perhaps you had a headache.’

  ‘I’ve told you I’m all right,’ he said irritably.

  There was a wooden bench beneath the tree. It was quite near the hammock, so I sat down. I looked at Simon lying in the hammock and again I wondered whether I should ask him what had happened at Limbourne. Usually Simon was only too eager to talk—information gushed out of him like water out of a fountain—but to-day there was a barrier between us. I couldn’t ask questions, but I could talk. I began to talk rather feverishly about all that we had been doing, and I was in the middle of telling him about Alec bringing us to Craig-an-Ron in his car—and how it had rained all the way—when suddenly I realised that he was not listening.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ he said. He got up and walked off quickly and disappeared into the wood.

  Perhaps it was silly to be surprised—and hurt. All this was new country to Simon so it was natural that he should want to explore. Perhaps he had decided to wait until after supper when the children were in bed and we could settle down comfortably. He would talk to me then and tell me all his news.

  As usual the twins had their bath before supper and came downstairs in their dressing-gowns (I had found this much easier than giving them their supper in bed). Simon returned from his walk just as we were sitting down to the meal and took the empty place between Den and Daisy.

  ‘Simon, where have you been?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘I went for a walk.’

  ‘You must come and see our harbour,’ said Den. ‘You’ll come to-morrow morning, won’t you?’

  ‘It’s a gorgeous harbour,’ declared Daisy.

  They went on talking about the harbour and about the boats they had got—and especially about a model steam-boat which had been carved for them out of a piece of wood by Mr. MacRam. Usually Simon was amused by the children’s prattle and interested in all their doings, but to-night he seemed bored and listless.

  ‘Simon, you’re not listening,’ said Daisy reproachfully.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I was,’ said Simon.

  ‘I expect you’re thinking about Limbourne,’ said Den. ‘What did you do at Limbourne? Tell us about it.’

  ‘I rode a good deal.’

  ‘I’d like to ride,’ said Den eagerly. ‘Do you think we could go to Limbourne some day—and ride?’

  ‘Are there ponies?’ asked Daisy.

  Simon did not reply.

  ‘Perhaps, some day, when you’re older,’ I said.

  ‘Everything nice is “when you’re older,”’ said Daisy in discontented tones.

  When we had finished supper I took the children upstairs to bed; I heard them say their prayers and read them a story and tucked them up. As I bent down to kiss Daisy good night she said sadly, ‘Simon has got a pain. It’s a pity, isn’t it? Will it be better to-morrow?’

  ‘Yes, I expect it will be better to-morrow,’ I said.

  Certainly there was something very far wrong with Simon, but I did not think it was a pain.

  When I went downstairs Simon was sitting in a chair by the window reading a book.

  ‘Well, they’re safely in bed,’ I said cheerfully. ‘It’s cold to-night, isn’t it? Shall we light the fire and have a cosy chat?’

  ‘I’m too tired,’ said Simon. He rose and added, ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘Yes, of course you’re tired,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll come and say good night when you’ve had your bath.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll say good night now—perhaps I’ll read for a bit.’ He kissed me in a perfunctory manner and went away, shutting the door behind him.

  For a few moments I stood and looked at the closed door. Simon had shut me out!

  Never before had Simon treated me like this. I knew he was tired—but it wasn’t that. Simon was—diffe
rent. The happy friendly companionship, so precious to me, had gone. I felt that this boy was a stranger—not Simon at all. A stranger had looked at me unkindly out of Simon’s eyes.

  Alec had said, ‘You won’t lose the boy,’ but it seemed that I had lost him.

  I went and sat down by the window, thinking about it and wondering what to do. It would not have been quite so bad if I could have talked to somebody but I was alone and helpless. Two nights ago I had sat here waiting for Alec . . . I wished he were here now. I wished I could see him come out of the wood and down the slope to the cottage door. Perhaps Alec would have told me that I was making a mountain out of a molehill . . . but even that would have been a comfort.

  I sat by the window until the blue sky faded into queer grey northern twilight and one pale star began to glimmer above the mountain top.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning at breakfast Simon still looked haggard and miserable but I could see that he was making an effort to behave more normally so I pretended that everything was just as usual.

  The children were in very good spirits and full of chat. Now that ‘the grand piano’ was here they were determined to use it and announced that they were going to ride over to a ruined castle which Mr. MacRam had told them was ‘ferry interesting.’ They wanted Simon to go with them but he refused, saying that he intended to lie in the hammock and read. I was a little doubtful about letting the children go by themselves but Mrs. MacRam assured me that it would be quite safe. It was only four miles to the castle and the road was very quiet.

  After they had gone I discovered that they had coaxed sandwiches out of Mrs. MacRam and intended to have a picnic lunch and come home in time for tea.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mums,’ said Simon. ‘Mrs. MacRam knows, so if she says it’s all right it’s all right.’

  This was perfectly true, so I took my mending basket and the tartan plaid and settled down in my usual place beneath the rowan tree. It was not so warm this morning—the sky was overcast—but it was pleasant sitting there.

  Simon lay in the hammock reading his book—or pretending to read it—he did not seem to be getting on very fast. Presently he got up and wandered down to the loch; he stood there for a time and then picked up some stones and threw them into the water in an aimless manner.

  Quite suddenly I decided that we could not go on like this; I should have to do something about it. I called to him and asked him to go and get two cups of coffee from Mrs. MacRam. ‘We’ll have it out here,’ I said.

  Simon went away and soon returned with coffee and biscuits on a tray. I made room for him on the plaid and he sat down beside me. He was tethered now. He could not get up and wander away until he had finished his coffee; I was glad to find that the coffee was extremely hot.

  ‘Now tell me all your ’ventures,’ I said, smiling at him cheerfully. This was a joke between us. It was what Simon used to say long ago when he was a little boy and I had been to a party . . . but to-day there was no answering smile.

  ‘There isn’t much to tell you,’ he said drearily.

  ‘Did the D’Artingtons ask you over to Hurlestone Manor?’

  ‘Yes, but I couldn’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Grandfather said I was to wait until he could come with me.’

  ‘What else happened? Did you enjoy the treasure hunt?’

  ‘No.’

  I looked at him and saw that his face had become as white as paper. ‘Simon, what’s the matter?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘The matter!’ he echoed in alarm. ‘There’s nothing the matter. What makes you think——’

  ‘There is,’ I said firmly. ‘You’re frightfully worried. Tell me about it, Simon.’

  For a few moments he was silent. Then he said, ‘I owe Nitkin five pounds. I had to borrow it from him.’

  ‘Goodness, is that all? I’ll give it to you at once and you can send it to him by registered post.’

  ‘Thank you, Mums. Perhaps you think it was funny to borrow it from Nitkin, but he’s an awfully decent chap and I didn’t want to ask anyone else. I’ll—I’ll earn it and pay you back. Mrs. MacRam says that when the shooting begins the village boys earn quite a lot by beating, so I could——’

  ‘Simon, don’t be idiotic! You know perfectly well that I’d give you all I’ve got . . . and anyhow it was my fault for not giving you enough.’

  ‘You gave me enough,’ said Simon in a droning voice. ‘You gave me enough for tips and journey money and everything. I chucked it away. It would have been more sensible if I’d thrown it in the fire.’

  ‘You put it on a horse,’ I suggested.

  ‘No,’ said Simon.

  He rolled over on the rug and hid his face. ‘Why didn’t I come home with you!’ he said huskily. ‘Oh, Mums, why didn’t I? I very nearly did, you know. On Sunday night when you gave me the money I saw you were unhappy about it and I very nearly said I’d chuck the treasure hunt and come . . . just as nearly as—as nothing.’

  ‘My dear lamb, don’t worry. If it’s only five pounds it doesn’t matter a scrap. It isn’t worth worrying about.’

  ‘It isn’t only the money.’

  ‘What is it, Simon?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

  For a few minutes there was silence. I didn’t know how to tackle it. At last I said, ‘You’ve always told me things, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and I want to tell you—but I can’t.’

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘Yes. At least I suppose it’s a secret. I didn’t promise not to tell—they never asked me to promise—but all the same . . .’

  ‘Why not tell me? We could talk it over. It’s a good plan to talk things over.’

  ‘You might feel you had to do something about it. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Do something about it? What do you mean?’ I asked in bewilderment.

  He was silent—except for a muffled sob.

  I was terrified now. ‘Listen, Simon. If I promise to keep it a secret you can tell me, can’t you?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ I said earnestly. ‘You can tell me if I promise faithfully——’

  He turned and looked at me. ‘But could you?’ he asked. ‘Could you promise without knowing what it was?’

  I hesitated. Could I tie my hands like that?

  ‘You see?’ said Simon. ‘You see what I mean? You couldn’t promise without knowing.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ I declared in desperation. ‘I promise not to say a word about it to anybody.’

  ‘It’s a frightful thing; you’ll be horrified. Are you sure you want me to tell you?’

  I was quite sure. I didn’t care what it was. I wanted to share it with Simon. ‘Go on,’ I said encouragingly. ‘I’ve promised, haven’t I? Tell me what’s worrying you, Simon.’

  For a moment or two he hesitated and then, pulling himself together, he blurted out the whole extraordinary story.

  *

  2

  It was the ‘treasure hunt.’ Simon had been told to go upstairs to bed as usual and to change into his oldest clothes. While he was changing he heard several cars arrive in the stable-yard beneath his window . . . and he heard the sound of subdued voices. He heard Oliver Wade say, ‘Are you sure Simon is all right? Don’t you think it would be safer to leave him at home?’ Lance replied, ‘He’s all right. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Well, it’s your responsibility,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m not in favour of taking a kid like Simon; he’ll just be a damn’ nuisance—if not worse.’

  ‘He’s all right, I tell you,’ repeated Lance.

  Simon was ready now so he ran down and joined them. He felt pleased and excited, determined to keep his end up and to show them he was not such a ‘kid’ as they thought.

  Oliver was collecting the money and making a joke of it: ‘Come on, walk up and put your pennies in the kitty. It’s a good pool to-night. Who’s going to win?’


  ‘We are, of course!’

  ‘You haven’t a dog’s hope.’

  They were all talking and laughing; they were all tensed up with excitement.

  Simon noticed that they were all giving Oliver five pounds for the pool, so when it came to his turn he produced one of the five-pound notes which I had given him and handed it over (‘in a moment of madness,’ said Simon miserably).

  When that was settled the competitors divided up into couples; Anthea went with Oliver in his sports car and Simon with Lance on his motor-bike. Each ‘observer’ had been given a card with a pencil attached.

  Simon looked at his card and saw it was blank. He showed it to Lance.

  ‘Yes, that’s all right,’ said Lance. ‘You have to fill it up as we go along. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  When Simon got thus far in his story he stopped—and there was silence. Then he said, ‘Are you sure you want to hear what happened?’

  ‘Yes, of course I want to hear. There was a treasure hunt when we were at Oxford and I went with Antony Finch, so I know what happens. You go to a place and find a clue. Then you——’

  ‘There were no clues. It wasn’t really a treasure hunt at all.’

  ‘What was it, then?’

  ‘It was—just—destroying things.’

  ‘Simon, I don’t know what you mean!’

  ‘They destroyed things—that was the game. The people who did the most destruction got the prize.’

  For a moment or two I was dumb with amazement and consternation. Then I managed to find my voice. ‘They destroyed things? What sort of things, Simon?’

  ‘Various things,’ he replied in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘I didn’t know what was going to happen until suddenly Lance stopped at a telephone-box and told me to hold the bike. He went in and smashed the instrument with a sort of small pick-axe—he had it hanging on his belt—“There, that’s number one. Write it down on the card,” he said. I was absolutely flabbergasted; I told him he was crazy but he just laughed and said I wasn’t to be a spoil-sport. He said, “You wanted to join in the fun, didn’t you? Go on, make a note of it on the card.” I said I wouldn’t, so he snatched the card and wrote on it himself and put it in his pocket.