‘Then he went on. We went for miles—all over the country—I don’t know where we went. It was a very dark night, cloudy and cold. The wind was like a knife. There was a house standing by itself in a lane, with three cars at the gate. Lance stopped and bashed the paintwork of the cars and broke the windows. It made a frightful noise and several people came running out of the house to see what was happening—they had been having a party or something. They shouted at us but Lance jumped on to the bike and we were off at full speed. He was laughing in a crazy sort of way—like a lunatic.’
‘Oh, Simon, couldn’t you do anything?’
‘I know,’ agreed Simon in a shaky voice. ‘That’s the worst of it. That’s what’s making me miserable. I ought to have done something—but what could I do? What could I have done? Even now I don’t see what I could have done. I think and think. Of course I tried to argue with him—but it was no use. I asked him to take me home; but he wouldn’t listen. He kept on saying that it was fun—it was just a game. He said it was good for people to be shaken up and startled; it bounced them out of their rut. Then he got angry with me and said, “You persuaded me to bring you and now you won’t play the game.” That was true, of course; I had persuaded him to bring me. He said, “I told Oliver I’d be responsible for you.” That was true too. I had heard him say it to Oliver.
‘Well, I’ve told you enough,’ added Simon. ‘It isn’t a nice story, is it?’
It wasn’t a nice story but I knew that somehow or other I must make him tell me more. I must dig into his mind and pull out every detail. When he had told me he would feel better. (I don’t know how I knew this; I just knew it—quite definitely.) ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘You can’t stop in the middle.’
‘Do you really want me to go on?’
‘Yes, tell me everything.’
‘I can’t remember everything he did—it was like a nightmare. I was frightfully cold and that made me stupid. You see I didn’t expect it would be cold so I hadn’t put on nearly enough clothes. I hadn’t put on my coat—just a jersey. I was numb all over and my teeth were chattering. Perhaps it was partly because I was frightened—I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. Lance seemed to have gone mad. He smashed some traffic lights—I remember that—and he stopped at a cottage with a little garden and went in and pulled up some bushes and a whole row of sweet-peas and strewed them about all over the place and trampled on them. I suppose that wasn’t as bad as some of the other things, but I kept thinking about the people coming down in the morning and finding their nice little garden spoilt and ruined. . . .’
Simon was leaning forward, picking at the turf with his hands. He looked so young and defenceless that I could have wept. I felt that I should have been able to protect him. I felt as if I were to blame. I wanted to take him in my arms and soothe him—as I had done when he was a little boy and he had fallen down and grazed his knees—but that was not the way to deal with Simon’s troubles.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘Yes, there’s more. We came to a place where the road had been dug up—for drains or something. There was a deep trench with little lamps along the edge. The moment I saw it I knew what he meant to do. I said, “No, Lance! No, you can’t! It’s dangerous.” “Shut up, you little sap!” he said furiously. We both got off the bike and he started swearing at me and saying that what I needed was a thrashing. I said he could thrash me if he liked but I wasn’t going to let him move the lamps. The trench was quite deep so there might have been a frightful accident. I told you it was a very dark night, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘He was in a steaming rage. He said I was a prig and a smug little rotter and—and a lot of other things. At one moment I thought he was going for me. Perhaps he would have beaten me if the watchman hadn’t wakened. There was a watchman in a little hut close by. He came out and shouted at us—called us a pair of drunken hooligans. Lance told him to keep his hair on. He said, “My cousin and I are having a little argument, that’s all.” The man said, “Well, you can go and have it somewhere else.” Lance laughed and kicked one of the lamps into the trench. Then we got on to the bike and were off. The man called out that he had taken our number and we’d hear about it—but that didn’t worry Lance. He had a false number-plate, you see. I forgot to tell you that. It was raining by that time—horrid drizzly rain—so we went home.’
‘What happened when you got home?’
‘Two cars had arrived before us; they were in the yard. I didn’t wait. I got off the bike and went up to my room and undressed. I was wet through. I heard them all talking under my window, they were waiting for the others to come. Then Oliver came, with Anthea, and they compared notes of what they had done, making jokes about it. Lance kept on telling them to be quiet or they’d waken everyone in the house. Oliver collected the cards and said he would take them home and decide who had won. The others wanted him to do it then and there, but he said it was too late to do it to-night. He had bottles in his car, so they all had drinks and after a bit they said good night and went away. I had gone to bed but I couldn’t sleep. I kept on thinking about it and wondering what I ought to have done. I ought to have done something. It was frightfully cowardly of me not to do anything, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t see what you could have done.’
‘Really and truly?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, really and truly.’
‘Well, that’s a comfort,’ said Simon with a sigh. ‘I thought you’d say I ought to have told Grandfather . . . but I simply couldn’t. He isn’t the sort of person you can tell things to. You won’t do anything about it, will you?’
I reminded him of my promise. As a matter of fact, even if I hadn’t given my promise, I didn’t see what I could do.
‘What will happen if they get caught?’ asked Simon.
I couldn’t answer that. I remembered what the Heaths had told me about vandalism in the neighbourhood; there had been quite a lot about vandalism in the papers as well. Now, incredible though it was, the problem had come very near. It was no longer a theoretical problem—and the vandals were not hooligans from the city slums, but young men and girls who ought to know better.
‘Would they be put in prison?’ Simon asked.
‘They ought to be put in prison,’ I declared emphatically. ‘It would do them good . . . but I suppose it would depend upon how serious the damage was.’
‘Some of it was pretty bad. Some of the things that the others did were worse than I’ve told you. Lance didn’t win the prize. At least he never spoke to me about it—never mentioned the subject.
‘It was funny, really,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘When I went down to breakfast next morning they were just the same as usual—Lance and Anthea, I mean. It was all so much as usual that I could scarcely believe it had happened. It was just like a bad dream.’
‘But it wasn’t a dream.’
‘No, it was real and horrible. I had made up my mind in the night that I would go home. I just felt I had to get home as soon as ever I could. When I told Lance and Anthea that I found I had to go home to-morrow they looked at each other and smiled.
‘Anthea came into my room while I was packing and asked why I hadn’t enjoyed the treasure hunt. She said, “Of course it’s wrong but it’s so exciting.” She said she hadn’t liked it at first, but now she enjoyed it more than anything . . . it was half the fun to be frightened. I told her that some day she would be caught and she said, “Not with Oliver, he can twist his way out of anything. He thinks of terribly thrilling things to do.” She told me that one night they set fire to an empty house and then rang up the fire-station . . . and when the fire-engine came they joined in the crowd and Oliver helped the firemen with their hose. She laughed and said, “That was tremendous fun. Oliver is marvellous”.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Simon had finished speaking we sat for some time in silence.
At last I
said, ‘They must be mad to do things like that.’
‘I thought so at first . . . and then I remembered that dog in the house next door when we were at Oxford. Its master was a horrible man and always kept it on a chain. When he let it off the chain it ran wild and attacked any dog that happened to be passing. There was something fierce inside it that just had to come out. Dad said it was “bottled-up violence.” Do you remember?’
Of course I remembered.
‘Well, Lance and Anthea are chained up; they’ve always been chained up since they were children—never been allowed to do what they wanted. That’s why they run wild.’
‘You don’t feel like that, do you?’ I asked anxiously.
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ve never been chained up.’
‘You will be—when you go to Limbourne.’
‘I know—and I couldn’t stand it—so I’m not going.’
‘Not going to Limbourne!’ I exclaimed incredulously. I couldn’t believe my ears. It was too good to be true.
‘I couldn’t bear it,’ declared Simon. ‘I just—couldn’t. It’s very comfortable and I enjoyed bits of it—riding with Nitkin and all that—but you can’t do a thing you want. There were several things I wanted to do and he just said I couldn’t. For instance, Wilfrid D’Artington rang up and asked me to go over to tea and I accepted. I told Nitkin and he was all for it. He brought the horses round at three o’clock, and we were just starting when Grandfather came out and said I wasn’t to go. He said I must wait until another day when he could come with me. I couldn’t understand it. I reminded him that he had said I could ride whenever I liked, but he didn’t listen. He told Nitkin to take the horses back to the stable—and of course Nitkin had to. I was fed up, I can tell you! I’d been looking forward to riding over and meeting Wilfrid and seeing the place—it would have been fun—and of course I felt a perfect fool having to ring up and say I couldn’t come after all. There were other things too—silly things—but you can’t talk to him and explain. He just gives orders as if he were Hitler or somebody. The fact is you can’t call your soul your own. That’s why I’ve decided to go to Butterfields with Mark.’
‘I thought you liked your grandfather.’
‘I do—in a way,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘He was kind to me, especially at first. He’s quite all right if you do exactly as he says, but you’ve got to be careful not to put his back up. You’ve got to do everything you’re told—without question. After a bit I began to feel—to feel——’
‘Chained up?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s a horrible feeling. I wouldn’t mind going to Limbourne for a week or so in the holidays, but I couldn’t go and live there.’
‘Perhaps Sir Mortimer would agree to that.’
‘Not a hope! If you don’t do exactly as you’re told you’re finished. I haven’t told him yet. I didn’t dare tell him; I was afraid he might try to—persuade me. It’s very difficult to stand up to him . . . if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. There was tremendous force in Sir Mortimer; I had felt it myself.
‘I’ll have to write to him,’ continued Simon. ‘He’ll be furious, of course, but I can’t help it.’
Simon rose and stretched his arms above his head. ‘I must be free to breathe,’ he said.
‘You’re giving up a lot, Simon.’
‘I know, but it’s better than giving up my freedom.’
‘You’re giving up a lot,’ I repeated. I wanted him to count the cost.
‘You mean going to Austria—and hunting—and having a car of my own? Yes, I’ve thought of that . . . and I’m afraid it means he won’t pay for Den’s education. All that goes west.’
‘Let it go west!’
‘You’re pleased,’ said Simon, looking at me in surprise.
‘Yes, I’m pleased. There’s a queer unhappy atmosphere about Limbourne. I found it terribly depressing.’
‘I know what you mean, but I thought at first I could bear it. Then suddenly I knew I couldn’t.’
‘Like Dad. He felt he had to escape from Limbourne because he valued his freedom so highly.’
‘Like Dad,’ said Simon and nodded thoughtfully.
*
2
We talked for some time; we talked until I felt fairly certain that Simon had told me all there was to tell. Then for a while we were silent.
‘Well, that’s all,’ said Simon at last. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you, it seems to have cleared the air. Perhaps I shan’t have that horrible dream again.’
‘What was it?’
‘Oh, well . . . dreams are rather silly when you tell them to people, aren’t they?’
I made him tell me. Like all dreams it was very vivid to the dreamer but difficult to narrate. Simon had dreamt ‘over and over again’ that he had rushed out in the middle of the night to ring up the doctor and had found the telephone smashed to pieces. ‘It was in that village I told you about,’ he explained. ‘It was that red telephone-box. I know it sounds silly, but it’s a ghastly dream; I always wake up dripping with perspiration. You see it’s Daisy that’s ill—frightfully ill—and I know she’ll die if I don’t get the doctor.’
‘It’s over now, Simon.’
‘Over? How do you mean?’
‘They’ve mended it,’ I said firmly.
He looked at me—and laughed. ‘You are funny,’ he said.
‘They’ve mended it,’ I repeated with conviction. ‘Telephones are always mended at once; the people in that village can go and ring up the doctor whenever they want.’
Simon nodded thoughtfully.
‘Come on,’ I said, leaping to my feet. ‘We’ll get Mr. MacRam’s boat and go for a row on the loch.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know there was a boat!’ exclaimed Simon in delight.
We got the key of the boat-house, and took out the boat and Simon rowed me across the loch. He was not an accomplished oarsman and at first he rowed like a maniac: the boat went scudding through the water, spray flew in all directions and I was almost drenched, but I remembered what Alec had said about letting off steam so I bore it in silence.
When we reached the opposite shore he stopped and, taking out a somewhat grubby handkerchief, wiped his face. ‘Gosh, I’m hot!’ he said.
‘Hot!’ I echoed, raising my eyebrows. ‘I wonder why you’re hot. I’m perfectly cool and comfortable.’
He chuckled. ‘It’s fun being with you, Mums. There was no fun at Limbourne. As a matter of fact I believe that’s what’s wrong with the place,’ he added in thoughtful tones.
‘Let’s row round the island,’ I suggested. (I didn’t want him to talk about Limbourne.)
Simon took up the oars and rowed slowly and steadily across to the island. I told him what Alec had said about the vitrified wall; he was interested but there was no time to go and look at it to-day, and although we found a huddle of stones, which had once been a landing-place, we could see no path leading from it. The whole island was completely covered with thorn trees and brambles and nettles right down to the edge of the water.
‘Difficult to explore,’ said Simon.
‘Impossible,’ I declared firmly; I was thinking of the rents and tears I should have to mend if such an expedition were to take place.
‘Not impossible,’ objected Simon. ‘You could do it in gum boots.’
‘You might do it in a suit of armour,’ I said.
The day had been cloudy at first, but now the clouds had vanished and the sun was shining with the clear brilliance which is typical of the Scottish Highlands, the brilliance that makes one forget clouds and mist and rain. It was really hot, so we rowed home slowly and were late in getting back for lunch.
Fortunately Mrs. MacRam was unperturbed. ‘Och, it does not matter,’ she said in answer to my apologies. ‘I saw you on the loch. The young gentleman was enjoying himself—and the sun is shining.’
‘Yes, the sun is shining,’ I agreed.
Simon ate a hearty
meal and then went out and lay in the hammock; later, when I went to look at him I found him asleep, so I covered him with a light rug. I tucked it round him—and he never stirred.
It was nearly eight o’clock when Simon woke; he strolled into the sitting-room with the rug over his arm.
‘Hallo,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I must have gone to sleep. Have the children come home yet?’
I laughed. ‘The children came home hours ago and have gone to bed.’
He looked at the clock and grinned; it was his same old wide grin that stretched nearly from ear to ear and crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘Well, what d’you know!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought I’d been asleep for about twenty minutes.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At Craig-an-Ron the days passed quickly; Simon spent hours sailing his model yacht. Quite often I went with him in Mr. MacRam’s boat and manœuvred it for him while he set the sails and sent the yacht gliding gracefully through the clear water, bending to the breeze . . . it was a charming sight. At first Simon had found it difficult to adjust the sails correctly but he learnt by trial and error. Sometimes the children came with us, but more often they preferred to play with their own little boats at the water’s edge.
One day we had a picnic, walking along the shore of the loch to a sheltered cove, where we bathed; another day Simon took the children for a bicycle expedition. In a week we were as brown as West Indians; even Den was brown, his eyes were brighter and he was putting on weight. The good plain fare provided by Mrs. MacRam suited us all.
Zilla had warned me that it would be dull at the cottage, but I did not find it dull. Rest was what I needed. It was only now when I was relaxed and peaceful that I discovered how tired I had been. I realised that I was worn out in body and spirit with the strain of struggling along by myself, coping with the children and trying to make ends meet on an inadequate income. I had prided myself upon my independence and somehow or other I had managed . . . but now I began to wonder whether independence was so important. Perhaps one could pay too highly for it.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 21
