Here, in this peaceful spot, with Mrs. MacRam to provide a firm cushion to lean upon, I gradually began to feel like a different creature. I felt years younger, with a returning zest for life—as one sometimes does when convalescent after a long illness. Colours looked brighter, food tasted delicious and every day was a pleasure.
Never before had I enjoyed a holiday so much . . . there was only one fly in the ointment.
After the first day when Simon had told me about his experiences we did not speak of them again. I knew that Simon would have to write to his grandfather but there was no hurry about it and I decided to ask Alec to help us. It would be Simon’s letter, couched in his own words, but Alec’s advice would be valuable. Meantime I watched Simon, sailing his yacht, swimming in the loch and playing happily with the children.
Simon’s unhappy experiences at Limbourne were fading rapidly from his mind—which was what I had hoped would happen—but he had unloaded his troubles on to me and I could not get rid of them so easily. Every now and then I had ‘an attack of the worries’ (as Aunt Liz would have said) and lay awake at night—and wondered what mischief Oliver and Lance and the other members of the ‘club’ were up to. I was so angry with them that I should have liked to sit down and write to Sir Mortimer and tell him what I thought of him and his family. Failing that I should have liked to write to Mr. Heath; he was a good, kind, sensible man and would know how to tackle the matter . . . but I had promised faithfully not to do anything about it. My hands were tied and my lips were sealed. I couldn’t even write to Alec and tell him what had happened. How I wished I could!
Her Majesty’s Mail was delivered at the cottage by a young woman on a bicycle; she was the daughter of the postmistress in the village and, incidentally, a cousin of Mrs. MacRam (I had discovered that nearly everybody was related in cousinship to nearly everybody in this part of the world). As there are no other houses in the direction of Craig-an-Ron our ‘postie’ had to make a special trip to deliver our letters and did so when it was convenient to her—sometimes in the early morning and sometimes late in the evening—but no matter what time she arrived she was always regaled with cakes and tea in the kitchen.
Daisy was enchanted by this young woman—who, I must admit, was a delightful creature with dark curls and a ravishing complexion—they had long conversations which were retailed to us faithfully at meal-times.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Daisy said. ‘Last February the snow was so deep that Morag had to wear snowshoes. She says they’re like great big tennis rackets and she fixes them on to her boots. Another day she got lost in the mist and suddenly found herself right in the middle of a bog—sinking fast. She had to fling herself flat on her face and crawl out.’
‘What a hard life for a girl!’ I exclaimed.
‘But awfully exciting,’ said Daisy. ‘I’d like to be a postie when I grow up. Do you think I could, Mums? I told Morag and she said it was a good healthy life.’
‘Yes, it must be,’ I agreed. ‘Morag looks the picture of health.’
I was quite used to my daughter’s sudden ideas about what she wanted to be when she grew up. When she was in hospital having her appendix removed she had decided quite definitely to be a nurse, but had abandoned this noble ambition after a visit to the Zoo, where we had seen a girl-assistant. Daisy had made up her mind that this was the life for her. ‘Perhaps, when I had been there for a bit, they would let me feed the lions,’ she had said hopefully. This phase had lasted until Christmas, when she had been taken to see Peter Pan and had been so thrilled with the idea of flying that she had decided to go on the stage.
Now she was going to be a ‘postie’—like Morag!
‘You keep on changing your mind,’ said Den with scorn.
‘I know,’ agreed Daisy. ‘There are so many nice things to do. That’s why. But being a postie, like Morag, would be the nicest of all because you’d be out of doors all the time . . . and it would be such fun to take letters to people. Morag says people are always so pleased to see her and get their letters from her. It’s so interesting, Morag says.’
Our post-bag was not heavy. One day we all received large brightly-coloured picture post-cards from Copenhagen, which caused a great deal of excitement; another day I received some bills, which was not nearly so pleasant; I had one or two letters from friends and, one evening, Morag brought me a letter from Alec.
It was a nice long letter telling me what he had been doing: he had played golf several times; he had been to Jedburgh to see an old client about a right-of-way and had enjoyed the run; he had attended a very dull dinner, had eaten too much rich food and been bored stiff by a lot of speeches. The letter continued:
To-morrow I am going to dinner with the Forths. I think I told you about my partner, Andrew Forth. He and his wife have a charming house at Murray-field. They have a cook who is a friend of Ellen’s so they have asked me to take Ellen to have supper in the kitchen. It is very kind of them—but that is what they are like; very kind and thoughtful. Ellen is delighted and you can imagine the two of us going out to dinner together in the car! Zilla would be horrified if she knew—but Zilla will never know.
I had a long letter from Zilla, she is enjoying herself immensely; she tells me about some of the lovely old castles they have visited, especially about one ancient château where she saw the apparition of a lady who lived in the time of Le Roi Soleil and was locked up in a dungeon by her jealous husband. Being ‘solid and sensible’ I do not believe in ghosts—I wonder if you do!—but I am not surprised that Zilla imagines she saw the grey lady. Zilla had steeped herself in the history of the place and therefore was open to suggestion. On the strength of this experience Zilla believes herself to be psychic and has decided to join some sort of club—or circle—in London which meets regularly to communicate with the spirits of the departed. I am not at all sure that this will be good for Zilla but I can do nothing about it. Madeline and Jack seem to be encouraging her in this new plan. Zilla has decided to go to New Zealand for six months, meanwhile Madeline will find her a suitable flat in London. Zilla says she would like to have some furniture from The Cedars—including all the furniture in her bedroom—and naturally I shall be only too pleased for her to have anything she wants. It will be quite easy to refurnish the bedroom, when necessary. Zilla’s letter is very friendly and it has taken a weight off my mind; obviously she is quite happy—and willing to let bygones be bygones.
I wish I could see some prospect of a free week-end so that I could run up to Loch Ron and see you, but there is no hope of that. Some unexpected work has turned up and I am fairly busy. I hope all goes well with you and that you are enjoying a peaceful holiday. You certainly deserve it.
Ellen, who is going to post this for me on her way to church, wishes to send her ‘best respects.’
Please accept the same from your affectionate
friend,
alec
*
2
When it rained—as it sometimes did at Craig-an-Ron—it rained very softly in a deceitful sort of way and gave you the impression that it was hardly raining at all, so it was not until you had gone some distance that you discovered it was very wet indeed—by which time you were wet through to the skin. A shower-proof coat was useless, it had to be oilskins and rubber boots.
Simon and Den were perfectly happy on rainy days; they had discovered a bookshelf in Simon’s room (it was really Alec’s room, of course). Obviously Alec’s taste was catholic; Dorothy Sayers rubbed shoulders with Sir Walter Scott, Edgar Wallace, John Buchan and Zane Grey. There were also some paperback editions of authors whose names I did not know. I told the boys they could read these books if they were very careful with them.
Den had pounced upon Memory Hold the Door and was working through it slowly but steadily; Simon’s tastes were different, he was racing through The Green Archer at break-neck speed.
On this particular morning it was raining, so the boys had settled down with their books . . . but D
aisy was made of different stuff.
‘It isn’t raining very badly’ she declared as she flattened her nose against the window-pane.
‘Go out,’ muttered Simon.
‘It’s dull going out by yourself,’ said Daisy sadly. ‘I want somebody to come. It’s such a waste to stay indoors—it is, really. Boys oughtn’t to mind a few drops of rain.’
The boys made no reply.
‘I want Mums to come,’ said Daisy, looking at me hopefully.
‘I’m writing to Aunt Liz.’
‘Well, finish quickly and we can walk to the village and post it.’
‘We’ll see . . . presently.’
‘Now, this minute,’ urged Daisy. ‘It’s such fun walking through the woods in the rain and I ought to have exercise, you know. I’m getting fatter and fatter. You said I ought to have lots of exercise, Mums.’
‘Shut up,’ growled Den.
I had to go. To tell the truth it was no great hardship for I shared my daughter’s predilection for walking in the rain—not in town, of course, where the rain splashed on the pavements and the houses dripped, black and gloomy, but here in the woods where the trees welcomed the crystal drops and the birds twittered happily and everything smelt fresh and sweet.
I finished my letter hurriedly and we sallied forth to post it.
Zilla had said the village was ‘no great shakes’ but I had been there several times and had found it surprisingly pleasant. There were half a dozen shops: butcher, baker, grocer and ironmonger, besides quite a well-stocked shoe-shop and a tiny store for ‘fancy goods’ where you could buy plaids and nylons and reels of cotton and toys. In fact Mrs. Mackay had such an amazing variety of goods, all stowed away in cardboard boxes, that she could produce almost anything you wanted—provided you were not impatient.
When we had posted the letter we visited Mrs. Mackay and I asked if she had any socks to fit Daisy.
She smiled happily. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I have them. I just can’t remember where I put them,’ and forthwith she began her search, taking out one cardboard box after another and rummaging through them slowly as if she had all the time in the world at her disposal.
‘I’m sure I have them,’ she repeated. ‘Are they here? Och, these are pullovers! You would not be wanting a pullover, Mistress Wentworth? Lambswool, they are—and such pretty colours! I have some lengths of Harris tweed—would you care to see them? Och, this box is full of shooting stockings—hand-knitted, Mistress Wentworth. There are gentlemen that come to me every year for shooting stockings. I am wondering if you would mention it to Mister Maclaren?’
‘He isn’t here, Mrs. Mackay.’
‘But he will be coming soon. I would let you take the box on approval and——’
‘He isn’t coming,’ I said.
She sighed and climbed on to a chair to reach a higher shelf. ‘It was gloves for the wee girl you were wanting.’
‘Socks,’ I said. By this time I had fallen in love with a lambswool pullover; it was deep blue with an open neck and was softer than silk. ‘Is this my size?’ I asked.
‘Och, that is beautiful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Mackay ecstatically. ‘Would you slip it on, Mistress Wentworth? There is such a softness in lambswool—there is nothing so kind.’
‘Is it very expensive?’ I asked apprehensively.
‘Not at all,’ she declared. ‘Besides it is more thrifty to buy a good garment that will be a friend to you for years.’
‘Mums, look at this dear little doll!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘Can I have it, please?’
‘But, Daisy, you never play with dolls!’
‘I would play with this one—I would, really. I’d rather have it than socks.’
‘You need socks,’ I said firmly.
‘I need this doll, Mums. I need it. I would take it to bed with me.’
Mrs. Mackay climbed down from the chair. She said, ‘If you are wanting a dolly to cuddle in bed you are wanting a nice soft one. Now, where did I put the soft dollies?’
‘We want socks, Mrs. Mackay,’ I told her.
She was still searching, but whether she was searching for socks or soft dollies nobody will ever know for before she had found either the door opened and a man came in—a tall, thin, soldierly-looking man in a tweed suit. He was wet through. Water was dripping from him on to the floor.
Mrs. Mackay abandoned us and smiled sweetly at the newcomer. ‘It is shooting stockings the gentleman will be wanting!’ she suggested.
‘I don’t,’ he replied crossly. ‘All I want is a garage—but there doesn’t seem to be such a thing in the place. My car has broken down about two miles out of the village. It’s these ghastly roads. Can you direct me to the nearest garage, please?’
‘There is not a proper garage——’ began Mrs. Mackay in flustered tones.
‘There is!’ exclaimed Daisy. ‘I mean of course it isn’t a proper garage, but there’s Mr. Buchanan. He’s awfully nice and very good with cars—Uncle Arly said so—and he has a petrol pump.’
‘Where is this improper garage?’ inquired the stranger.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Daisy.
This offer did not surprise me in the least for my daughter is a friendly soul—shyness is unknown to her. I was about to tell her to come straight back (for I was aware that if anything interesting was going on she might be away for hours) but it was too late. Daisy and her new friend had vanished.
‘What a kind wee lassie!’ exclaimed Mrs. Mackay admiringly.
It was true of course, Daisy was very kind-hearted, but she was also somewhat inquisitive and eager for adventures. There was nothing that she enjoyed more than going to new places and meeting new people. She is still the same and always will be—Life is one big adventure to Daisy.
Now that Daisy had gone I was able to pin down Mrs. Mackay and finish my business with her. I bought two pairs of socks and the lambswool pullover (this was an extravagance, and I felt somewhat guilty, but it was so entrancing that I could not resist it). I emerged from the shop to find it was still raining gently but the sky had lightened, so perhaps the afternoon would be fine. Daisy was not in sight but there was no need to wait for her; she could come home by herself quite easily.
*
3
Having decided not to wait for Daisy I set off across the moor and had almost reached the woods when I heard a piercing yell and turned to see her running after me at full speed.
‘He’s nice!’ cried Daisy breathlessly. ‘I showed him the way. Mr. Buchanan is going to mend his car but it won’t be ready till to-morrow. He said he was wet through to the skin and he hoped he wouldn’t get new-monia. He said the rain here was wetter than other places. Do you think it is—really?’
‘It’s certainly very wet sort of rain and he hadn’t a waterproof, had he?’
‘He had left it in the car because he didn’t think it was raining very hard—and then he found it was. He said, “It’s very kind of you to show me the way. What’s your name?” and I said, “Miss Marguerite Wentworth” and he said, “The devil you are!” I’m not saying devil,’ explained Daisy virtuously. ‘I’m just telling you what he said, that’s all.’
I took the point.
‘So then he said, “Well, if you’re Miss Marguerite Wentworth I’m your uncle,” and I said, “You can’t be, because I haven’t got an uncle except Uncle Arly and he isn’t a proper uncle,” and he said, “I’m a very proper uncle.” Then he asked Mr. Buchanan where he could stay the night and Mr. Buchanan said he could stay at the hotel. So I said, “It isn’t a proper hotel—just an inn—and the aunt is at the bottom of the garden in a wooden shed.”’ Daisy paused in her recital to giggle. Then she continued, ‘He didn’t know what the aunt was—but Mr. Buchanan knew. Mr. Buchanan said, “It is an earth-closet, sir, but ferry clean and wholesome. There is nothing nasty about it,” and I said, “There’s spiders.” I know there are, because Uncle Arly told me. Uncle Arly likes spiders because they remind him of Robert the Bruc
e. Do you know about Robert the Bruce and the spider?’
‘Yes.’
‘It tried over and over again to climb up the thread and at last it managed to do it. Uncle Arly said he was like Robert the Bruce because there was something he wanted very badly and it wouldn’t be easy to get, but he would go on trying till he got it—no matter how long it took. Robert the Bruce wanted a kingdom,’ said Daisy thoughtfully. ‘What does Uncle Arly want?’
‘What else did that gentleman say? Did you find out who he was?’
‘But, Mums, I’ve told you! He’s my uncle.’
‘He can’t be your uncle. He just said it for fun.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Daisy in a disappointed voice. ‘I thought it was true. It’s a pity, because I liked him.’
‘You like most people, don’t you?’
‘Most people,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t like Miss Sims—who teaches us sums—and I don’t like Zilla.’
‘Zilla?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Yes, Uncle Arly’s sister. She isn’t nice to Uncle Arly so I don’t like her. I love Uncle Arly,’ declared Daisy ecstatically. ‘I adore Uncle Arly—don’t you, Mums?’
‘Look, Daisy, there’s a chaffinch!’ I said. ‘Hush, don’t make a noise. Let’s watch him.’
We stood and watched the chaffinch for a few moments. He was sitting on a wooden rail, preening himself and chirping sweetly.
‘Isn’t he a darling?’ whispered Daisy.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After lunch the weather cleared, as I had hoped, so the three went off together on their bicycles, taking sandwiches and a Thermos flask and a bottle of milk for their tea.
‘It’s a pity you can’t come,’ said Simon. ‘Couldn’t you hire a bike in the village? Or perhaps Mrs. MacRam would lend you hers.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m perfectly happy,’ I told him. Bicycling had no charms for me; I much preferred a lazy afternoon in peace and solitude.
When I had seen them off I settled myself comfortably in Simon’s hammock with a cushion behind my head. The sun was golden, the sky blue and cloudless; it was difficult to believe it had rained this morning. Above me were green leaves, moving gently in the almost imperceptible breeze.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 22
