The Green Years

by A. J. Cronin

  Chapter Seven

  Levenford, as Mama had once said, was a smoky old town, but the woods, lochs and mountains round about were beautiful. There were all sorts of local Rambling and Photographic Clubs with nominal subscription fees of about half-a-crown, yet when Kate or Jamie pressed me to join, when Grandma, even, with a shrewd look, suggested that a brisk walk “would do me no harm,” I merely shook by head and went up to my bed to read. I, who once lived, practically, upon the high summits of the windy crags, had not seen the real countryside for months. However, on the morning of the Trades Spring Holiday, I felt a swift resurgence of my expeditionary fever.

  Unhappily, in Scotland, there is always an enemy to combat—the weather. And on this day of freedom, I saw, from my window, as I dressed, that the skies were grey and dripping. Was it to be one of these incessant downpours rendered more depressing because of the sense of a holiday spoiled? I groaned and hastened to the railway station.

  Here a number of excursionists were standing, rather disconsolately, on the damp platform; and as I made my way along, my heart suddenly began to beat furiously. She was already there, talking to Jason Reid, wearing a sturdy mackintosh and a navy blue beret pulled over her thick hair. Immediately the entire station was illuminated by her presence. As I approached, Reid gave me a nod of greeting.

  “Don’t worry, Shannon. I’m not coming with you.”

  Alison shook the raindrops from her nose, interrogating me with a wry smile. “ Isn’t this the limit, Robie? Perhaps it’s too wet to go?”

  “Oh, no,” I said hurriedly.

  I longed to go, in fact I knew that we must, simply must go, even if it hailed. I was reassured when Reid said cheerily:

  “You won’t melt. Only see you don’t get washed overboard: My barometer registered ‘Warm & Dry,’ this morning. Sure sign of a typhoon.”

  In these last two years Reid had lost much of his moroseness. This new capacity for not getting “low” in adverse circumstances was something I envied him immensely—I so sadly lacked that quality myself. He was going to Winton on some business for Mrs. Keith, and after talking to us for a moment he left to get his train on the other side. As he did so it struck me that a look of complicity passed between Alison and him; I could not be sure, I was hurrying to the booking office, in my usual harassed fashion, to see about our tickets.

  Presently Alison and I took the train to Ardfillan. After the short railway journey, making a dash from the station to the pier, dodging through stacks of barrels and coils of rope, while the fresh breeze from the sea slanted the rain against us, we boarded the North British Railway Company’s paddle boat, the Lucy Ashton, which made the run to Ardencaple. After wandering round and viewing the engines we found a place in the lee of the deck house where we could stand in comparative shelter. Soon a bell rang below, the hawsers were cast off, the red paddles began to thrash the water, and the ship throbbed away from the quay.

  Dodging the waterspouts which the wind blew round the corner into our faces, I bent forward anxiously:

  “If it’s too much for you we can go below.”

  Alison’s cheeks were beaten by the wind and the rain, the dark beret which she wore, close down on her head, seemed bejewelled with crystal drops.

  “I’m enjoying it.” She spoke loudly, against the breeze, smiling back at me. “Besides, I can actually see blue sky.”

  It was true. I followed her pointing finger and made out a break in the ragged clouds which was followed in a few minutes by another. Scarcely daring to breathe, we watched the two blue patches coalesce, expand, and gradually force back the grey. Then, to our delight, the sun burst forth, hot and brilliant. Soon the entire sky had cleared, steam began to rise from the rapidly drying decks. I saw that, by one of those amazing transformations of our northern climate, we were to have, after all, a perfect day.

  “Jason’s barometer was right!” I exulted.

  Alison agreed warmly. “But Robie … please don’t say Jason.” She hesitated. “ Mother hates us to call him that. His own name is such a fine one.”

  We went to the bow of the little vermilion-funnelled steamer, now gliding up the sea-loch beneath the fiery blue sky, between the high hills, stopping occasionally at a village pier to take on a consignment of early potatoes, or a crofter with a few sheep he was bringing in to market. It was wonderful to be with Alison, simply to be near her. Standing at the rail I could not escape the soft contact of her figure when she stirred. Joy and hope flooded my soul in a kind of tender ecstasy.

  We reached Ardencaple, the head of the Loch, at one o’clock. The thought that I had three hours to spend with Alison in this lovely spot enchanted me. Nervously determined to do things in style, I hurried her towards the one large hotel—the West Highland Grand—which stood, with a pretentious and neglected air, amidst the few whitewashed cottages of the tiny village.

  “Can we have some lunch, please?”

  In the draughty hall beneath intimidating antlers, a Highland waitress, starched, elderly and formidable, opposed us. She met my request by leading us sternly into a long cold dining room, where we appeared to be the only guests. The walls were covered with stag’s heads, bull’s horns and improbable stuffed fish which gaped at us from varnished boards. On the sideboard a meagre buffet was laid out: sinewy-looking mutton and waxy potatoes; a blancmange shape, pale and shivery; strong cheese and damp biscuits. A Highland major domo, with a long white beard and a tartan waistcoat, stood in the background, voicing his distrust of us in Gaelic to the waitress, who now presented her severe visage at our table.

  “The season hasna’ begun. She can give ye the cauld luncheon at fower an’ saxpence the heid.”

  Filled with misgiving, I was preparing to submit to this shameless intimidation, when Alison murmured to me:

  “Do you really like this place, Robie?”

  I started and reddened to the roots of my hair. I had just enough courage to shake my head.

  “I don’t either.” Alison rose calmly and addressed the startled waitress. “We’ve changed our minds. We don’t require luncheon after all.”

  Unconscious of the woman’s consternation and of the agitation of the white-bearded major domo, who was now entreating us to remain, she walked composedly out of the hotel. I followed.

  Across the way, Alison entered the solitary village shop and, having studied its resources carefully, persuaded the storekeeper to cut her half a dozen ham sandwiches. While this was being done she moved about, picking up a couple of apples, some ripe bananas, a bar of milk chocolate and two bottles of that splendid beverage, sustainer of my youth, Barr’s Iron Brew. All this cost no more than two and six, and went into a brown paper bag, quite easy to carry.

  We now set out to climb the hill, taking a path which led through a coppice of young larches, already showing feathery crimson tufts upon their branches. Following the Ardencaple stream, we pushed steadily upwards, through thick ferns and bushes of wild azalea, until at last we came out to a clearing high on the edge of the moorland. It was a forgotten little field, encroached upon by bracken and protected against the wind by stout stone dykes. Through the centre of the meadow the burn dashed and tumbled over clear rocks into an amber pool, fringed with white sand. The banks were of springy turf with clumps of primroses drooping and trailing with the current, their petals drifting down like little boats. The place held a warm air of secrecy.

  We sat down on the dry grass with our backs to the wall, near the pool and amidst the soft green mitres of the new bracken. The mountains rose behind us, the Loch, with our toyish steamer anchored far below, was a mirror at our feet. Sunshine came spilling upon us. Flushed and eager, I steeped the bottles in the running stream, while Alison took off her mackintosh and spread out our picnic.

  The sandwiches were made with new bread and country ham and butter; they could not have been surpassed. The Iron Brew fizzed refreshingly down my throat. Alison made me eat almost all the bananas. We scarcely spoke, but as we finished she ga
ve me one of her odd smiles.

  “Wasn’t that better than the old hotel?”

  I nodded inarticulately, realizing that but for her calm and decided action we might still be suffering down below.

  With a contented sigh Alison removed her beret, closed her eyes and lay back against the dyke.

  “This is lovely,” she said. “I could go to sleep.”

  Her healthy, youthful body was relaxed. Her hair, that long tumbling hair with gleams in it, which always seemed a little untidy, was carelessly unloosed, framing her already sunburned face. The tender effect of her lowered eyelashes against her fair warm skin was strangely accentuated by the tiny mole high on her cheekbone. Her white blouse was open at the neck, showing the firm arch of her throat. A fine dew of perspiration was forming on her upper lip.

  That joy and terror which I knew so well swept over me again.

  “You aren’t comfortable, Alison.” I swallowed dryly and came near to her, placing my arm so that it supported her head.

  She did not protest, remaining relaxed and peaceful, her eyes still closed, lips half smiling. After a moment she murmured:

  “You have a very loud heart, Robie. I can hear it bumping all over the place.”

  What an opening for a pretty speech! Why did I not make it? And why, oh why, did I not clasp her closely in my arms? Alas, for the tragedy of my innocent intensity! I was too simple and too gauche. Besides, my happiness was so intense, I did not dare to move. Tongue-tied, choking with emotion, I continued to support her head, my cheek close to hers, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing which caused her patent-leather belt to creak slightly. The sun beat upon us benevolently, warming the rough material of her skirt, so that it exhaled a perfume of tweed that mingled with the scent of thyme. The air was soft and languid and from the woods below there came the teasing echo of the cuckoo.

  Rapture forced a whisper from me at last.

  “This is what I meant the other night, Alison. You and I together like this. Always.”

  “What would happen when it rained?”

  “I wouldn’t mind the rain,” I answered fervently. “So long as …”

  I broke off. Alison had opened her eyes, and was looking at me sideways in a provoked fashion. There was a pause. Then with an air of resolution she sat up.

  “Robie! I want to talk to you seriously. I’m worried about you. And so is Mr. Reid.”

  So I was right this morning at the station. Although distressed that she had drawn away from me, I felt proud to be the object of her concern.

  “In the first place,” she continued, frowning, “ we think it’s a dreadful waste that you should be stuck in the Works the way you are. You’re forgetting all your biology. Do you know that they wanted to make an engineer out of Caruso? But he broke out of it.”

  “My dear Alison.” I shrugged my shoulders with affected indifference. “ I have a perfectly good job.”

  She was silent, her eyes fixed ahead. Had I been a little too heroic in my disavowal? I stole a glance at her profile.

  “Of course I admit I get dreadfully tired … sometimes gouge my hand with a chisel. Then … there’s my cough, too.”

  She turned to me, with an expression that perplexed me. She shook her head.

  “Robie, dear … you’re an awful boy.”

  What had I said? A surge of distress filled my breast. Why should she treat me with this reproving kindness? The warm air was alive with the liquid murmurs of the brook. My heart, which had been beating madly, contracted.

  “Have I offended you?”

  “No, of course not.” She bit her lip, struggling with her feelings. “You just make me feel how different we are. I’m so practical, a little too solid perhaps, while you are, and always will be, in the clouds. Goodness knows what you’ll do when Mr. Reid goes away from Levenford.”

  I gazed at her in confused surprise. “Reid? Going away?”

  Her eyes were lowered, she was twisting the stem of a primrose in her fingers.

  “He has applied for a post in England. A school near Horsham, in Sussex. He’s been at the Academy too long. This place is small but it goes in for modern methods and will give him more opportunity.”

  I exclaimed: “ Do you mean that Reid has got the post?”

  “Well, yes … I think it is practically settled. He had made up his mind to let you know this evening.”

  I felt chilled. Although, from time to time, Reid had thrown out hints, this was a sudden and unexpected blow. And why had it been arranged and settled without a word to me? Perhaps he had not wished to hurt me. Yet an unhappy sense of exclusion took hold of me. Before I could express any of these thoughts, Alison continued in a low voice, avoiding my eyes, her colour coming and going:

  “I know you’re upset that Mr. Reid is leaving. It’s horrid to lose one’s friends. Although of course people can keep in touch with each other even when they do leave.”

  There was a queer silence.

  “The fact is, Robie …” Suddenly Alison raised her head. “Mother and I are going away too.”

  I must have turned pale, my lips could scarcely form the word.

  “Where?”

  Leaning towards me she went on rapidly, earnestly.

  “It’s my training, for one thing. You know how important Mother thinks it, how specialized it must be. Miss Cramb can’t teach me any more. In Winton there is no one much better. It’s been decided I shall go to the Royal Conservatory of Music in London.”

  “London!” It was the other end of the earth; and it was near, extremely near to Sussex.

  Alison’s colour was now out of control, she was deeply, almost painfully embarrassed.

  “For a boy who is so clever you are terribly blind to what’s going on. Everyone has known it but you. Mother and Mr. Reid are going to be married.”

  Stunned, I could find nothing to say. Of course I had to admit that Mrs. Keith was still an attractive woman, that she and Reid shared the same tastes and interests. But, instead of rejoicing, I was appalled.

  There was a long silence.

  At last, I said, wretchedly: “If you go, I have nobody.”

  “I’m not going for ever.” Her voice was soft, full of kindness and affection. “ You know I must think of my singing. But it isn’t the end of the world, Robie. And don’t jump to conclusions—remember, there’s always another day.”

  As I stared ahead, mournful and desolate, the sun began to slip behind the mountains and there came three sharp blasts from the steamer at the pier, warning that her departure was not far off.

  “We must hurry!” Alison exclaimed. “They’ll be casting off quite soon.”

  She gave me, unexpectedly, a hesitant, almost pleading smile and, rising, extended her hand to help me to my feet. As we hastened down towards the boat, I had the strange impression that, for all her firmness, she was swayed by uncertainty equal to my own. The steamer whistled again—a prolonged note, like the siren at the Works. My holiday was over. Suddenly, with a sinking heart, I saw myself alone and lost. The future rose before me like a wall.

  Chapter Eight

  The last Saturday in July … Preoccupied by my own woes, I had forgotten that this was the date of the Flower Show, and only recollected the fact at noon, on my way home from the Works. When I reached Lomond View, I was in no mood for the afternoon’s event. But I had promised Murdoch to attend the Show, and at two o’clock I went to my room to get ready. The sound of heavy, if uncertain, footsteps above my head caused me, once or twice, to pause, and in the end I was driven to go up.

  The old man, washed and trimmed, was posed before his mirror; attempting, with trembling fingers, and very red in the face, to knot his tie. His clothes had been brushed, his boots polished in the best style of his palmy days. He wore a starched white shirt which was tight around his throat.

  “That you, Robert?” In spite of his shakiness, his tone was equable, he did not remove his eyes from the glass.

  I remained silent fo
r a moment, chilled, despite the heat, by the signs of his activity.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where am I going?” He made the knot, successfully, his neck stretched out. “ What a question. I am going to the Flower Show, of course.”

  “No … no … You’re not well enough to go.”

  “I was never better in my life.”

  “It’s terribly hot. Sure to upset you. You ought to rest.”

  “I’ve been resting all week. You’ve no idea how tiresome it is to rest.”

  “But your leg——” I tried a final argument. “ You’re much too lame to walk.”

  He turned from the mirror and, although his head was shaking a little, gave me one of his quiet smiles.

  “My dear boy, the difference between you and me is that you give up too easily. How often have I told you not to be so easy beat? You wouldn’t expect me, the head of the family, to stay away on Murdoch’s big day. Besides, I’ve always liked flowers. Flowers and pretty women.”

  I had reddened at his analysis of my character, which I felt to be only too true, and now, dismayed, I watched him get into his jacket and, with an air, shoot out his stiff cuffs. He had been ailing these past weeks; yet, with tremulous indifference, he was preparing to disport himself. It was enough to paralyse all my powers of diplomacy. Impossible to turn him from his purpose …

  “Well!” he said, satisfied at last with his appearance, and taking up his stick. “Am I to have the pleasure of your company? Or do you wish me to go alone?”

  Of course I must go with him. How could I let him loose in such a crowd, on such a day as this? I followed him as, holding the banisters rather too tightly, and not very sure of his footing, he descended the stairs.

  Outside, numbers of the townspeople, men in straw hats, women in light dresses, were moving along the road to the gardens of Overton House where the Show was being held. As we joined the leisurely stream I reflected that at least we should not meet any of Grandpa’s less reputable friends in this gathering. Vaguely relieved, yet afraid of his slight unsteadiness, I offered to take his arm.