Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  When I was out of temper Meg would say, “ Och, away, David! You’ve a black monkey on your shoulders! ” and, like so many of Meg’s sayings, it hit the mark. I could feel that black monkey sitting on my shoulders; I could feel the heavy weight of it. One day I looked in the mirror and I almost imagined I could see it sitting there, grinning malevolently. The thing to do was to shake it off and be free of it, and usually I could. Mr. Lorimer’s black monkey was his constant companion, at least I never saw him without it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When spring came and the lambing started Malcolm used to spend his nights on the hill. There was a sheep-fold up there, a round of closely-cropped turf enclosed by a solid stone wall (Malcolm called it the stell), and there was a wooden shed with iron wheels which was dragged up the hill by the farm tractor and placed in the shelter of a rock. I had been to the stell with Malcolm often enough in the daytime but I wanted to go at night. I wanted to spend the night up there on the hill with the stars shining overhead and the cool night wind rustling in the grasses. Malcolm said he would take me sometime if I were allowed to come. We both realised that this might not be easy.

  One evening when we were having supper Malcolm came in. Father asked him to sit down with us, but he said in his polite manner that he was going up to the hill.

  “ I just called to ask if David could come with me,” Malcolm explained.

  “ It’s rather late for David,” said Mother.

  “ Oh Mother, I’d like to go with Malcolm! ” I cried.

  Father shook his head. “ I think not. David will be better in his bed.”

  “ I would take care of him,” said Malcolm in his deep voice. “ It’s a mild night and there’s a good stove in the wee shed. He would be warm and comfortable, Mr. Kirke, I’ll promise you.”

  “ Do you mean you’re spending the night on the hill? ” asked Mother incredulously.

  “ It’s lambing-time,” explained Malcolm. “ I thought it would be interesting for David. The stars are beautiful tonight. Presently the moon will come up from behind the hills. I think David would like it.”

  “ Oh no! ” cried Mother in dismay. “ Davie’s too young! ”

  I wanted to go with Malcolm more than I had ever wanted anything before. It would be the most marvellous adventure. I said nothing, of course (it was no use saying anything) but I shut my eyes and prayed silently that they would let me go. “ Please God make them let me! ” Over and over again I said the words under my breath.

  Ten minutes later Malcolm and I were walking up the hill together.

  “ It was a miracle, Malcolm,” I told him. “ It really was a miracle. God made them let me come.”

  “ Prayers are not always answered,” Malcolm replied. “ Sometimes it’s better for us that they’re not answered; sometimes they’re answered differently from what we expect.”

  “ My prayer was answered.”

  “ That’s so,” he said, but he said it casually. He did not believe in the miracle.

  “ It was a miracle,” I declared. “ They said no, and I thought it was hopeless, and then quite suddenly they changed their minds.”

  “ That was the way of it,” he agreed, looking down and smiling.

  “ Listen, Malcolm, if I had not prayed, they wouldn’t have let me come, would they? ”

  “ No, David, they would not.”

  “ It was because I prayed so hard. I was praying very hard, Malcolm.”

  “ I could see that,” he said. “ Your father saw it too. We all saw how hard you were praying.” Malcolm began to chuckle to himself—I could hear him as I followed him up the stony path—but when I asked him what the joke was he would not tell me. (It was not until long afterwards when I was writing my story about Malcolm that I saw why he had laughed.)

  The stell looked quite different at night; it looked mysterious, and the cries of the wild creatures were weird in the stillness. I could hear the bark of a fox and an owl swept past on silent wings. The sheep were calling too. Some of them had lambs already and others were moving about restlessly waiting for their time. Malcolm had collected some of them into the stell so that he could keep an eye on them. In the darkness their fleeces were a pearly grey, almost the same colour as the boulders. There was no moon as yet but the sky was dazzling with stars, I could see Orion with his shining belt and the seven bright stars of the Plough.

  Malcolm opened the door of the little shed and busied himself lighting the stove. He used the stove to warm the shed so that he could bring the lambs in and warm them. Most hill lambs are hardy and need little care, but some of them, when they arrive in a cold wet world, decide it is not worth the struggle. It was Malcolm’s job to coax them to live and usually he succeeded.

  The shed was neat and tidy. In one corner was a pile of clean hay and a tartan plaid.

  “ That’s your bed,” said Malcolm. “ You’ll be warm and comfortable. Hay makes a fine warm bed.”

  “ But I’m not going to bed! ” I cried. “ I’m going to help you. I’m not a bit sleepy.”

  “ Well, we’ll see,” he said, smiling. “ You’ll do as you feel inclined, that’s the best way. Are you ready for your supper? ”

  I had had one supper of course but that did not prevent me from enjoying another with Malcolm. He cooked it on the stove and we ate it together: sizzling hot sausages and bacon and strong tea with plenty of sugar in it. It was a grand supper and I said so.

  “ You’re a good doer,” he declared. “ I like to see folk enjoying their food. It’s a wonder to me you’re not bigger.”

  “ I’m strong,” I said quickly.

  “ Och, I know that fine … and you’ll grow,” said Malcolm. “ I wouldn’t wonder if you grew into a great big chap one of those days.”

  While we were having supper we talked about the weather, for weather was important to Malcolm. I said it was fine and warm for the lambing.

  “ There’s the borrowing days to come,” Malcolm replied. “ You know the old rhyme, David? It goes like this:

  “ March said to Aprile,

  ‘ I see three lambs on yonder hill,

  Three days auld style gie tae me

  I’ll find a way tae gar them dee.’

  “ The first day was wind and weet,

  The second o’ them was snaw and sleet,

  The third o’ them was sic a freeze

  As froze the birds’ nebs tae the trees.

  “ But when the days were past and gane

  The wee lammies came hirplin’ hame.”

  “ So they didn’t die? ” I said in relief.

  “ Not that time,” agreed Malcolm.

  “ But Malcolm,” I said. “ It says in the rhyme that March borrowed days from April, but really and truly it’s April that borrows from March.”

  Malcolm smiled. “ You’re a great one for getting to the bottom of things, David. Maybe they borrow from each other.… Aye, that’s the explanation. We get April days in March and then they’ve got to be paid back; so we get March days in April. Does that satisfy you? ”

  “ Yes,” I said doubtfully. “ It sounds all right—but it ought to say it in the rhyme.”

  We had finished our meal by this time and after we had washed up the dishes and put them away we went out into the stell. It was colder now, though not really cold; the moon had risen from behind the hill and hung in the dark blue sky like a great lantern. All the world was black and silver—it was beautiful.

  The sheep looked alike to me but Malcolm knew then apart quite easily, and they knew him and were not frightened when he approached. He was like the Good Shepherd in the parable, I thought. The parable came alive for me that night. Malcolm moved slowly and deliberately amongst the sheep and his shadow followed him—a great black shadow. Some lambs had been born already, and had begun to totter about on unsteady legs, a few were born that night and I helped Malcolm with them.

  Sheep are curious beasts. The young ewes which had not lambed before were uninterested in their lam
bs. They would look at the lamb with a surprised sort of expression (“ What’s this strange object? ” they seemed to be saying) and they would leave it lying on the ground and stroll away and begin to nibble grass. Once you had managed to coax them to lick the lamb it was all right, there was no more bother, but sometimes it was not easy.

  “ They’ll know next year,” said Malcolm.

  “ They’re stupid,” I said.

  “ Och no, they’re not stupid! ” objected Malcolm. He did not like to hear his beloved sheep miscalled.

  “ They are, Malcolm. What other creature in the whole world doesn’t know how to take care of its own baby? ”

  “ That’s true,” said Malcolm thoughtfully.

  “ Of course it’s true! Look at cats and rabbits—look at wolves! ”

  “ They’re wild. Maybe it’s because we’ve tamed sheep.”

  I said no more, but I thought a lot about it. Sheep are not tame, they roam about the hills as wild and free as any creature on God’s earth. They are much wilder than cats, and who ever heard of a cat that would leave its kittens to die and walk away! Even birds know how to care for their nestlings … and I once read in a book that earwigs are very good mothers. Earwigs! Malcolm would not have liked it if I had told him that.

  Once or twice Malcolm asked if I were sleepy but I did not feel sleepy at all. I have no recollection of feeling sleepy, but I suppose I must have been. It seemed to me that one moment it was silver moonlight and I was helping Malcolm with the lambs and the next moment I was lying on the pile of hay wrapped in Malcolm’s plaid and the shed was full of golden sunshine.

  I sat up and looked round. I could not believe it.

  Suddenly the shed was darkened and there was Malcolm standing in the doorway. “ My, you’re a grand sleeper, Davie lad,” he said.

  “ You should have wakened me! ” I cried. “ I never meant to go to sleep. I can sleep any night.”

  “ Nothing would have wakened you,” declared Malcolm, smiling. “ I doubt if the Last Trump would have wakened you. I picked you up and carried you into the shed and you never stirred.”

  “ It’s such a waste,” I said.

  “ Och, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just as well. If you were tired you’d not be allowed to come another time,” said Malcolm sensibly.

  Malcolm was always sensible. He was so patient that it was never too much trouble to explain a thing thoroughly and to keep on explaining until he was sure I understood. I learnt a great deal from Malcolm. I learnt about sheep and birds and stars. Malcolm taught me to use my eyes as I went about Haines.

  Malcolm’s rhyme about the borrowing days had stuck in my mind (perhaps because I was still doubtful about its meaning) so I wrote it in the diary which Mother and I were keeping and which, by this time, contained all sorts of interesting things about Haines. When Mother saw it she was surprised.

  “ That’s different from the rhyme I know,” she said. “ When I was a child I used to hear about the borrowing days. Let me see if I can remember how it went.”

  She took the pen and wrote her version underneath mine. I thought it was much better.

  Said blustering March to fair Aprile:

  “ Ye see three lambs on yonder hill?

  Gin ye will loan three days tae me

  I’ll blaw on them an’ gar them dee.”

  The borrowing days were cauld as sin

  The clouds were dark: fierce blew the win’,

  But when the borrowing days were gane

  The three wee lammies hirpled hame.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Behind Malcolm’s cottage there was a shed made from old railway sleepers; he had made it himself and fitted it up with a bench and a vice, with saws and planes and all things necessary to a carpenter. Usually a work-room is a bit of a muddle but this one was so tidy that Malcolm could have laid his hand on any tool in the dark. There was a shelf with a row of tins upon it and each tin was for different sizes of nails and screws. Malcolm was very particular about the wood he used and even more particular about the way he used it. He chose pieces of wood carefully and he made plain, sensible furniture. This was his hobby.

  One day when I went to see him I took a little frame which I had made at school and showed it to him. It was an oblong wooden frame ornamented with fretwork and I was rather proud of it.

  Malcolm looked at it. “ David! ” he exclaimed in dismay. “ Did they learn you to make that at school? It’s dreadful! And the wood is good, too. A good piece of wood doesn’t need to be cut about and ornamented with whirly-gigs and scrolls. A piece of wood has its own beauty which just needs to be brought out.”

  “ I was going to give it to Mother for Christmas.”

  Malcolm’s face changed. “ Och, I’m a fool! Never heed what I said. Your mother will like the wee frame; she’ll be as pleased as Punch.”

  “ But I don’t like it! ” I cried. A moment ago I had been as pleased as Punch with my handiwork but now I saw it for what it was: a tawdry thing, an unworthy gift.

  “ It’s clever,” said Malcolm earnestly. “ It’s neatly done. It must have taken a long time. Mistress Kirke will like it fine.”

  The little frame lay on Malcolm’s table between us. The table was of plain polished wood with a sheen on it like satin and it made the frame look gimcrack and cheap.

  “ No,” I said, looking at it. “ No, I don’t want to give it to Mother.”

  “ She’ll like it, David.”

  “ Oh, I know. She’ll like it because I made it, but that’s no use.”

  There was silence for a moment or two.

  “ Och well,” said Malcolm with a sigh. “ It just shows … what’s said can never be unsaid. It should be a lesson to me. Well, lad, I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll choose a piece of wood and you’ll make a box for your mother. You’ll do it all yourself—every bit of it—and I’ll show you how.”

  The box took a long time to make. Malcolm was a slow, careful worker and he made me go slow; every bit of the box had to be perfect to satisfy him. No nails nor screws were used, the joints were dovetailed, the only metal in the box was its brass hinges. I spent most of the Christmas holidays in Malcolm’s workshop, sometimes Malcolm was there and sometimes I was there alone. When the holidays were over there was less time, but I went up to the cottage after school and on Saturday mornings to complete the task.

  One day in March the box was finished. It was a solid chest, made of beautifully grained wood, about three feet long and two and a half feet broad, perfectly plain, with no nonsense about it. The lid fitted as snugly as the lid of an air-tight container. It stood upon the bench shining like a chestnut and I saw it was beautiful.

  Malcolm ran his hand over it and said, “ You’ve made something worth-while, Davie. That box will still be a good, useful box long after you’re gone.”

  “ After I’ve gone? ”

  “ When you’re dead,” explained Malcolm, smiling. “ It’ll last a hundred years and more. When you’re dead and gone—and perhaps forgotten—that box will be as good as ever. The work of your hands, Davie! ”

  It was a new idea to me—rather a frightening idea, but interesting too. Somebody would own that box, he would open it and shut it and use it to keep things in, and he would never know who had made it.

  “ I’ll put my initials on it! ” I exclaimed. So I carved my initials on the bottom of the box where it would not show, unless you looked for it, and they are still there: “ D.J.K. 1939.”

  I was glad it was finished and yet in a way I was sorry and I said so to Malcolm.

  “ It’s just as well it’s finished,” Malcolm said. “ I’ll carry it down to the manse to-morrow and you’ll give it to your mother. I’d like to see her face when she gets it. It’s just as well it’s finished,” he repeated. “ I’ll not be here much longer. I’ve promised Mr. Lorimer to stay for the lambing and then I’m going away to be a soldier.”

  “ To be a soldier,” I cried in astonishment.

  �
� Och, Davie,” he said, looking at me and smiling. “ Why are you so surprised? ”

  I was surprised. Anybody less like a soldier it would have been impossible to imagine. I tried to imagine Malcolm dressed in uniform—and failed.

  “ Why are you so surprised? ” he repeated. “ There’s going to be a war. You know that, surely? ”

  “ But I thought they’d settled it. I thought there was going to be peace.”

  “ There’ll be a war, sooner or later. They’re making guns as fast as they can and they’re wanting soldiers to fire them.”

  “ But Malcolm, why not wait? ”

  “ That would be foolish,” he said thoughtfully. “ You see, Davie, if I was wanting a man to help me with the lambing I’d never wait until the lambing had started. I’d get him into the way of things before. He’d be some help to me then. It’s the same with war. I’ll need to learn to be a soldier before the fighting starts. That’s the sensible way of doing.”

  “ You can shoot already,” I said.

  “ There’s more than shooting in it. Shooting is important for a soldier but there’s other things as well. I’ll be no good until I’ve learnt. That’s the truth.”

  “ Supposing there isn’t a war after all? ”

  “ Then there’s no harm done. Mr. Lorimer will take me back, either way. If there’s no war he’ll take me back and if there’s a war he’ll take me back when it’s over. He was very good about it.”

  “ Oh Malcolm, I don’t want you to go.”

  He smiled. “ I’m not sure I want to go myself, but it’s the right thing. I know that. I was too young for the last war and I’m almost too old for the next … almost but not quite.”

  It was absolutely staggering. It was the first big thing that had ever happened. Life had run smoothly for me and I had never thought there would be any change.