Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  Malcolm was standing at the window looking out. “ Maybe I’ve been here too long,” he said slowly. “ I’ll miss my window with its view of the hills and the sheep. There’ll be a different window with a different view. That’s life, Davie.”

  “ What do you mean? ” I asked.

  “ Life is like looking out of a lot of different windows,” explained Malcolm. “ At least that’s the way I think of it. My father was a fisherman, our cottage was close on the shore, and when I was a laddie I slept with my brother in a room with a wee window that looked out over the sea. Since then there’s been a good many different windows in my life. This one has been the best. I’ve been well-contented here … but it’s the right thing to do. There’s no sense in letting Hitler have everything his own way. We’ve got to put a stop to it.” He sighed and added, “ I’ve a cousin in the Black Watch; maybe I’ll get in beside him.”

  “ You’ll write to me? ” I asked.

  “ Why, surely. I’ll tell you how I’m getting on and whether they’re managing to make me into a soldier. It’ll not be an easy job for them. Maybe I’ll get leave and come to Haines and see you later on. You’ll not forget me, David? ”

  “ No, never,” I said. “ Of course not, Malcolm.”

  “ Look,” said Malcolm. “ You keep this for me, David. It’ll be safer with you. I might lose it.” He dropped something into my hand. It was a little gold locket and chain.

  There were five pink pearls set in the locket and Malcolm told me about them; he explained that he had found them himself in the river near his home. He showed me how to open the locket by pressing a little spring. Inside there was a tiny coloured photograph of a young woman with dark hair and grave eyes—eyes which were curiously like Malcolm’s.

  “ It’s my mother,” he said. “ The wee locket was hers. I gave it to her. There’s a story about yon wee locket. I’ll tell it you someday—someday when I come back from the war. Meanwhile just you keep it safe for me, there’s a good lad.”

  When Malcolm had gone I felt at a loose end. The box had taken up all my leisure for so long that now it was finished I had difficulty in finding things to do. It was the Easter holidays by this time, which made it worse. I think I would have been glad to go to school, I was so bored with my leisure.

  “ You’re like a knotless thread,” said Mother. “ You never used to have difficulty in finding things to do. Why don’t you go up to the garage? You used to like going there and helping Dochie. You’ve not been up to the garage for months, have you? ”

  The garage was in the village street. It was owned by Mr. Grigg, a small perky little man with a flourishing moustache. Mr. Grigg was an elder of the church and took himself very seriously. He did not work in the garage himself, he was too neat and tidy. You could not imagine Mr. Grigg in dirty overalls crawling under a car. Most of the time Mr. Grigg sat in his office adding up accounts and writing letters while all the real work of the garage was done by Dochie.

  Dochie was rather a mystery. Years and years ago he had suddenly appeared in Haines and Mr. Grigg had taken him on as his assistant. Nobody seemed to know where he had come from or anything about him. He was tall and very thin with very large hands and feet and a round head which looked too big and heavy for his thin neck. He had light grey eyes and scrubby sort of hair and he was always very dirty. People said Dochie was silly, and of course he was in some ways, but he was not silly where cars were concerned. He loved engines. He would take bits of engines to pieces with his enormous oily hands and put them together again and all the time he would talk to them in a crooning sort of way, like the way women talk to their babies. I liked watching Dochie and I used to spend a lot of time at the garage in holidays. Dochie would show me what he was doing and let me hand him the tools.

  “ There,” he would say. “ It was a wee bit o’ grit choking her carburettor. See that, Davie! She’ll be better noo. She’ll [[illegible]] sweet. See that … and that …” and the tiny pieces of metal would all go back and fit into their right places as if by magic. It reminded me of the conjuror who had come to show us his tricks at the school party.

  Dochie was shy of strangers. He talked to me a bit but he did not like questions. One day I asked him how old he was and he said he did not know. Another day I asked him whether Dochie was his real name or just a nickname, but he did not seem to know that either. He lodged with a woman in the village and Mr. Grigg paid for his board and lodging and bought him what he needed in the way of clothes. It was no use giving Dochie wages because he spent it on drink, but if he had no money he never bothered about it. He was quite happy as long as he could work with engines.

  “ Why don’t you go up to the garage and see Dochie? ” repeated Mother. She was busy and I expect she was tired of having me hanging about the house.

  It seemed a good idea so I went along and Dochie was quite pleased to see me. After that I went along every morning, there was always something doing at the garage, people came from far and wide and brought their cars to Dochie to be overhauled.

  One day an American gentleman drove up to the garage, he was on his way north and had been delayed by engine-trouble. Usually when strangers called at the garage Mr. Grigg came out of his office and talked to them, but Mr. Grigg had gone to Dumfries for the day. The gentleman explained to Dochie that the engine was knocking and there was no power.

  Dochie said nothing. He stood and gazed at the car in admiration; she was a beautiful car with a long shining bonnet.

  “ Can you find out the trouble? ” asked the gentleman impatiently.

  Dochie was dumb.

  “ Is he hard of hearing? ” asked the gentleman, looking at me.

  “ No,” I said. “ He’s just shy. But he’s a very good mechanic. He’ll put it right for you, won’t you, Dochie? ”

  Dochie still said nothing.

  The gentleman looked at me and then he looked at Dochie. I could see he was not very happy about it.

  “ It’s all right—honestly,” I told him. “ Dochie looks silly but he knows all about engines.”

  “ O.K., cully,” said the gentleman smiling. “ If you say so——”

  While Dochie was busy with the engine the gentleman talked to me and asked me all sorts of questions about myself: who I was, and what I did and things about Haines as well. I had never seen an American before in real life, though I had seen plenty on the films. It was funny to hear him talk. Presently he asked if I would like to go back to America with him (he did not mean it, of course) and I said, “ What would you do with me in America? ”

  He laughed and said he would put me on show and charge a dollar for people to talk to me … and I realised my way of talking seemed just as funny to him as his way seemed to me.

  “ You should hear Dochie talk,” I said. “ You wouldn’t understand a word.”

  “ I guess that wouldn’t be so interesting,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

  By this time Dochie had discovered the trouble. He started the engine and it began buzzing merrily like a bumble bee.

  “ That sounds swell! ” exclaimed its owner in surprise.

  “ Yes,” I said. “ I told you Dochie could do it.”

  “ You did,” agreed the gentleman. “ Doggie is a wizard. He seems dumb but he’s a wizard all right.”

  Before the gentleman drove away I tried to make Dochie talk but he would not open his mouth, he just stood there looking silly. I think he knew I wanted to show him off and was determined not to be shown, he could be very stubborn when he liked. Presently the gentleman said he must go. He took a pound note out of his note-case and gave it to Dochie and then he got into his car and drove away.

  Dochie took the money and looked at it in a dazed sort of way, then he put down his tools and walked off. For a few moments I did not realise where he was going … and then I remembered. I called to him to come back but he took no notice so I ran after him and seized him by the arm.

  “ Come back! ” I cried. “ Mr. Grigg
is away. You must come back to the garage.” But he shook me off and walked on like a man in a dream. He went up the street and disappeared into the Black Bull—and that was that.

  The next day we heard that he had spent every penny of the money on whisky and they had to carry him home and put him to bed. Poor Dochie was ill for days and when at last he was able to go back to work he was thinner than ever; he looked pale and wretched, and his clothes hung on him as if he were a pole.

  Some people blamed Mr. Fletcher at the Black Bull for giving Dochie the whisky, but Mr. Fletcher said he was there to sell whisky and if people came and asked for it he could not refuse them. Besides, he did not know Dochie had had too much until he suddenly passed out. What fun did Dochie have? asked Mr. Fletcher. Toiling and moiling all day and never speaking to anybody? That was no sort of life. Why shouldn’t he have a bit of a blind now and then?

  There was quite a row about it. Everybody in Haines took sides; some took sides with Mr. Grigg and said Mr. Fletcher should have known better than to let Dochie have the whisky, and others took sides with Mr. Fletcher and said Dochie had a right to drink if he liked. The only person who seemed unaffected was Dochie himself. He went back to his engines and said nothing at all. Of course in time the battle died down and everything was the same as before, except that Mr. Grigg and Mr. Fletcher were not on speaking terms.

  Sometimes when I was at the garage a car would drive up and the people would ask for petrol, and if Dochie were busy he would let me work the pump. I got quite good at it and could add up what it cost and give the right change—in fact I was a great deal better at it than Dochie.

  One day when I was working the pump Mr. Grigg came out of the office and saw me. He waited until the car drove away and then he came towards me, walking in his funny jerky way with his feet turned out.

  “ This’ll not do! ” he exclaimed. “ This’ll not do at all.”

  “ It’s all right, Mr. Grigg,” I said. “ Dochie was busy. I often do it when he’s busy. I can do it quite well and I know how much to charge and everything.”

  “ No, no! It’s not the right thing. The minister’s son serving petrol! ”

  “ But Dochie was busy! ” I cried.

  “ No, no! Away home, David! I’ll not have it. The minister would be affronted if he knew.”

  “ Father wouldn’t mind——”

  “ He would be black affronted,” declared Mr. Grigg. “ It’s not the right thing for you to be here at all, and Dochie is not a fit person for you to consort with. Away home, David, there’s better things for you to do than hang about a garage all day.”

  Mother used to say I took notions to things (perhaps most children do); sometimes I took a notion to fish and nothing could keep me away from the river, and sometimes I took a notion to help Malcolm with his sheep—but of course Malcolm had gone. At the moment my chief pleasure in life was to hang about the garage, so the decree that I was not to do so any more was a crushing blow.

  I ran home as fast as I could and burst into Father’s study like a whirlwind.

  Father was writing his sermon; he looked at me over the top of his spectacles. “ Well, David? ” he asked.

  It was some time before I could get my breath, but he waited patiently and when I was able to speak he listened patiently to my tale of woe. “ You don’t mind, do you? ” I panted. “ I’m useful, Dochie says so. He said Dochie wasn’t a fit person for me to consort with—of course he swears sometimes—and he gets drunk when he has enough money—but I like him.”

  Father rarely laughed; he did not laugh now, but I caught a glint of humour in his dark eyes. “ Well, David,” he said. “ I see no harm in it, but then I’m the servant of a Man Who got into trouble for consorting with wine-bibbers and such-like riff-raff.”

  “ Then I can! ” I cried, preparing to fly.

  “ Wait, David. Wait, now! There’s been enough trouble in Haines over Dochie.”

  “ Yes,” I admitted, hovering in the doorway. “ Yes, but if you say I can——”

  “ It’s not my garage, David, and Grigg is one of my elders. Just let’s hear what you’re proposing to say to Mr. Grigg.”

  “ Oh——” I said doubtfully.

  “ You see,” said Father nodding. “ The matter needs consideration. I believe the best way would be to ask your mother. She’ll know what to do.”

  Mother knew. “ Yes, James,” she said. “ It’s quite easy. You must have a wee chat with Mr. Grigg. Tell him you want Davie to learn about cars and ask him to let Davie come to the garage—as a favour.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  As the summer wore on it became obvious that Malcolm had been right and that there was going to be a war. I had several letters from Malcolm, he seemed cheerful and contented (learning to be a soldier was less difficult than he had thought) and I wrote to him in return and told him all the news and sent him a pair of socks which Mother had knitted for him. The war started in September, as everybody knows, and as Malcolm’s regiment was in the Highland Division it was one of the first to be sent to France. He was pleased at this. He had given up his work to be a soldier and he wanted to fight. His letters from the B.E.F. were short but even more cheerful. The war would be over by the New Year and he would be back at Haines for the lambing.

  The war was unreal to me. Everything at Haines was the same as usual. It was difficult to believe that we were at war. I was disappointed when it was not over by the New Year and even more disappointed when people began to say it might last until the autumn but there was so much to do that I had little time to think about it. Now that I was eleven I had moved into a higher form and I had to work harder. In some ways I liked being in the higher form, the lessons were more interesting, but in other ways it was not so good for I had caught up Sandy and Robert and some of their friends who were older and bigger than myself. This little gang of boys stood together and made my life as unpleasant as they could.

  One day in March, a cold dry breezy morning, I was running off to school when Father opened the window of his study and called to me.

  “ I’m late, Father! ” I cried, hesitating at the gate.

  “ Never mind that. I want you, David.”

  I came back and stood on the path outside his window, looking up at him and wondering what I had done.

  “ There’s bad news, Davie,” said Father gravely.

  “ Bad news? You mean—about the war? ”

  “ In a way,” he replied. “ I’ve just heard. They sent me a message from the post office. There’s been fighting over in France. You know that, don’t you? ”

  “ Yes,” I said. I kept on wondering why Father was delaying me like this. Mr. Semple would be angry if I were late.

  “ Davie,” said Father. “ You’ll need to be brave. There’s bad news about a friend of ours … about Malcolm.”

  I could say nothing. I felt as if something had happened inside me. I felt sick and queer.

  “ He’s—he’s been killed, Davie,” Father said.

  “ Malcolm,” I whispered. Somehow I had never thought of that.

  “ You’d better come in,” said Father. “ Come and talk to your mother. You needn’t go to school.”

  But I could not talk to anybody. I had to get away. I turned and ran out of the gate and up the path beside the river. Tears were blinding me so that I could hardly see and I stumbled over the stones and the tufted grass. I wanted to get away, that was all. I hardly knew where I was going, it was not until I reached the little ruined cottage that I knew I had meant to come here. I flung myself down and buried my face in the grass.

  For a long time I lay there sobbing helplessly and thinking of nothing except that Malcolm was dead and I should never see him again. I should never again go up to his little cottage and call for him; I should never again go up to the stell and help him with the sheep; I should never again see his kindly smile, with his eyes crinkling up at the corners, nor hear his slow deep voice saying, “ Well, Davie lad, and what have you been d
oing with yourself? How’s the fishing these days? ”

  Malcolm was so clearly in my mind that I could almost see him; I could almost hear him.

  After a bit I began to hear the prattle of the river over the stones and the singing of the birds, and I began to feel ashamed. Father had said I must be brave. I was eleven years old and I was behaving like a baby. I sat up and dried my eyes and tried to be sensible about it. I wondered why I had never expected this to happen—it was war and soldiers got killed and Malcolm was a soldier—but I had never thought about it for a moment. Perhaps it was because Malcolm was so big and strong and full of life … even now it was difficult to believe that the Germans had killed him. I wondered if it had hurt, being killed, and I wondered what he was doing at this moment. I wondered if Malcolm still cared about what happened in this world and whether he could see me. Then I remembered his locket which was wrapped up in cotton wool in a little box in the drawer of my dressing-table and I said aloud, “ Malcolm, are you listening? I’ll keep your locket safely for you, like you said, and I’ll never never forget you.”

  I felt a little better after that, because it was something I could do for Malcolm.

  Presently I heard a little rustle in the bushes and Mother came out. She did not speak to me but sat down on the bank a little way off and looked at the river. I knew she must have followed me and I wondered how she knew I would be here. At first I felt I could not speak to her but after a bit I felt I could, so I went over and sat down beside her.

  “ Malcolm is in Heaven,” I said.

  “ Yes,” said Mother.

  “ I wonder what it’s like,” I said. “ I wonder if he’s happy. I mean he wouldn’t be happy unless there were useful things to do—things like making beautiful boxes or looking after sheep, but there are no sheep in Heaven, are there? ”

  “ I don’t know, Davie, but I’m sure there are useful things to do. Nobody could be happy doing nothing.”

  “ Those are the two things Malcolm liked doing,” I told her.