Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  “ But that’s frightful! ”

  “ I know. It’s frightful. I told Elsie how selfish it was. I told her she must brace up and not let herself be so dependent upon another person, but it was useless. She wept and wailed and said I didn’t understand. She said she couldn’t help it.”

  “ She must help it,” I said. “ Janet must get away. It’s absolutely intolerable.”

  “ You tell her, David,” said Mother, looking at me and smiling. “ We’ll get hold of Janet and you can have a talk with her about it. I’ll ask her to come and help me sort out the rubbish for the Jumble Sale. She often helps me with things like that—things that nobody else wants to do. I’ll ring up and see if she can come to-morrow morning and you can have a chat with her afterwards.”

  The parcels of clothes for the Jumble Sale were in the spare bedroom and the next morning Mother began to undo them and sort them out. I was watching from the window and shortly after eleven I saw a girl open the gate and walk down the path. I was expecting Janet of course and for a moment I thought it was she.

  “ Here she is! ” I exclaimed, and then I added: “ No, it’s not Janet.”

  “ Not Janet? ” asked Mother in surprise.

  “ It’s Elsie.”

  “ Are you sure? ”

  I was certain, but I could not explain how I knew. I could not explain without telling Mother I had seen Janet on the morning of my arrival in Haines.

  “ They’re different,” I said lamely. “ I mean—well—they’re just different—that’s all.”

  Fortunately there was no time for Mother to pursue the subject before the door opened and Elsie appeared.

  “ Hallo! ” she said. “ Freda told me you wanted to see me, Mrs. Kirke.” She smiled at me across the room as she spoke … she was very like Janet when she smiled.

  “ It was Janet I wanted,” said Mother.

  “ But Freda said——”

  “ Freda knew quite well I wanted Janet to help me with the jumbles.”

  “ Oh! ” exclaimed Elsie. “ But Freda said——”

  “ Well, never mind,” said Mother. “ Now that you’re here you can help me. All these parcels have to be undone and the clothes laid out in piles.”

  The smile had vanished from Elsie’s face. She stood and looked at the job in dismay. “ Oh, but I don’t think I could …” she began.

  “ It’s not difficult. I’ll show you.”

  “ But they’re dirty! ” bleated Elsie. “ I mean—I mean I wouldn’t like to—to touch them.”

  Mother was really angry. I knew that by the brisk way she spoke.

  “ Come along, Elsie,” she said. “ I’ll lend you an apron. We’ve got to get the job done before lunch.”

  It was time for me to go and leave them to their task and as I went out of the door I saw Elsie beginning to take off her coat. She was no match for Mother (few people were a match for Mother when she was on the war-path) and I could not help chuckling inwardly as I went down the stairs and out into the garden. Elsie was not going to enjoy her morning as much as she expected; to tell the truth I felt a little sorry for her but perhaps it would do her good.

  On Saturday Cliffe came down from Edinburgh for the day. He came by bus and I met him at the bridge and took him to the manse for a cup of coffee. After that we strolled along the bank of the Ling and talked our heads off. First we talked about The Inward Eye—Cliffe was tremendously interested and wanted to hear all that I could tell him—and then it was Cliffe’s turn to talk and he told me he was in love.

  “ She’s wonderful,” said Cliffe. “ She’s a m-marvellous girl. If I talked for a week I couldn’t tell you how m-marvellous she is. Of course I haven’t said a word to her and she has no idea of anything—I mean I’m a bit frightened, David.”

  “ But you’re splendid,” I said. “ Any girl would be lucky to get you.”

  “ Not Helen,” said Cliffe rather miserably. “ Helen could have half a dozen chaps. If only you could see her! She’s proud and beautiful and dignified. She’s like a queen. I want to m-marry her more than anything in the world, but somehow I can’t imagine being m-married to her. Somehow I don’t think she’d like the shop.”

  “ But of course she would! ” I told him. “ If she loves you she’ll take an interest in the things that interest you …”

  “ You couldn’t expect her to do that,” declared Cliffe.

  “ Why not? ”

  “ Because—well, you couldn’t. Helen is not like other girls. She’s—she’s remote.”

  “ Remote? ” I asked in surprise.

  “ That’s the word,” nodded Cliffe. “ Sometimes when you’re talking to her she doesn’t hear what you’re saying. There’s a sort of look in her eyes as if she was thinking of something wonderful … and of course she is.”

  Cliffe went on talking about Helen in this strain and at last he took a little snapshot out of his pocket-book and showed it to me and I saw that what he said was true. Helen was a beautiful creature and she had the proud air of a queen. To my mind she did not look a very comfortable sort of girl and I said so.

  “ Comfortable! ” exclaimed Cliffe.

  “ Well, you’d have to live with her all your life, wouldn’t you? ” I said reasonably. “ If you were married to her she would be there all the time—every day. I’d rather have somebody comfortable; somebody who would listen to me when I wanted to talk to her; somebody who would be sympathetic and kind.”

  “ What a funny chap you are! ” said Cliffe looking at me in an odd sort of way, and he put the photograph back in his pocket and said no more.

  At lunch Cliffe was rather shy but Mother soon put him at his ease. She asked him about his home and she told him she used to live in Edinburgh when she was a child and often passed his father’s shop and looked into the window. Father asked Cliffe about his work and whether he found it interesting.

  By this time Cliffe had quite recovered and was his usual cheerful self.

  “ It’s very interesting,” he said. “ It’s so varied. I like serving in the shop—but that’s only a part of it. The other day we went over to Glasgow for a sale. We went together, Dad and I, and stayed at a commercial hotel. It was a comfortable hotel and the food was jolly good, but what amused me was there were notices all over the place saying what you were to do and what you were not to do, and they were all signed ‘ Flea, Proprietor.’ ”

  “ Flea? ” asked mother incredulously.

  Cliffe nodded. “ Flea,” he said. “ There was a big notice over the fireplace in the lounge and it said ‘ All visitors must be in bed before I am. Signed Flea, Proprietor.’ I pointed it out to Dad and he said it was a very sensible precaution. Mr. Flea wanted everybody to go off to bed before himself, so that he could go round and put out the lights and see that nobody was fool enough to leave a burning cigarette end on the carpet. Dad said if he was the proprietor of a hotel he would do the same. The first night Dad and I were so tired we went to bed early, but the second night Dad had just sat down to a game of cards when Mr. Flea came in and said, ‘ Good night, gentlemen, I’m going to bed.” Dad put down his cards and got up. ‘ All right,’ he said. ‘ You want us to be off to our beds, of course.’ ‘ Not at all, sir,’ said Mr. Flea politely. ‘ You go when you feel inclined.’ ‘ But what about the notice? ’ said Dad, pointing to it, and he read it aloud. ‘ All visitors must be in bed before I am.’ ‘ No, no,’ said Mr. Flea, ‘ you’ve got it all wrong. All visitors must be in bed before one a.m.’ ‘ But look here, Mr. Flea …’ I began. ‘ What did you call me? ’ he cried. ‘ I’ll have you know my name is Frederick Lea …’ ”

  We were all laughing so much by this time that Cliffe had to stop. Even Father was laughing. It was not so much the story, it was the way Cliffe told it. As a matter of fact I did not believe Cliffe’s story—or at least not all of it—for I knew Cliffe was capable of making a good story out of very slender material.

  After lunch Cliffe went along to the blacksmith’s to
see his uncle and aunt and at four o’clock I saw him off in the bus.

  Just as Cliffe was getting into the bus he turned to me and said, “ I’ll think about it, David. I believe you’re right, you know.”

  “ About what? ” I asked. We had been discussing so many different subjects that I could not think what he meant.

  “ About Helen,” said Cliffe, and with that he scrambled into the bus.

  There were so many people scrambling into the bus that I could not get at him, so I ran round to the window and signed to him to open it. The window had stuck and at first he could not move it but at last he managed to open it from the top and he put his head out.

  “ Cliffe! ” I cried. “ Don’t think of what I said. I haven’t seen her. I’m sure she’s grand. You mustn’t pay any attention to what I said.”

  “ Listen, David,” said Cliffe seriously. “ If Mrs. Kirke was t-t-twenty years younger I’d m-m-marry her t-t-to-morrow and n-nothing would stop me …”

  At that moment the bus started with a jerk and Cliffe fell backwards into his seat and vanished from view.

  I stood on the pavement and laughed till I cried.

  While I was at home I had a look at the wooden chest. Mother got it out one evening and put it on the table for me. It was strange to see that little chest—it was smaller than I had thought but every bit as beautiful—I ran my fingers over the polished surface and all sorts of recollections flooded into my mind. Presently I opened it and took out the stories and plays that Mother had collected and the big red book in which I had written Malcolm’s Story.

  “ Read it, David,” said Mother, nodding to me. “ I read it again the other day. I often read it … and whenever I read it I see Malcolm. It may be a childish story, but you accomplished what you intended when you wrote it. To my mind that’s the true test.”

  She was right, of course. The true test of any work is to accomplish your object and already I knew that in the realm of literature that is very difficult indeed. You see the gleam and you struggle to reach it but the mere fact of struggling dims your eyes.

  I began to read Malcolm’s Story in a critical spirit and I saw all the faults and failings of composition and grammar—they stuck out a mile—but after a few pages I forgot about them and I saw Malcolm; a clear vivid picture of the man formed itself in my mind. I saw Malcolm on the hills with his sheep, and in the cottage sitting on the solid wooden chair he had made himself—a chair which matched his giant frame—I saw him in his garden and in his workshop; I heard his slow deep voice: “ Maybe I’ll get leave and come to Haines later on. You’ll not forget me, David? ”

  Yes, this was Malcolm himself and somehow the childish simplicity of the writing made the story more real and more moving. The picture was painted in primary colours. It was the saga of a hero.

  When I had finished reading and closed the book I was left with a feeling that a small miracle had been wrought and I knew that if I lived to be a hundred I should never write anything so perfect as Malcolm’s Story. It was a humbling thought.

  The other stories in the box were rubbish and in spite of Mother’s protests I burnt them in the kitchen fire … but at the bottom of the box was a little package done up carefully in cotton wool and tied with string.

  “ What’s that? ” asked Mother. “ I saw it but I didn’t open it. I thought it might be private.”

  “ It’s Malcolm’s locket,” I replied. I cut the string and opened it and showed her the little gold locket with the picture inside.

  “ But it’s lovely! ” she cried. “ Those are real pearls, Davie.”

  “ I know,” I said. “ They’re real pearls. He found them himself; he said that some day he would tell me the story of the locket—we shall never know it now. You take it and wear it, Mother. I think Malcolm would like you to wear it; in fact I know he would.”

  Mother hesitated. “ Well,” she said doubtfully. “ Perhaps I should. Pearls get sick if they’re shut up in the dark; it’s good for them to be worn. But the locket is yours, Davie, and some day when you’re married you shall have it back and give it to your wife.”

  I could not help smiling at the idea. “ The locket is yours,” I told her and I put the chain round her neck and fastened it. After that Mother wore it constantly and whenever it caught my eye I thought of Malcolm and how pleased he would be if he knew she was wearing it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was difficult to settle down to work after my holiday (all the more so because the weather was beautiful and I longed to be out of doors) but after a few days I started another book and that helped to fill my mind. The new book was a novel; it was about a young Scot who came to work in London. There was a good deal of autobiography in the story and I found it very easy to write. My hero was called Ian; he was not much of a “ hero ”; for he was very human with faults and failings like the rest of us, but all the same I began to get fond of him. Ian came to London to make his fortune and he got into bad company and had an “ affaire ” with a girl who was not unlike Beryl. I called my novel Golden Pavements because of the old saying that the streets of London are paved with gold; but Ian did not make his fortune as quickly as he had expected, on the contrary he had a pretty thin time of it until he had learnt to hold his own.

  Every evening I rushed home from the office, cooked my supper and ate it, and then sat down and wrote. Occasionally Mr. Coe lured me out and we went to a play together and every Sunday afternoon I took a bus into the country and walked for miles.

  These jaunts into the country were not nearly so pleasant as the jaunts with Teddy and I missed her greatly, especially when I visited the places we had visited together and walked over the same ground alone. But even then the new book helped and I thought out all sorts of problems connected with Golden Pavements as I strode along. Teddy was married now and, judging from her letters, completely happy. She and Paul were stationed at a big camp near Chester and had found a comfortable flat. They had a spare room (said Teddy) and would be delighted to have me to stay for a few days—perhaps if I were going home I could break my journey and visit them—Paul wanted to meet me. It was nice of Paul, of course, but somehow I did not share his desire for a meeting. In any case I had had my annual holiday and could not go.

  The months passed quickly. I saw nobody except Mr. Coe and the people at the office but I was not lonely. As a matter of fact I had settled comfortably into a groove and was quite contented with it. Autumn came with rain and blustering winds and, before I knew where I was, it was Christmas.

  My life was so economical that I had saved up a good deal of money and I toyed with the idea of going home, but a long week-end was the extent of my Christmas holiday and it seemed scarcely worth while.

  Mr. Coe and I joined forces for our Christmas dinner. We ate turkey and plum-pudding with rum-butter; we drank cherry-brandy and pulled crackers and wore paper-hats. It was ridiculous, I suppose, but we enjoyed ourselves in a quiet way. I enjoyed it a great deal more than the Christmas I had spent at Mrs. Hall’s.

  “ We’re doing the right thing,” said Mr. Coe solemnly. “ It’s the right thing to be festive at Christmas.”

  He looked so funny sitting there with his solemn face and his silly paper-hat that I could not help smiling.

  “ You can smile, David,” he said. “ But Dickens was a great one for Christmas festivities and what’s good enough for Dickens is good enough for me. I remember one Christmas; we were at Port Louis—that’s in Mauritius in case you don’t know—we were stuck there for three weeks with boiler trouble and it was as hot as Hades. Port Louis is a rum place at any time but at Christmas it’s at its rummest, hot and steamy and airless. The streets were full of all sorts of people of every shade of colour from white to black—not forgetting yellow. If there’s a place on earth where East and West meet and mix it’s Port Louis …”

  Mr. Coe was in a reminiscent mood so I sat back and prepared to listen. He was an excellent story-teller and could yarn away for hours abou
t all the strange places he had been to and the strange people he had met. If he could have written his stories just as he told them he would have been a second Somerset Maugham.

  Soon after Christmas a large parcel arrived from Basil Barnes; it contained six copies of The Inward Eye, bound in dark green cloth with gold lettering and with a jacket which depicted my sketch of the Big Business Man on his way to the city. The paper was thick and the print exceedingly clear and the whole effect was most attractive. It was thrilling to handle the books and know they were mine. It was strange to think that these books were the result of the untidy pile of papers which had lain upon the bottom shelf of the cupboard. I sent one to Mother and Father and one each to Uncle Matt and Aunt Etta and I sent one to Teddy. The fifth copy I took to the office and gave to Mr. Heatley.

  “ Hallo! ” said Mr. Heatley. “ So this is the great work! It looks pretty good to me. Have you got any money for it yet? ”

  “ Just a small advance, sir,” I replied. “ But I don’t mind. I mean I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t get a penny.” I meant it, too. It was enough to see The Inward Eye in print and to know that it was on the bookstalls in America and that people were buying it and reading it.

  Two days later I received a cheque from Mr. Randall for five hundred pounds.

  To say I was astonished is an absurd understatement. There is no word big enough to describe my surprise, but I was not dazed and incredulous (as I had been when I received the letter from Basil Barnes which informed me that he would publish The Inward Eye); indeed I felt particularly clear-headed. I was elated of course for the sum was so vast; it was more than I had expected in my wildest dreams. It was affluence—or so it seemed to me—it put my writing on a different plane. I realised that my life had changed, it had broadened and widened, I myself was all of a sudden a different person. Ten minutes ago I had been the junior clerk in a dreary little office, now I was … but that needed thought.