Julia was about to reply when the taxi drew up at a dilapidated gate. Mrs. Walker dismounted, pushed the gate open and hurried up the stone-paved path, taking off her gloves and muttering something about supper. The taxi-driver collected the luggage and hastened after her. They both disappeared into the house.
Somewhat surprised at being deserted in this summary fashion, Julia followed more slowly, looking about her with interest. Although it was getting late by this time there was still light enough to see that The Square House was indeed a square house, standing by itself in a small garden with other houses not so uncompromisingly square on either side. There was a neglected look about the place; the paint was shabby, the garden untended . . . but there was a delightful pink rose-bush on a trellis in the corner and a cluster of lily-of-the-valley beside the path, struggling amongst a tangle of weeds.
The door of the house was open, so Julia went in. She stood in the hall and looked about, uncertain where to go. It was a square hall with doors on either side and a staircase with a wooden banister leading up to the first floor. The hall was furnished with a grandfather clock in a beautifully polished mahogany case, and a large mahogany chest. The carpet on the floor was faded and threadbare.
As Julia stood there, taking it all in, the clock struck eight in charming silvery tones and, almost as if it were a signal, one of the doors opened and a voice exclaimed, ‘Julia!’
It was Uncle Randal, of course—who else could it be? So Julia turned and held out her hand.
‘My dear child!’ said Uncle Randal, taking it in a warm clasp. ‘I never knew you had arrived! What on earth possessed Maggie to leave you standing in the hall?’
‘She murmured something about supper.’
‘Oh, that’s it! The creature gets flustered,’ explained Uncle Randal, drawing her into the room and shutting the door.
‘But I haven’t paid the taxi!’
‘We needn’t bother,’ said Uncle Randal comfortably. ‘He knows he’ll get his money. Come and sit down by the fire. I dare say you’re not used to fires at this time of year, but old bones feel the cold more than young ones, and a good log fire is a pretty thing to watch, so I just coddle myself a bit.’ While he was talking he arranged a chair near the fire for Julia and sat down in what was obviously his own, an old-fashioned wing-chair upholstered in faded brown tapestry with a high back and padded arms.
‘Now then, let’s look at each other,’ he said.
Julia smiled. She had dreaded this meeting, but there was nothing alarming about Uncle Randal, and, except for the fact that he was pale and unnaturally thin, he did not look ill. His hair was grey and silvery; his features were cleanly cut; the grey eyes were twinkling beneath the rather bushy grey eyebrows; the mouth was wide, and just at the moment it was curving up at the corners.
‘Well, Julia?’ asked Uncle Randal.
‘You aren’t a bit like Father!’ exclaimed Julia impulsively.
‘But you’re like your mother,’ said Uncle Randal, nodding. Then he leaned forward, stirred the fire gently with the poker and began to question her about her journey. Had it been comfortable? Had it seemed very long? Journeys always seemed longer when one did not know where one was going—at least that was his experience—and especially when there was an ogre to be met with when one arrived.
Julia said where was the ogre? She had not seen him yet . . . which made Uncle Randal laugh.
After this it was easy to talk. They discussed journeys. Uncle Randal asked whether she thought it was better to travel cheerfully than to arrive.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Julia with decision. ‘I’ve often wondered what on earth he meant when he said that.’
‘I know exactly what he meant,’ replied Uncle Randal. ‘I’ve knocked about all over the world, just as he did, and I can assure you that travelling cheerfully is delightful.’
‘Arriving is delightful,’ retorted Julia, looking round with a contented air. ‘Especially when you receive a nice warm welcome.’
‘Oh, Julia!’ he cried. ‘What am I to say to that? You’ve swept the ground from beneath my feet, you wicked wee lassie!’
Julia giggled and as usual her dimples came and went. It was rather fun to be called ‘a wicked wee lassie.’
*
3
They had not been talking for long when the door opened and Mrs. Walker announced that supper was on the table.
‘It will have to wait,’ said Uncle Randal. ‘Miss Julia will want to see her room and tidy up after her journey. You left her standing in the hall, Maggie.’
‘Maircy, so I did!’ exclaimed Mrs. Walker in dismay. ‘I felt the smell of burning as I came in at the door and it clean went out of my head that Miss Julia wouldna ken the way!’
‘It doesn’t matter a bit,’ declared Julia.
Mrs. Walker continued to apologise and explain; and Julia, following her up the stairs, repeated that it did not matter, it was quite all right and of course she understood.
‘You’ll be quick, won’t you, Miss Julia? I mean you’ll not change—except maybe your shoes. It’s a brace of nice trout that Neil caught this morning and they’ll not improve with getting cold. I just mashed the potatoes—he likes them mashed—there was only one had stuck a wee bit to the bottom of the pot . . . and Dr. Cairn brought a lettuce from his garden . . . and Mrs. Inglis came along with a batch of scones. I’ll not say they’re as light as mine, but the creature meant well; she kenned fine I’d be busy with you arriving and all.’
‘People seem very kind,’ said Julia.
‘And so they should be! He’s done enough for them in all conscience!’
Already Julia had discovered that ‘he’ was Uncle Randal; already she had caught the infection and found herself using the pronoun in and out of season. She had been taught in her childhood that the habit was disrespectful (‘She’s the cat’s aunt,’ Ellen had said); but Mrs. Walker’s use of the pronoun was the reverse of disrespectful, indeed you could almost imagine that she used it with a capital letter. He was her sun and moon and stars; he was her last thought when she laid her head upon the pillow and went to sleep, her first thought when she awoke in the morning. Only God was higher in Mrs. Walker’s estimation, and to be quite honest, Mrs. Walker thought more often of Mr. Randal Harburn than of God. Of course Julia did not realise all this that first evening, but she realised it quite soon. Some people might have deplored this preoccupation with the needs of an earthly master, but Julia had a feeling that God would understand.
When Julia went down Uncle Randal was sitting at the dining-room table, doing the crossword puzzle in The Scotsman. He put it away and looked up cheerfully.
‘I hope Maggie didn’t hurry you,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Julia had gone to bed weary from her long day’s journey, but she slept soundly and wakened rested and refreshed. For a minute or two she lay and looked round the room; she had been too tired to look at it properly last night. It was a square room. (Everything in The Square House was square, thought Julia, smiling at the ridiculous thought . . . except Mrs. Walker, of course; she was round and comfortable.) The furniture was old-fashioned, large and solid and shining with polish. The bedstead was brass with polished brass knobs. The wallpaper, the curtains, the carpet on the floor, were all so faded that their original pattern had almost disappeared, but everything was scrupulously clean—clean with a cleanliness that was impossible to achieve in Town no matter how hard one tried.
The sun was pouring in through the large open window, filling the room with golden light. Julia sprang out of bed and ran to the window and found that it looked out to the front. The stone-paved path led down to the ramshackle gate and on each side was the square patch of garden. She had seen this last night; she had seen the weedy garden and the pink rosebush. A beech hedge which badly needed trimming divided the garden from the wide road, which was empty and very quiet. She sniffed the air; it was cool and clear like a drink of spring water.
Julia was still kneeling at the window with her arms on the sill when the door of her room was opened very softly and Mrs. Walker’s head appeared round the edge.
‘Maircy!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d be sleeping! You’ll get your death at the open window, Miss Julia. Away back to bed and I’ll bring your breakfast.’
‘But I can easily get up! I was just going to——’
‘You’ll take it in bed while you’re here,’ said Mrs. Walker firmly. ‘It’ll do you good after racketing about in London, and I’m not wanting you downstairs—that’s the truth.’
Obviously it was the truth. If there was any woman on earth more truthful, more straightforward and honest, more the-same-all-through than Maggie Walker, Julia had still to meet that remarkable woman. So Julia found her dressing-jacket and went back to bed.
Quite soon Mrs. Walker returned with a very large tray which she placed on the chest of drawers while she arranged Julia’s pillows. A wooden bed-table was settled firmly across her knees and the tray laid carefully upon the top of it.
‘There! that’s fine,’ said Mrs. Walker complacently. ‘I’ve given you a wee bell to ring if you’re wanting more.’
‘More!’ exclaimed Julia, looking at the tray in astonishment. It contained a glass of orange juice; a bowl of porridge; a covered dish with three large rashers of bacon; scones and butter; marmalade and honey; a teapot with a woolly crochet jacket; milk and sugar and a jug of cream. There was also a small brass bell which Mrs. Walker pointed to with pride, repeating her injunction that Miss Julia was to ring loudly—give it a good shake—if she wanted more.
‘Maybe you’ll feel like an egg,’ added Mrs. Walker.
‘I shall feel as full as an egg if I eat all this!’
Mrs. Walker chuckled. ‘You’re an awful lassie!’ she declared. ‘I’ll tell him what you said. He’s fine this morning.’
‘None the worse of all he did yesterday?’
‘Not him. I was a bit scared, to tell you the truth—what with all his stravaigling and the stir and excitement—but he’s just grand. He’s taking porridge to his breakfast and toast and marmalade and he’s wanting up.’
‘Wanting up?’ asked Julia with a puzzled frown.
‘He’s wanting to get up out of his bed and put his clothes on,’ explained Mrs. Walker loudly and clearly—as if her listener were hard of hearing and not quite right in the head. Fortunately she went away quite quickly after that, so there was no need for Julia to control her giggles.
*
2
‘Stravaigling,’ thought Julia as she walked into the little town of Leddiesford with Mrs. Walker’s shopping-basket on her arm. It was a good word, and so descriptive that it required no explanation even to someone who had never met with it before; but on thinking it over seriously she decided that it did not describe this morning’s expedition. No, ‘stravaigling’ had a leisurely wandering sort of feeling about it and Julia was hurrying hither and thither, consulting the list of ‘messages’ and looking at the names displayed above the doors of the shops.
The list was written in a clear round hand and the instructions were lucid. In fact it was an admirable guide. It was headed, ‘Greengrocer—Macfarlane. Six bananas—yellow with brown spots—bring. One cabbage—send to-morrow.’ What could have been clearer? It was absolutely fool-proof. Fool-proof, thought Julia, smiling as she remembered the little scene which had been enacted in the kitchen that morning.
Julia had risen (after demolishing her gargantuan breakfast), dressed and made her bed and carried the tray downstairs. ‘Where shall I put it, Mrs. Walker?’ she had asked.
‘Och, Miss Julia! You should never have carried yon heavy tray down the stair! I was coming to fetch it when I’d got the sink cleaned.’
‘Can I help you?’ Julia had asked.
‘I’m not needing help,’ was the frank reply. ‘I can manage fine on my own—I’m not in my dotage yet—and to tell the truth, Miss Julia, I’m not wanting you under my feet the whole morning; so just you put on your hat and away out for a walk. I’ll not let him up till dinner-time—one o’clock, that is—but I’ll need to hurry for there’s the messages to do,’ she added, glancing at the clock and frowning.
‘Shopping?’ asked Julia. ‘Well, I could do that for you, couldn’t I?’
Mrs. Walker was doubtful about it. How would Miss Julia find her way to the town? How would she know which shops to go to? How would she carry the heavy basket home? Finally, however, Mrs. Walker’s objections were overborne; she put on her spectacles and, seating herself at the kitchen table, she had made out the fool-proof list
*
3
Julia had had no difficulty in finding her way to the town. When she had walked to the end of the road she had seen Leddiesford before her eyes lying in a hollow in the fold of the hills with the river wandering through it like a silver ribbon. She had seen the grey stone houses, surrounded with trees, and a couple of church spires, and she had seen the railway-station at which she had arrived last night. All she had to do was to follow her nose down the hill and through the outskirts of the town until she came to the wide, paved street with shops at either side which obviously was the High Street.
It was a novel experience for Julia to shop in a small town and she was enjoying herself immensely. Already she had collected ‘Bananas—yellow with brown spots’ from Mr. Macfarlane and instructed him to send a cabbage to-morrow; she had found the bookstall and had collected The People’s Friend and Blackwood’s. (The incongruity of these two papers amused Julia considerably.) She was now dashing across the wide street and into ‘Grocer—Menzies’ where there was a long list of comestibles to be sent and half a pound of rice marked ‘bring.’ Julia was about to give Uncle Randal’s name and address to the smiling youth behind the counter when she saw that already he had written ‘Harburn, Square House,’ in his order book and was awaiting instructions. Now, how on earth did he know that? wondered Julia as she dictated her requirements.
She soon discovered that everyone ‘knew that,’ and everyone was desirous to be helpful. When her turn came to be served at ‘Butcher—Wilson’ and she hesitated over the unknown word ‘gigot,’ an unknown woman, looking over her shoulder, said kindly, ‘It’s a jiggot, Miss Harburn. French, you know. We’ve stolen a wheen o’ words from the Frenchies.’ And a little old man with a hooky nose remarked that no doubt Miss Harburn would be accustomed to calling it a leg of mutton.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Julia. ‘Yes, but I’ll remember it next time.’
Of course Julia would remember it—the little incident was much too mysterious for her to forget a word of what had been said—besides, she was always ready to learn a new language. She was one of those fortunate people who find languages easy and fascinating. In addition to French, which she could speak like a Frenchwoman (as Madame Claire had discovered) she had a good working knowledge of German, and could converse fluently and idiomatically, if not very grammatically, in Spanish.
As she walked along, looking for ‘Brown—Milk,’ Julia decided that this dialect was not just English pronounced in a peculiar way. For one thing the construction of the sentences was different, and for another there was a large vocabulary of fascinating words which gave it a salty tang . . . and the odd thing was, you could hear at least three grades of speech shading into each other. Take Mrs. Walker for instance: when Mrs. Walker ‘remembered,’ she could speak normal English with scarcely any accent at all; and when she liked she could speak in a language absolutely incomprehensible to English ears (she had done so to the porter at the station); her own ordinary, comfortable way of speaking was somewhere in between. Even Uncle Randal had different ways of speaking; the way he spoke to ‘Maggie’ and the way he spoke to Julia. So far Julia had not heard him speak in the absolutely incomprehensible way, but quite probably he could. These were Julia’s first impressions of the country and the people and the language. She found it all very strange.
It should not have been
strange, thought Julia, for it was her father’s home. He was Uncle Randal’s brother, though it was difficult to remember this because they were so different.
This was her father’s home! He had been born and bred at Harburn House, a few miles from the town. How very queer to think of him here, in Leddiesford, walking about in this wide pleasant street! The street and the houses were unfamiliar to Julia’s eyes—foreign-looking, somehow—but they must have been very familiar to him! Why had he never spoken about Leddiesford? Why did he never mention his boyhood?
Poor Father! What was he doing now? Had he emerged from his brown blanket to enjoy the sunshine and the Mediterranean breezes? Was Retta being kind and companionable? By this time he would have received her airmail letter, so probably—almost certainly—he was angry and upset. Oh dear, what a pity it all was!
Having walked the length of the High Street twice without having found ‘Brown—Milk’ Julia was obliged to ask the way from a passer-by. (It was quite absurd not to have thought of this before, but her mind had been occupied with other things.) She was directed to a side street and here she found the little dairy quite easily. A girl of about her own age, who was going in before her, held the door open and said with a shy smile, ‘Are you wanting in?’
Julia nodded and smiled and thanked her.
‘Wanting in,’ thought Julia. It came into the same category as ‘wanting up’ of course. No doubt you could say ‘wanting out’ and ‘wanting down.’ What a useful word!
A few moments later the round fat lady behind the counter was smiling and saying, ‘Are you wanting cream, Miss Harburn?’ and Julia, with a glance at the fool-proof list, saw that she was.
‘Tell me,’ said Julia to the round fat lady. ‘How did you know I was Miss Harburn?’
‘Who else could you be?’ asked the round fat lady in surprise.
This was unanswerable, of course; Julia could not imagine herself being anyone else, so she turned her steps homewards with the mystery unsolved.
The Blue Sapphire Page 15
