“Good gracious!” I said, staring at her. “You’re going to be married! You’re engaged to Colonel Greenhill!”
She nodded. “Is it so very astonishing? Am I so completely the devoted spinster sister?”
“No, no! Of course not. You took me by surprise, that’s all,” I said hastily. “As a matter of fact I have often wondered why you hadn’t married long ago.”
“I’ve always been too busy enjoying life to want to tie myself up,” said Joan Whitburn. “Toby has asked me more than once before, but this time he swore it would be the last. He wouldn’t ask me again. And I could see that he meant it, so although I am not fond of having a pistol held to my head, I gave in gracefully and accepted his offer.”
“Well, I’m very glad. I wish you all the good luck and happiness in the world,” I said. “But—what will he do?” And I nodded at the back of the unconscious Lawrence’s head.
“Thank you for wishing me joy. Miss Bonaly, I need hardly say, congratulated me in a voice like vinegar! As for Lawrence, I don’t think you need bother about him. I fancy he has matrimonial ideas of his own.”
“Catherine?” I murmured, with a feeling of sinking dread.
“Cath Drysdale?” exclaimed Joan, looking exceedingly astonished. “What on earth made you think of her? No, it’s someone quite different—I mustn’t say any more, because it’s all very hush-hush at the moment, and I shouldn’t have said even as much as I have, so please keep it dark.”
“I won’t say anything. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because I don’t know,” I said rather confusedly. “You haven’t really told me—”
“You’ll hear quite soon, I expect,” said Joan. “Oh, here we are at your gate—”
I got out, thanked them both and said good night, and went into the house to be welcomed joyfully by Pam.
My mind was a whirl of surprise and conjecture and relief, but mainly relief. I should have been very much upset if it had been Catherine whom Lawrence Whitburn wants to marry. Wouldn’t you?
*
P.S. I have lost the little list Joan Whitburn made me! Isn’t that extremely awkward?
CHAPTER XXIII
JUNE, 1953
We have sung God Save the Queen over and over again, in and out of church, where we had a special service on the eve of the Coronation. We have planted our oak-tree by the hands of Mrs. Currie, trembling with pride and nervousness. We have had sports for the children and free television for the old people. Scores of little girls dressed as queens, dozens of little boys as heralds, competed for prizes in the fancy dress parade, as well as the usual comic characters. (“A night wi’ Burns” wearing a garment full of large charred holes and carrying a candle and matches is an example.) There was a lorry with Britannia in a fireman’s helmet precariously enthroned among her supporters: John Bull, a kilted Highlander, a Welshwoman in a tall hat, an Irish colleen covered with shamrocks. Every child in the parish was given a new shilling, besides a Coronation mug and a bar of chocolate, and every child who took part in the sports received a Coronation medal, winners and losers alike. Coronation tea-caddies containing half a pound of tea were presented to each old-age pensioner. The long main street was gay with bunting, windows displayed portraits of the Queen, the Duke, and the Royal children. Not only did we humans all sport red, white and blue favours, but I saw several dogs and cats slinking uneasily about, wondering what their stupid owners could have tied round their unwilling necks. Finally in the evening our bonfire on Witching Knowe was set alight by Joan Whitburn—Lawrence being chairman of Ravenskirk District Council—and roared heavenwards in a mass of red and orange flame which quite eclipsed the first pale stars. Rain came on soon after that, but it had at least remained dry, though piercingly cold, throughout the day. “Ay, Ravenskirk’s done better as London for weather onyway,” as one old man was heard to remark complacently.
Atty and Anthony Drysdale (who were home on the special holiday given to all schools) had elected to climb the hills instead of going to bed, hoping to see some of the chain of bonfires which linked the country from north to south and from east to west. Several other hardy spirits, Catherine and Sylvia Currie among them, had gone as well, and none of them expected to be home before breakfast. It is a wonderful thing to be young, Hugo.
When I said this to Elizabeth as she and Lewis were driving me home, however, she only answered: “Personally, I think that we are a great deal more wonderful, and get very little credit for it! Look at what we have done to-day, and think of the work it meant to organise everything so that it went smoothly. And in the morning those young things will come in tired and ravenous and expect to find breakfast ready!” Which is perfectly true. I thought of it as I fried sausages for Atty at an hour when I would much rather still have been in bed!
Atty was pale and silent. I put this down to his sleepless night, but when I suggested he should go and have an hour or two in bed, he shook his head.
“I’d rather talk to you, Aunt Sara,” he said, and insisted on helping to wash up, and afterwards wandered about the house as I made beds and dusted, getting much more in my way than Pam, fidgetting with the powder-bowl on my dressing-table until he spilled its contents in a cloud which made us both sneeze.
“What is it, Atty?” I asked in despair. “You’re not in trouble at school, are you?”
“Oh, no,” he said, fiddling with my comb.
“Something is the matter. I don’t want to ask you questions, Atty, but do tell me if you can. I may be able to help.”
At that moment the comb snapped in half. “Oh Lord, look what I’ve done,” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Aunt Sara—”
“Well you may be,” I said. “You will have to go in to Ravenskirk and try to get me another.”
“I will,” he promised hurriedly. “And I’ll pay for it too, but you don’t need it this minute, do you?”
“After lunch will do, if you don’t fall asleep.”
“Yes, all right,” he said. “Aunt Sara, I want to tell you something—”
Oh dear, O dear, I thought. What on earth is coming now? Aloud I said calmly: “Tell me, then.”
“I had a letter from my father last week,” he began. “A long one. It’s ages since he wrote, you know. Did he write to you too?”
“No, Atty. But I am glad he has written to you at last. He isn’t very good about letters.”
“I don’t think it matters awfully, because I’m not used to hearing from him, so I don’t miss them when he doesn’t write. But this was a—a sort of important one, Aunt Sara.”
My heart sank right into the toes of my shoes. In fact, I would not have been surprised to see it lying on the carpet in front of them. Rex had written to tell Atty to join them in the United States! It must be that. . . .
Atty was going on slowly. “He said had I thought what I wanted to be. He said if I liked he could get me off my military service, if I went to America. But he said I was old enough to know my own mind, or I ought to be, and it was up to me to decide.”
Just like Rex, to put all the burden on Atty’s shoulders! I thought angrily. And yet, they were broad shoulders now, and Atty was sixteen. He had passed his “School Cert.” or whatever the horrid thing is called that the authorities set so much store by.
With a dry throat I murmured, “And have you any ideas, Atty?”
He did not answer this, but said, kicking at the leg of a little chair which I am particularly fond of: “My father says he doesn’t think I’d fit in with life in America. He thinks I’d be better to stay here.”
“But what do you want to do? You might like America very much—”
“I expect I would, for a visit, but not to live there. I’m a Scotsman,” he said. He raised his head and looked at me. “I want to go into the Army. I could get a commission after my national service. But—wouldn’t it be a bother for you? I mean, if I kept on staying here, and coming here on leave?”
“Oh, Atty dear! There’s nothing I should like better!” I crie
d. “I have been simply dreading that your father might suddenly say he wanted you!”
He gave a great sigh of relief. “Then that’s all right,” he said gruffly, and suddenly hugged me like a young bear. “Thanks, Aunt Sara!”
And with that he yawned enormously. “Gosh, I’m sleepy now!” he said. “D’you mind if I go to bed for a bit?”
Isn’t it extraordinary how there come times when so many things happen that you feel quite dizzy?
A day or two after Atty went back to school, quite restored to his normal lively spirits, the bell rang, and I heard Lawrence Whitburn’s voice shout: “May we come in, Sara?”
“We,” I thought, a little crossly, I’m afraid, for I had just come in from a hot session in the garden, where I had been hoeing the vegetable-bed. “Now who has he brought with him?”
“Come in!” I called back aloud, and he appeared at the drawing-room door, with Pam, who, as you know, is a completely indiscriminate adorer of any visitor, leaping before him in an ecstasy of welcome.
Lawrence wore a beaming smile so large as to be almost a grin, which gave his nice craggy face an oddly fatuous look.
“You are the very first person to be told the news,” he announced.
“News? What news?” I asked.
“We’re engaged. We’re going to be married!”
Now Lawrence is a very large man, and the doorways at Piper’s Cottage are of modest dimensions. It was impossible to see who, if any one, was lurking behind him.
“Well, Lawrence, I’m very glad. I can see that you are delighted,” I said rather tartly. “But who are ‘we’? I mean, who are you going to marry?”
He stared at me as if he thought I ought to know. “Good Lord! It’s Elise, of course. Elise Kilmartin. Hasn’t it been sticking out a mile for months? We haven’t said anything until now because it seemed only decent to wait—just a year since poor old Ronald was drowned, you know—”
“Elise!” I gasped. “I never thought of Elise! But I am more pleased than ever, Lawrence, really I am. I must go round to Wallace Cottage at once and see her—”
“But she’s here, only she made me come in first. She feels shy, or something—”
“If you would move a little, Lawrence, the poor girl might have a chance to be seen!” I said, and at that he did stand aside, and with the proud air of an amateur conjuror who has succeeded in producing a rabbit from the hat at last, revealed the shrinking form of Elise Kilmartin, her usually pale face suffused with pink. She looked at me so piteously that I put my arms round her and kissed her hot cheek.
“I think it’s splendid,” I said. “I’m sure you will both be happy together.”
And I do think they will, Hugo, for they really are like the good old-fashioned Ivy and the Oak! Elise will cling like anything, and Lawrence will love it. I don’t mean that Elise is feeble, there is nothing feeble about ivy, after all, but she has had more than her share of being a prop and stay with poor Ronald Kilmartin, and now she will be able to lean on Lawrence. Also, though I do not want to sound mercenary, she will be very comfortably off as his wife. I don’t suppose that has entered her head, for it is obvious that she adores Lawrence. As for him—I told you he looked fatuous, and he does. He is quite stupid with pride and protective love and happiness.
I fetched the sherry and we drank to their happiness, and to Joan and her Toby, and then to Atty and me, because I told them now it had been settled that he was to stay in this country with Piper’s Cottage as his home, and when they went away I felt absolutely spineless, as if I had been rather unskilfully filleted.
It was partly delayed reaction after hearing about Atty, for I had not let him see either my fears or my full relief when Rex wrote to me as well, asking me if I would become his son’s guardian until he came of age and sending me various documents to sign. Two engagements on top of that and immediately after the Coronation celebrations left me quite limp.
A long afternoon on the hill seemed indicated to restore me to calm, so quite soon after lunch Pam and I set out (in the midday sun, like all mad dogs and Englishmen!) up the sheep-path which follows the near side of Windy Gans. The deep gash in the long ridge was full of blue shadow, and the great boulders lying so far down in the bottom looked like strange prehistoric creatures asleep. It is an eerie place, even on a hot June day, with a cool air blowing up out of it.
Pam, returning from a fruitless hunt after rabbits in the tall green bracken, nudged me with his nose to remind me that we were supposed to be walking, not standing idly staring into the distance. So I turned and went over the crest of the ridge. Ravenskirk fell away out of sight behind it, and all around were the quiet dips and rises of the rolling green hills, the little valleys threaded by tiny streams. There was not a house in sight, there was not a sound to hear but the bleating of sheep and the crying of curlew and plover.
I walked steadily but not too fast, for hour after hour, drinking in the changeful beauty of light and shade on those bare uplands as I drank in the strong fresh air. When at last I turned reluctantly towards home, I felt like a different person. There is magic in those hill breezes, Hugo, as you know well. It can heal a hurt and give new courage to those most downhearted. I, who had only been tired in mind, found myself walking back with renewed vigour and refreshed brain, ready for anything that might happen.
It was just as well that I did feel like that. I had come to the head of the long shallow glen where Piper’s burn has its source, when I saw, some distance away, a figure seated on a great rock beside the water. For a moment I hesitated. I did not want to meet anyone, and I could easily turn aside and take another path which would not bring me near enough to speak.
Then I realised that it was Catherine Drysdale, and something about the listless droop of her head made me stand and look at her. She never stirred, though I must have watched her for a full minute. This utter immobility was rather frightening. I could not walk on and leave her like that, so I went towards her.
And now, Hugo, I am going to tell you what followed, though it means giving another woman away to a man, a thing I have always been careful not to do; but I think you ought to know. You see, I guessed long ago when you were at Corseburnhead how you felt about Cath, and I was so thankful and relieved when Joan Whitburn assured me that Lawrence did not care for her. I’m afraid you are going to find it anything but plain sailing, as you shall hear. . . .
Just before I reached her, I kicked a loose pebble so that she would hear me coming and not be startled.
She did look up then, and showed me a face so white and drawn that I cried out in alarm.
“Catherine! Are you hurt?” I said—or something equally silly, for it was obvious that she was suffering.
“Hurt?” she repeated vaguely. “Oh—you mean, have I sprained an ankle or something? No, I’m all right, Sara. I’m—just—resting a bit. I’ve—I’ve walked a long way, I think.”
“You’ve walked far too far, I should say. How are you going to get home?” I asked. I could feel that she wanted me to go and leave her alone, and I said the first things I could think of, to put off time.
“Oh, I shall be moving on again presently, when I’ve had a rest,” she said wearily.
“Look here, I know that you’d like to be left by yourself, Cath, but it is getting late,” I began.
“I’m all right,” she said again. “Honestly, Sara. You—you happened to come on me at rather a bad moment, that’s all. I’ve been tramping about most of the day, trying to get used to something. Well, I am more or less used to it now—”
At least she was talking, and I felt sure it was better for her to talk, though I had no idea what it was all about.
“Isn’t it queer how you can go on deluding yourself about a thing just because you want it terribly badly?” she went on. “Wishful thinking—and you know all the time that it’s hopeless, but you still try to make believe that it will come true—”
“We all do it at times,” I murmured.
; “Do you think men do? Or is it only women who are such fools?”
“I don’t know,” I said helplessly, but she was not listening to me. She went on talking, as if, once she had begun, she could not stop.
“I’m twenty-four, almost twenty-five. Ever since I was eighteen I’ve been in love with Lawrence, and always hoping that he would fall in love with me, but he thinks of me as a child. And I’m not a child, you see. Up to the very last, up till this morning when he came in at the door to tell us he was engaged to Mrs. Kilmartin, I still hoped that he would—he would—oh, well, what’s the use of going on?” she ended. “He’s going to marry Elise Kilmartin and that’s the end of it—”
I couldn’t say anything. I was much too distressed by what I had just heard. So those wretched old gossips with their sharp eyes and tongues had been right! It is quite a commonplace thing for a young woman (or a young man, if it comes to that) to fall in love with someone whom they are never likely to marry, and to suffer miseries in the throes of what is called “calf-love” and carelessly dismissed as a passing fever of youth like measles or chicken-pox. It does pass as a general rule, though I think it leaves a scar for life unless it is very tenderly treated. But it was worse for Catherine. There is nothing callow about her or her affections. I could see how hard she had been hit, and how gallantly she was enduring her hurt.
“You’re being very brave, Cath,” I said, speaking my last thought aloud.
She gave me a small wry smile, a pathetic travesty of her usual one. “Am I? You wouldn’t have said so if you had seen me an hour or two ago.”
“Yes I should,” I insisted. “If you weren’t extremely courageous you would have run weeping to your mother or to somebody else instead of battling with it alone.”
“I’ve just been moaning to you.”
“Only because I happened to appear. You didn’t look for me to tell me. And I think,” I added, “that it might be a good thing if you came back and had a meal with me instead of going home and facing your family just yet. We’ll ring up Carmichael when we get to Piper’s Cottage so that no one will need to worry about you.”
Dear Hugo Page 21
