Yoked with a Lamb

by Molly Clavering

  Kate nodded in reply, absentmindedly. She had to admit, as the meal appeared, carried in by Jessie at the gallop, that it was very pleasant to be taken out and looked after efficiently as Robin Anstruther did it. Perhaps there was something to be said for a sheltered life after all.

  “Oh, raspberries, as late as this! And cream, lots of it. How lovely!” she said. “This is a very good dinner, isn’t it?”

  Robin nodded, smiling a little as he thought of other women who had dined with him. Some had fancied themselves to be in love with him, some he had imagined he loved, some he had merely found amusing companions, temporary sleeping partners, forgotten after a few days; but all had been alike in demanding the best restaurants, the most expensive and out of season dishes. No doubt they were quite right in setting as high a value as possible on their charms. They would have laughed at Kate Heron, enjoying this plain fare in a small country pub.

  “Are you laughing at me because I’m greedy?” demanded Kate, undisturbed. She poured thick cream over a pyramid of dark red fruit and added sugar lavishly. “I am, and about such babyish things. Strawberry jam, and ices, and roast chicken. It’s just one of the things about me that people have to get used to.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was thinking what good company you are,” he said.

  It was true. She was not so unsophisticated that she bored him; he shrewdly suspected that she could play the part of coquette if the mood took her, but there was no trace of it in her manner now, none of that rather wearisome consciousness of sex which so many attractive women wore like perfume. She had an unspoiled freshness of outlook, a keen ‘delight in simple things’ which made her seem at once younger and more interesting. There was only one other woman, he thought, of the many he had known, who shared that lovely faculty for making ordinary things exciting and romantic.

  “I only know one other woman who can make an adventure out of nothing at all,” he said, and realized with a shock that he had spoken aloud when he heard Kate say: “I didn’t know I could do that. Who is the other one?”

  He stared at her. “Did I say it? I didn’t mean to speak,” he said.

  Kate had the grace to blush. “I know you didn’t, and don’t tell me if you don’t want to. I shouldn’t have asked. And it isn’t fair, because I could see that you were thinking about something very hard, and just for fun I willed you to say it out loud. You know how easy it is to do it.”

  “I don’t. I believe you’re a witch,” he said. “And I’m not in the habit of taking witches out to dinner, even in pubs. But there’s no mystery really. The other woman I was thinking of was Elizabeth Fardell, as a matter of fact.”

  “Elizabeth Fardell?” For an instant Kate could not think why the name was so familiar, then suddenly she remembered. It had been mentioned in many tones of disapproval, anger and dismay throughout the family circle a few years ago. “Mrs. Fardell? You mean the woman who—the one Andrew ran away with? Am I like her?”

  “Only in that one thing, I should think,” he answered in a slow unwilling way. “There doesn’t seem to me to be any resemblance apart from that. Are you offended because I compared you with her?”

  Kate was puzzled by something in his manner, too vague to catch hold of, some tone in his voice, some passing look, in his eyes. Something which it was no business of hers to notice, and which she would do well to forget. “Of course I don’t mind,” she said hazily. “Why should I? I’ve never met her. I don’t suppose I ever shall.”

  “I don’t suppose so,” he agreed, and added abruptly, “I didn’t order coffee. They can’t brew it here, it’s always filthy. Do you mind?”

  Before Kate, bewildered by this sudden change of subject, could answer, Jessie made a beaming entry behind a tray on which were two large cups of a greyish liquid.

  “Isa minded that ye aye liked a cup o’ coffee efter yer denner,” she announced, setting her load proudly on the table. “So here ye are.”

  “Oh, Lord!” groaned Robin Anstruther after she had gone.

  “What are we to do?”

  “Drink it, of course. We simply can’t hurt their feelings,” said Kate, bravely lifting her steaming cup to her lips.

  “I doubt if you’ll say that after the first taste,” he warned her.

  Kate put her cup back on its saucer with care. “No. I honestly don’t see how we can swallow that. Please give me a cigarette to take the taste away.”

  They sat looking sadly at the cooling coffee through a thin veil of blue smoke, until Kate said in a thoughtful voice: “Do you suppose coffee would be bad for aspidistras?”

  “This coffee would be bad for anything.”

  “But worse for aspidistras than for us? They’re very hardy, I believe.”

  “Why?”

  For answer she rose, took a cup in each hand and went towards the darkest corner of the room, where a large aspidistra blushed almost unseen in its pot on a high stand.

  “I expect,” she said, coming back and setting down the empty cups, “that it will do the thing a lot of good. Nourish it. Perhaps it will even flower after this.”

  He looked at her grave face and innocent eyes. “Entirely unscrupulous,” he said.

  Kate was indignant. “Resourceful, you mean, don’t you?” she rebuked him. “The next time you come, that aspidistra will be hung with dear little coffee berries!”

  “Well,” said Robin. “We’d better go. If you’re going to be resourceful you may as well practise on the coconut shies and lucky dips.”

  For an hour they wandered about the Green, trying their luck at various targets with little success, but much amusement on Kate’s part. Robin, who had a straight eye, was not unnaturally less popular with the owners of the shooting galleries than his wildly erratic companion. At last, laden with prizes of repellent aspect, no value, and surprising bulk, they began to make their way back to the Soutra Arms and the car.

  The crowd had become even more hilarious, the smell of whisky and strong tobacco and trodden turf and sweat was stifling. Kate, hesitating for a moment to glance at a set of girls and young men who were dancing an eightsome reel to the music supplied by two accordions and a mouth-organ, was separated from Robin Anstruther. A stalwart scarlet-faced youth, his yellow hair rampant above a streaming forehead, seized her arm.

  “Hey, lassie! C’wa’ an’ dance wi’ me. I’ll gi’e ye a turn. Ye’re a fine tall lass—”

  He had probably had a drink or two, but Kate was pretty sure that gaiety and excitement rather than whisky had gone to his head.

  “I’m so sorry, I can’t. I have to go home now,” she said, but she said it regretfully. Mad as the impulse was, she longed to dance.

  “Ach, come on! Ye needna gang. It’s early yet!” her would-be partner cried, and put an arm round her waist. “Can ye dae the Oxton Reel?”

  Yes, I can, but—” said Kate, looking about her for Robin. She could not see him, and ‘well, he oughtn’t to have left me in the crowd,’ she said to herself quite unreasonably. “It would serve him right if I did dance!’

  Already the impromptu orchestra was playing a bumping strathspey tune, already couples were gathering on a cleared space of poached and paper-strewn grass. Kate flung discretion to the winds and allowed herself to be led into the arena in triumph. The next moment saw her deep in the intricacies of the Oxton Reel.

  Robin Anstruther, turning to tell Kate to keep close to him, found himself addressing a large elderly female whom he had never seen before, and who froze him with a glare of such ferocity as she hissed: “Young man, I’ll thank ye tae let me pass!” that he fell back several paces in sheer astonishment. The voice of his steward said in his ear with respectful enjoyment: “If it’s the young leddy ye’re seekin’, sirr, I think ye’ll fin’ her dancin’.”

  “Dancing?” Robin stared at him, then, still laden with the ridiculous fruits of his prowess at the sideshows, strode back towards the dancing-floor, pushing his way through the throng with little ceremony.

 
; He saw her almost immediately, her slim black frock showed up among the lighter colours worn by the country girls. Her hat was gone, her hair was ruffled, and she was dancing with a beautiful smooth grace as if she moved over polished wood instead of rough turf. The little upstanding white ruffle round the high neck of her dress made the carnation flush on her cheeks even more brilliant, but he was so angry with her that her evident delight in the dance only made him angrier. And he could do nothing until the Oxton Reel had bumped to a close. Then, thrusting all his tawdry burden into the surprised but ready clasp of an onlooker, be stepped forward and claimed her.

  “Upon my word, young woman,” he said grimly, when, her partner having relinquished her on the advice of a friend (“Let her gang, Johnny, she’s got a lad o’ her ain”)—he was leading her through the press once more, this time with a firm hand on her arm. “Upon my word, you’re not safe to take out. I suppose if I hadn’t carried you off just now you’d have been dancing with that fellow again?”

  “Very likely,” agreed Kate cheerfully. “I love dancing. Most of my brains are in my feet.”

  “I can believe it,” he said.

  Looking at him, she could see that the deep furrow across his brow was even deeper than usual. “Are you peevish?” she asked with interest.

  He gave her arm a slight shake. “It’s no use trying that on with me,” he said. “If I’m peevish, as you call it, I have reason to be. What would your people say if they knew you were out with a man who couldn’t look after you properly?”

  “Well,” said Kate, “Daddy would be certain to blame you, but then he’s prejudiced in my favour. Mother is much fairer. She’d probably say that no one bar a policeman with handcuffs could be expected to look after me. But I think you have taken care of me very nicely indeed. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and thank you most awfully.”

  He laughed, but unwillingly, and his voice was still grim as he said: “Here’s the car. It’s quite a relief to have got you safely to it without losing you again.”

  They drove off down the dim road under heavy trees, with the sweet air blowing cool in their faces. At the gate of The Anchorage he stopped the car.

  “I won’t come in. The old lady will be in bed, and I don’t want to wake her. I’ll see you the next time I’m in Haystoun.”

  “If it’s during the next week-end, you’ll find me camping out at Soonhope with Grey. He’s coming from Friday night to Sunday.”

  “Well, you’ll have someone to keep an eye on you,” he said.

  Kate looked at him. “Are you still cross with me?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Fardell wouldn’t have danced?”

  “Elizabeth?” he said, his voice changing as he said the name. “Elizabeth would do almost any mad thing, but I’ve never actually heard of her dancing at Baro Fair. Good night.”

  “Good night—Sailor,” said Kate. Feeling oddly subdued, she went into the dark silent house which seemed so stuffy after the night air and crept upstairs to bed.

  3

  “Abracabroccoloni says—” came the voice of Grey from the back kitchen, where he was laboriously scraping potatoes at the sink.

  “Damn Abracabroccoloni!” cried Kate heartily. “If he is as slow as you, I marvel he ever cooks at all.”

  “My good girl,” said Grey in shocked tones. “You don’t suppose he performs such menial tasks as peeling vegetables? An army of scullions waits on his nod. The most he does is to add the pinch of seasoning that gives that je ne sais quoi to a dish, or very occasionally to make a special sauce piquante for some favourite client on a gala night.” Grey, waving a knife, emerged from his lair and seated himself on a corner of the kitchen, table, prepared to enlarge on his theme in comfort.

  “You needn’t sit down,” said his sister brutally. “Until you’ve finished those potatoes—that is, if you want to eat them this evening?”

  “But this is oppression. This is sheer slavery. All the same, I’ll make a bargain with you. You run and fetch me a bottle of beer, and I’ll drink it slowly, and you can watch me, and then—”

  “So the youngest son married the beautiful princess, and they lived happily ever after. You’ll get your beer when the potatoes are ready, my love,” said Kate. “Look upon me as Abracabroccoloni, darling, and yourself as one of his army of scullions.”

  Grey sighed. “And suppose—I only say suppose, I down tools and strike?”

  “No beer.”

  “I could even go and get it for myself,” murmured Grey, rising.

  “You could. Only it happens that I locked the store-room door and hid the key.”

  “My sweet! You think of everything, don’t you?” said Grey fondly.

  “I know your pretty little ways so well, you see—Oh, heavens, Grey, listen! There’s a car coming up to the house. Be an angel and see who it is, and don’t bring them in here—give me a chance to tidy my hair—”

  Grey, with a shrewd glance at his sister’s suddenly flushed cheeks, grinned and strolled out of the kitchen. In a few minutes Kate, swiftly shelling peas into a yellow bowl with a feeling of complete security, was stunned to hear the perfidious Grey returning along the passage, and not alone.

  “Sure you don’t mind coming straight into the kitchen, sir?” he was saying. “It’s the only room that’s furnished so far. Kate’s in there. She said just to bring you along.”

  They were at the door. There was no time even to dash across the kitchen and hide in the scullery. Kate, with one hunted look about her, took refuge in a cupboard among the crockery, holding the door so that only a crack of light filtered in.

  “Hullo! She’s not here.” Grey’s voice, sounding abominably pleased with himself. “I expect she’s hunting out some glasses for beer. If she’s in one of those cupboards, though,” he raised his voice meaningly. “I hope she doesn’t see a mouse and drop ’em.”

  “Is she afraid of mice?” Robin Anstruther’s voice this time.

  “Brutes and devils!” thought Kate in her cupboard. “I wonder if there are any mice really?”

  A faint scrabbling noise made her jump, and her elbow knocked against a cup. To stay where she was after making a sound which seemed to her like an earthquake was merely silly. Flushed with anger, she pushed open the door and came out, blinking, into the kitchen.

  “What were you doing in there?” asked Robin Anstruther with real male tactlessness. “I never met anyone so fond of cupboards as you! Are you playing Hide-and-Seek?”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Grey before she could speak. “She was looking for the glasses. Couldn’t you find them, Kate? Well, have another look—oh, and by the way, you might as well give me the key and I can be fetching the beer in the meantime.”

  Kate, with a glance that spoke volumes, fished the key out of her overall pocket and handed it to him.

  “Strategy and resource always win, don’t they, sir?” said Grey cheerfully to the puzzled guest.

  “Low cunning, you mean,” retorted Kate. And to Robin: “You’ll stay and picnic with us, won’t you? I’m sorry to be so untidy.”

  “You look all right to me,” he said. “I rather like that rig you’ve got on.”

  Kate, a blue overall hiding most of her pale summer dress, a blue ribbon tied round her hair to keep it out of her eyes, was really rather attractive, he thought. Not his style, and not exactly pretty, but somehow nice to look at.

  “Now,” said Grey, when he had brought the beer and poured out two brimming glasses. “Now I’ll do those potatoes for you, my sweet.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Grey,” said Kate in a tone of deceptive meekness and gratitude. “How kind you are!”

  “Anything to help you, Sis dear.” And Grey, who knew her loathing of this particular form of endearment, and used it only to annoy, took himself off to his task in high good humour.

  “I suppose I’d better do something to help?” suggested Robin.

  Kate accepted his dubious offer with a composed br
iskness which secretly amused him. “Thank you, it would be very kind of you. Now let me see, what can I give you to do?”

  “It looks as if the first thing you need is a fire in that range,” he said.

  “Oh, we aren’t using that. It makes the kitchen so hot. Can’t you smell your old friend the oil-stove? I’m going to call it Bouquet after the one in the ‘Good Comrade.’ We’ve moved it to the servants’ hall, and it cooks all right, however odorous it may be. Grey found an oven belonging to it, too. Really rather intelligent of him. I thought it was a kind of tin hen-coop.”

  “Well, let me shell the peas. I can do that,” he said, pulling a heavy wooden chair up to the table.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea, only don’t eat too many of them raw, or there won’t be enough to go round when they’re cooked,” said Kate, setting the basket of plump green pods, the half-filled yellow bowl, in front of him.

  “What makes you think I’ll eat ’em? Do I look peculiarly untrustworthy?”

  “Grey always devours about half of what he shells. He’s only safe with potatoes. And for all I know you may share his craving,” Kate explained. “So don’t let him near them. I’m going to look after the cooking.”

  She disappeared along the short stone passage leading to the servants’ hall. Robin Anstruther soberly set to work at the kitchen-table, wondering what had possessed him to leave his own comfortable house and excellent dinner for this odd meal to be eaten in the kitchen of Soonhope.

  However, to his relieved surprise he was given casserole of chicken, peas and potatoes in which he took more interest than usual, since he and Grey had prepared them, cheese-straws and very good coffee.

  “I didn’t know you were a cook,” he said to Kate, when they were all washing up to the accompaniment of much talk and snatches of song, mainly contributed by the young Herons.

  “It’s one of my few accomplishments,” she said gaily, and plunged into hot argument with Grey over some sea-battle of the eighteenth century, followed by swift altercation about the merits of Lee as a general.