The Tender Glory

by Jean S. MacLeod

  Alison finished her tea in silence. Of course they needed a new van, but she couldn’t worry her mother with details like that just now, even if there was enough money. She supposed Robin had attended to this sort of thing and it was true to say that a man was essential on a farm, a strong, vigorous man, not a tired old retainer like Neil, who did his best. The van was just one of the problems she hadn’t anticipated when she had made up her mind to come home and help, so no doubt she would stumble on others in time.

  Buttoning her oilskins and tying a sou’wester under her chin, she pulled on Wellingtons and a pair of leather gloves before she went across the yard. The van stood ready and Neillie was in the byre, talking to one of the cows.

  “Get over, ye great stupid beast ye! And keep still! How can a body wash ye down when you’re dancin’ a highland fling all over the place?”

  Neil was old and bent and ‘crabbit’, as Kirsty said, but he was amazingly loyal.

  “Thanks, Neillie, for loading up for me,” Alison called in to him. “Are there any extras?”

  “Another pint at the Lodge.” He came to the open door. “They must be keepin’ plenty o’ company down there these days. They want it from now on.”

  Possibly because they would be entertaining Huntley Daviot for coffee or a nightcap, Alison thought, letting in her clutch, and then she laughed outright. I’m getting as curious as everybody else in the glen, she mused, and I haven’t been back five minutes!

  The wind was still boisterous, the rain lashing against the windscreen, but there was something wonderfully exhilarating about a storm. In her present circumstances it held a challenge, and she set her wipers to work and pressed on.

  The road was more like a river, and by the time she reached the glen she was glad of the comparative shelter of the trees. Here and there, in the wooded approaches to Calders, a fir had come down, lying aslant in the dense green twilight of the avenue leading to the house, and long before she came to the clachan she could hear the roar of the bum.

  The little village houses huddled together in the early morning light, their shutters closed against the storm, their bedraggled gardens squelchy with rain. Everything dripped and she seemed to be the only living soul abroad at this early hour. Belatedly a cock began to crow.

  Feeling curiously alone, she set the van towards the headland. She would go that way and deliver the milk at the Lodge on her return journey.

  The wind met her with demoniacal fury when she left the shelter of the hills, yet now that the rain had slacked off a little she could almost enjoy it. Winding down her window, she listened to the pounding of the surf and the harsh cry of the gulls, feeling an odd excitement stirring in her veins. The rush of wind and the deeply resonant thunder of wave upon wave fretting the headland from end to end was like some wild concerto played by nature in the splendid isolation of the dawn. She found herself listening to it and taking a sort of harsh comfort from it. Music was everywhere. She hadn’t left it behind in the busy throng of London any more than she had taken it with her when she had left Craigie Hill.

  When the white column of the lighthouse rose starkly before her it seemed only natural that she should be going there.

  The storm had taken its toll at Sterne, like everywhere else. A section of the cliff face had crumbled and part of the wooden fencing was down. The white gate lay open, swinging on its hinges, while a huddle of sheep pressed close to the inside wall. They had strayed off the moor, seeking the nearest shelter they could find.

  Alison got down from the van, realising that she couldn’t very well leave Huntley Daviot’s milk at the gate. He had apparently forgotten all about the box he had mentioned or else it had been blown away. She would have to walk up to the Light, after all.

  She put the bottle on the step, eyed by the sheltering ewes. Then, on an impulse, she knocked on the door. It was opened immediately.

  “I—thought this might get broken.” She held out the bottle rather lamely. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but the ewes might have knocked it off the step.”

  Huntley looked at her for a moment without answering.

  “How did you make it?” he asked, glancing towards the

  parked van. “The roads are all but impassable, I should imagine.”

  “I managed,” she told him, trying not to look beyond him to the bright fire burning in a wide grate. After all, he had accused her once before of curiosity. “It isn’t too bad, once you make a start.”

  “On a day like this you could have left my milk at the Lodge,” he reminded her.

  “I suppose I could,” she admitted, “but it’s my job to see that it gets here. So long as I can deliver it, I will. You forgot the box,” she pointed out.

  “I suppose I didn’t expect you,” he said.

  He had been out earlier, by the look of him. He still wore his oilskin jacket and waders and a sou’wester hung on a hook on the wall behind him, dripping on the floor. Yet what she could see of the big, warm room looked comfortable enough. There were deep leather chairs on either side of the fireplace and a table was spread with a checked cloth. The pungent aroma of coffee hung in the air, making her feel hungry. Almost reluctantly she turned to go.

  “I don’t suppose this wind can go on blowing for ever,” she remarked. “It must stop some time.”

  He watched her to the gate, where she had to struggle with the latch before she could fasten it securely, but eventually she got in behind the wheel and pressed the starter.

  Nothing happened. She tried twice and then again, but the engine remained silent beneath her touch. Huntley was still standing at the door, watching. She jabbed at the starter once more without result.

  “Hold on a minute!” he called to her. “You’re not improving matters.”

  Reaching for the sou’wester, he strode down the path towards her, stooping to open the gate as she got out of the van.

  “This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “Somebody checked it over for me only last night.”

  He lifted the bonnet to look at the engine, sending a tide of rain water over the other side.

  “Carburetor trouble,” he decided. “Have you got a rag handy?”

  Of course she hadn’t. She felt annoyed.

  “The tools rattle about so much I left them at home.”

  “You’ll find something in the kitchen.” He glanced back at the Light. “Through the living-room and up two stairs,” he directed.

  She felt taken aback, as if she had almost forced her way in.

  “I—couldn’t we manage without?”

  “I’m afraid not. The whole thing’s awash.”

  She made her way back along the path. He had closed the door behind him, but it yielded to her touch this time and she stepped inside. The big, raftered main room was completely round, with high windows letting in the light and a spiral stone staircase leading up to the floor above. It was warm and smelt of leather and the sea, a man’s room where he could live his life undisturbed, alone.

  An old collie rose from the hearth, following her up the two steps to the kitchen where coffee was brewing in a glass percolator and two eggs boiled furiously in an enamel pan. They would be as hard as stones by the time he ate them, she thought, pulling the pan aside. Obviously she had disturbed him at his breakfast. The coffee bubbled over on to the stove. He was no doubt wishing her miles away.

  Finding a duster, she hurried back through the room and down the path. The collie began to bark and Huntley looked up from the bonnet.

  “Your breakfast’s spoiling,” she warned him. “I’ve pulled the eggs aside, but they’ll go on getting harder. If you’ ll tell me what to do with the engine I’ll return your duster in the morning.”

  “You’d make greater headway with the eggs,” he suggested. “If you’d like a cup of coffee, help yourself.” She stood irresolute, but it seemed that she couldn’t help much where she was. Slowly she made her way back to the lighthouse.

  The percolator sizzled and hissed, drowning
out the sound of the wind in this secure eyrie above the cliff. The storm’s onslaught, the battering of wave and rain, meant nothing here inside these thick stone walls, and the fire added a glowing comfort. A great plaited creel stood at the side of the hearth full of driftwood ready to replenish it when it died down, and the collie stretched himself out in front of it, keeping one wary eye on her movements as she attended to the eggs.

  The table had been set in a man’s rough and ready fashion, with the bread cut in hunks and Kirsty’s butter all on one plate. She found eggcups and a stand for the percolator. There were no table-napkins in sight and the salt was obviously used straight from the round tin drum in which it had been bought from the village store.

  She looked for marmalade, but that appeared to be a luxury for which he had little use, although there was honey in a comb. Dark heather honey with the smell of the moor in it.

  Standing back, she surveyed her handiwork, feeling pleased. At least she had saved his breakfast when he had been forced to help her out of her predicament with the van. It equalled things up a little.

  When she turned he was standing in the open doorway with an odd, almost puzzled expression in his grey eyes.

  “I’ve brought the plugs in,” he told her. “You can’t afford to let a car stand too long facing the sea in weather like this, and your bonnet leaks like a sieve. We’ll have to dry these out.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I know the van’s in a pretty ropey condition, but it’s all we have. A—friend looked it over for me yesterday, but he won’t be able to service it for me properly till I can take it to Wick.”

  “I’d choose a dry day, if I were you,” he advised, laying the plugs on the hearth. “Will you have something to eat?” He glanced at the table, frowning.

  “No, thank you.” She chose to remain independent as far as possible.

  “Coffee, then?”

  The appetising smell from the percolator was too much for her.

  “Perhaps a cup of coffee.”

  He went to the kitchen to wash his hands and the collie settled down before the fire to sleep.

  “You must be frozen stiff,” he said when he returned to find her with her gloves off and her hands outstretched to the blazing driftwood. “Nobody could keep warm on a morning like this.”

  “You’ve been out,” she suggested, watching as he shed his oilskins. “Possibly as early as I have.”

  “I thought it best to bring in some lobster-pots.” He examined a blister on his hand as he sat down at the table. “Would you care to take one back for your mother?”

  “I—thank you very much.” She was surprised by the offer because his whole manner was briefly dismissive. “If my mother can’t eat it I’m sure Kirsty will be glad to have it.”

  He looked amused.

  “But not you? Has London blunted your appetite for lobster?”

  “I was never very keen. I hate the way they have to be cooked.” He attacked his first egg as she poured out the coffee.

  “Is Kirsty staying with you?” he asked.

  The question surprised her.

  “We couldn’t manage without her. She’s been at Craigie Hill for as long as I can remember. Kirsty’s a fixture. My mother depends on her so much.”

  “Of course,” he said, buttering a hunk of bread, “you were never meant to come back to Caithness, were you? You were following your own bright pathway to the stars. Robin used to call you the Genius.”

  “You knew my brother.” Her voice caught on the words. “You were—his friend.”

  He looked round at her, his expression subtly changed.

  “I suppose you might say that I knew Robin,” he agreed.

  She waited, but that was to be the end of confidences. When he had eaten another hunk of bread he rose to his feet, leaving the second egg to grow cold on his plate while he picked up the plugs to examine them.

  “They’re dry enough,” he decided. “I’ll put them back for you.” “I can manage,” she told him firmly. “I’ve seen it done before.” Her flushed face and independent manner made him look at her more closely.

  “You don’t like to be helped, do you?” he said. “But I’d prefer to see you safely on your way.”

  He couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, Alison thought.

  “I’m ready to go,” she told him briefly. “I didn’t try to stall the van, but thanks for the coffee, anyway. At least it made me feel warm.”

  He turned towards the kitchen.

  “What about the lobster?”

  “I’ll take it for Kirsty.”

  He brought it in, still in its wicker pot.

  “You can return the pot tomorrow,” he said, “when you come with the milk.”

  It took him less than ten minutes to re-insert the plugs and start up the engine. The whole procedure appeared childishly simple in his capable hands.

  “Jump in,” he advised, “while the going’s good. I wouldn’t stop too often on your way home, if I were you.”

  “I’ve only one call to make,” she told him. “At the Lodge.”

  He said: “They’ll be waiting for their milk,” and stepped back. Alison leaned across the steering wheel.

  “Thanks—for everything. I couldn’t have managed by myself,” she confessed.

  He stood by the gate until she was out of sight, a tall, dark, remote figure with the wind whipping his coat about him and the remnants of the rain blowing in his face.

  He wanted to be alone, Alison thought on her way across the promontory, and she had thrust herself across his path, but he had no intention of letting her into his life, not even on the plea of neighbourliness. He had elected to live up there at Sterne, cut off from the glen and Calders for some reason of his own, and not even his former friendship with her brother would give her the right to go there again, even if she wanted to.

  Angrily she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, urging the reluctant van to greater speed. Why should she want to go to Sterne again? Their worlds were miles apart, linked feebly by the fact that she had won his mother’s scholarship.

  Grinding to a halt before the Lodge, she was surprised to see the door lying open and a girl of about her own age waiting on the step. It was the girl she had seen at the window on her first visit, but now the light fell full on her face and she saw that, although it was undeniably plain, it had an odd, haunting youthfulness about it which lifted it above the ordinary. The girl’s expression was still marred by a frown, however, and the deeply-set dark eyes looked out at her with undisguised suspicion.

  “You’ve certainly taken your time,” Tessa Searle remarked.

  “I had trouble with the van.” Alison got down to deliver the milk. “Do you still want two pints?”

  There was no reply. The girl came slowly towards her, limping badly.

  “You’ve been to Sterne,” she said. “That’s why you’re late.” Her tone was aggressive, the dark eyes watching her reaction jealously.

  “That’s where I broke down,” Alison admitted. “About the most awkward place I could have chosen.” She tried to laugh, finding it difficult. “It would have been easier to get help if it had happened in the glen.”

  “But it didn’t.” Tessa stood quite still, gazing at her relentlessly. “I suppose Huntley came to your rescue. There’s nobody else up there.”

  “He dried out the plugs for me.” There was an awkward pause. “He seems very comfortable at the lighthouse.”

  “You needn’t feel sorry for him,” Tessa said. “It’s how he wants to live—at present.”

  Her tone suggested that things might change considerably in the near future.

  “Perhaps he finds Calders too big for him,” Alison said. “It’s quite a house. I used to think that it must be the biggest place in the world, next to Dunrobin!”

  Tessa’s faint smile was peculiarly devoid of mirth.

  “You lived all your life here up till three years ago, I suppose,” she said.

  �
�Yes. I had never been further south than Aberdeen till I won the scholarship.”

  “Did you know Huntley in those days?” Tessa asked.

  “No. He was older, and he went away to school.”

  Tessa picked up two bottles of milk, turning back towards the house. She moved awkwardly on a damaged hip.

  “Let me help you,” Alison offered without thinking.

  The dark eyes blazed at her.

  “I don’t need help—yours or anybody else’s. I can manage by myself!” Tessa cried.

  “At least let me carry the milk.” Alison felt desperately sorry, aware that she had touched this girl on the raw. “The bottles are so cold they’ll almost freeze to your hands.”

  “I don’t feel the cold,” Tessa declared instantly. “I’m used to it.”

  “It’s taking me longer than I thought to become acclimatised again.” Alison was chattering to cover her mistake. “Perhaps I’ve grown too soft, living in London for the best part of three years.”

  “Does that mean you’ve come home to Craigie Hill for good?” The question had been shot at her so quickly that she hesitated for a moment.

  “I think it does,” she admitted at last. “I depended on the scholarship, you see, and it has only a few more months to run.”

  “You could apply for an extension,” Tessa suggested, still watching her. “Hadn’t you thought of it?”

  “I don’t think I could.” Alison carried the milk into the house. “There’s no one else now at Craigie Hill.”

  Tessa must have known about Robin if he had gone to Calders a great deal. She must have met him there, but she gave no sign. She stood stiffly, looking at the floor.

  “People are going to feel sorry for you, having to come back like this when you had so much to look forward to,” she said.

  “I don’t want that sort of sympathy,” Alison answered immediately. “I knew what I was doing.” “All the same,” Tessa argued, “you must feel cheated. You might have had a distinguished career, like my sister.”

  Her voice had sharpened on the last three words, but it was impossible to read her expression as she turned her head away.

  “I could never hope to be as distinguished as Leone Searle, even in my own field,” Alison said impulsively. “She had the world at her feet.”