by A. J. Cronin
‘We are going to have our first little talk, Carroll. You observe that I call you simply Carroll. As you are now the only Carroll in this vicinity you have no claim to be known as young Carroll.’
To a boy endearingly denoted Laurie, and only on the strictest occasions referred to as Laurence. I could only regard this repeated use of my second name a brutal assault on my feelings.
‘To resume. When we go to table you must in future withdraw my chair and see that I am properly seated before you seat yourself. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Miss Greville,’ I said, abjectly.
‘Again, during our lunches, which I trust will always be agreeable to you, we must cultivate the art of conversation. We shall talk of current events, of sport if you wish, of natural history, books, music, and of people. The first person to be discussed, Carroll, is you.’
I turned hot all over.
‘To begin, I assume that you have no desire to become a confirmed brooder. You know, of course, what that is?’
‘Some kind of a hen,’ I faltered.
‘Apt, Carroll, if erroneous. A creature perpetually wallowing in self-pity. Would you wish to be like that?’
‘No, Miss Greville.’
‘Then you must stop being sorry for yourself. Fond though I am of your mother I regard you as suffering from an excess of maternal leniency. I therefore propose to introduce you to the Spartan ideal. Doubtless you know of the Greek city of Sparta, where weak children were simply exposed and left to perish? Or better still, simply thrown over the cliff.’
‘Oh, no,’ I gasped.
‘I,’ said Miss Greville coldly, ‘have seen the actual cliff. Now, Carroll, do you want to be thrown over the cliff or to live like a real Greek boy?’
‘And how did he live?’ I tried to express contempt.
‘From the day he went to school at the age of seven he spent a considerable part of each day exercising under trained supervision, in the palaestra. He wrestled, ran, punched a ball filled with fig seeds, rode bareback, learned to throw missiles and ward them off, his interest being kept alive by innumerable competitions for boys of different ages. But enough of history. For the present it will suffice to suggest to you the virtue of a cold bath every morning, of strenuous exercises, of endurance tests that harden the body and summon up the blood. The uncomfortable truth is, Carroll, that I find you a soft, spoiled, spineless, and abnormally solitary boy.’
Outraged beyond belief, I felt my eyes fill with water.
‘If you weep, Carroll,’ she said firmly, ‘I shall, from this instant, utterly disown you.’
Repressively, I bit my lip hard. Cruelly maligned though I was, I did not, strangely, wish to be disowned. Besides, indignation was beginning to seethe in me. The phrase ‘abnormally solitary’ stuck in my throat.
‘Perhaps you will tell me,’ I said carefully, so as not to break down, ‘how a boy in my position can help it. Who can he not be solitary with?’
‘With me. I am going to take you in hand.’ Miss Greville regarded me calmly. ‘Do you know anything of botany?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I answered sulkily.
‘Then tomorrow, as it is Saturday, you shall begin to learn. Be ready at nine sharp. And now you must have another cutlet. Only, remember that your fork is not a shovel. The prongs are to be utilized. Do not scoop. Impale.’
Having thus reduced me, Miss Greville now appeared to withdraw into herself. With a faint, peculiar smile on her lips, her mood seemed focused on the invisible. Her eye, however, remained on the clock. When it struck one she rose and, taking the cup of coffee that had been served her, advanced to the window. Spellbound, I watched her take her stand behind the long lace curtain where, partly concealed, she slowly sipped her coffee. Suddenly the cup was arrested, her smile deepened, remained. At last she turned and with a satisfied, almost a gay expression, put down her cup.
‘You may go now, Carroll,’ she said pleasantly. ‘And don’t forget. Tomorrow morning at nine.’
That afternoon in school, instead of attending to Sister Margaret Mary who was endeavouring to instruct us in the principles of compound fractions, I brooded darkly, almost heroically, on the insults I had received, and in the evening, when Mother returned from Winton, I informed her that I wished to be no party to the plans Miss Greville had conceived for me.
‘I think you should go, dear,’ Mother said soothingly. ‘I’m quite sure Miss Greville means well by you.’
Thus it became apparent that Mother was in league with my detractor.
Next morning, between apprehension and expectation, I kept my appointment. Miss Greville presented a somewhat singular figure. She was wearing an oatmeal Harris tweed skirt much shorter than I thought proper, revealing muscular calves encased by a strong pair of weather-beaten high-laced brown boots. Her green Tyrolean hat, turned up at one side and perched on her head, sported a bushy ornament indistinguishable from a shaving-brush, and over her shoulder was rakishly slung a curious black japanned container.
‘That,’ she explained, reading my expression, ‘is a vasculum. And this is our lunch. You may carry it.’
Handing over a bulging knapsack as weather-beaten as her boots, she helped me to strap it on my back, then we strode off at a cracking pace along the Terrace and into Sinclair Road which led straight up the hill, Miss Greville using a curious spiked walking-stick covered with little silver badges. I wanted to ask what they were, but so furious was her assault upon the slope, I thought it wiser to save my breath. Besides, I was horribly conscious of the odd glances directed towards us by the passers by, looks of amused recognition which my companion disdainfully ignored.
Up we went, without a word exchanged between us. Soon we had passed the last big villas that were widely spaced in their extensive grounds among the first of the big pine trees. Civilization now lay behind us. We were totally in the pine woods. Sweat had started to run into my eyes, my breath made a sharp whistling tune, and when I saw that even this remote wood was not far enough, that she meant to take me to the high moors, I almost wilted. But I would not give in. Whatever puny spirit I possessed had been ignited by this abominable yet absorbing woman. I meant to show her that I was not the sort of boy to be chucked off-hand over that Spartan cliff.
With a dry throat and a pumping heart I kept on, sometimes at a half-trot, refusing to lag behind, and when at last we broke out of the woods on to that great wide expanse of moorland that ran on and on for many miles, free and undefiled across Glen Fruin to the shores of the Loch, I was still, though completely blown, at her side.
Here, mercifully, she drew up, looked at me, then took her watch out of her waistband.
‘One hour and twenty minutes,’ she announced. ‘Not altogether bad. We’ll do better as you progress. Are you fagged?’
‘Not in the least,’ I lied.
Inspecting me closely, for the first time, she actually smiled.
‘Then we’ll start on the real business of the day.’ She spoke with animation. ‘It’s been an open winter and with luck we should find some interesting things for your collection.’
Without enthusiasm. I followed her as, with bent head, she stalked off slowly into the heather.
‘You know, I’m sure, the commoner heath flowers. The ericas, not yet out, the yellow gorse, the broom and the cotton grass—these white tufts blowing in the wind.’ She paused. ‘But have you seen this?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said sourly.
Kneeling down she had parted the grass and exposed a delicate little plant with pointed green leaves and starry, bright golden-yellow flowers.
‘The bog asphodel. Narthecium ossifragum. One of the Liliaceae.’
Quite against my wishes and inclination. I was impressed, not only by her manifest erudition, but by the sudden uncovering of this hidden, sparkling and wholly unsuspected flower.
‘Shall we dig it up?’
‘Decidedly not. But we’ll take one raceme for pressing.’ And she snipped off a single st
em which, rather to my surprise since I had decided not to co-operate, I accepted and tucked away in the vasculum.
We proceeded for some minutes without incident, then she stepped again.
‘Here is something rather striking. The round-leafed sundew. Drosera rotundifolia.’
As I gazed questioningly at the graceful little rosette, she went on.
‘Each leaf, as you see, bears several rows of crimson hairs, terminating in rounded heads, like a sea-anemone’s tentacles. Indeed they serve a similar purpose. They secrete a clear sticky fluid which entraps small insects crawling over the leaf. Their efforts to free themselves irritate the hairs which bend over the insect so that it is secured, digested and assimilated by the plant.’
‘I say!’ I exclaimed, in a tone of wonder. ‘A fly-eating plant!’
‘Precisely. We shall dig this one up—I have no love for the sundews—plant it in peat moss and you may observe it in action at home.’
‘May I really, Miss Greville?’
‘Why not?’
She allowed me to wield the trowel taken from the vasculum and, when the plant was safely stowed, made a gesture of liberation.
‘Now that you’re launched, Carroll, you may go off on your own. Call me if you find anything that looks exciting.’
I started off, with a willingness I would not have believed possible, eager to demonstrate my tracker’s skill. To my chagrin; although Miss Greville seemed to be having success, my untrained eyes found nothing. But at last, suddenly, I stumbled on a splendid bloom, starting up from amongst the withered grass, big as a hyacinth and of a deep growing purple.
‘Quick, Miss Greville,’ I shouted. ‘Please come quickly.’
She came.
‘Do look, Miss Greville. Isn’t it a beauty?’
She made a generous gesture of assent.
‘The Orehis maculata. Tubers palmate, bracts green, three-nerved. A first-rate specimen. I congratulate you, Carroll. If only we can find its neighbour, the morio, we may count ourselves fortunate.’
I blushed with pride, watching as she carefully snipped two flowers from the spiky stem and, with some other specimens she had collected, permitted me to stow them away.
We were now in a grassy saucer of the moor, probably an old sheep dip, sheltered on one side by a marbled ridge of rock. She glanced upwards. The pale sun was now directly overhead.
‘Does this strike you as a suitable spot for lunch, Carroll?’
I immediately approved the terrain.
‘Then see what Campbell has given us.’
I unpacked the knapsack, reverently handling the damp napkin-wrapped packages, noting with enthusiasm that several home-made sausage rolls were included. Finally, tucked in beside the flask of coffee, a splendid bottle, of Comries lemonade was revealed. This foresight touched me so acutely that involuntarily I exclaimed.
‘Oh, Miss Greville, you are terribly kind.’
‘Campbell,’ she replied calmly.
‘But Campbell does not like me.’
‘Campbell does not show her feelings.’
‘But Miss Greville, Campbell does not answer when I speak to her.’
‘Campbell is not naturally predisposed to conversation. Besides, she is rather deaf.’
With Campbell disposed of, we began lunch. As this exceeded my expectation I ate a great deal, an indulgence made possible by the fact that Miss Greville herself appeared rather indifferent towards the sausage rolls. She had removed her hat and, sitting erect with closed eyes and that faint withdrawn smile, had surrendered herself to the spirits of the moor. From time to time, while eating steadily, I gazed at her with awe. The wind was singing in the heather, overhead curlews were circling and calling against the blue sky. No other sound but the faint hum of an early bee.
‘May I tell you something, Miss Greville?’ I ventured, taking up the last egg-and-cress sandwich. ‘I think I am going to like doing botany very much.’
Imperturbably, she inclined her head.
‘Then we shall do some more presently. We still have to find an Orchis morio to match your maculata.’
After we had rested for a while we started off again, not deeper into the moor, but across, towards the road. Charged with botanical ardour. I surpassed myself. We found the morio orchid, and specimens of bog myrtle, yellow pimpernel and St John’s wort, for all of which Miss Greville knew the Latin names. She also showed me a lapwing’s nest with four eggs, and a bed of whortleberry shrubs that in a few weeks would yield us fruit.
The afternoon was fading into an umbered haze as at last we struck the road. But now, though long, it was all downhill. My legs were tired but my chest felt full of fresh air. This inflation and an intoxicating sense of achievement supported me during an unexpected encounter—which otherwise might have unnerved me—with Mr Lesly, the vicar of St Jude’s, Miss Greville’s church. Although I felt myself automatically suspect by all clergymen of denominations other than my own, this was a pleasant man to whom, when questioned, I identified myself as a Papist in a manner Miss Greville subsequently commended.
‘Mr Lesly is exceptionally gifted. Broad-minded too.’ She continued in the same strain of praise. ‘And of course, Carroll, we Catholics at St Jude’s are in many respects in accord with you Romans, although naturally celibacy is not imposed on our clergy.’
After that we were soon home. With effusive thanks I parted from Miss Greville and dashed upstairs with the vasculum.
‘I’ve had such a time, Mother. I found a rare orchid. We got a plant that actually eats flies, and all sorts of other specimens. Miss Greville’s going to show me how to mount them, and to cut sections too, for her microscope.’
She was seated at the table, adding figures on a sheet of paper. As she raised her head, her expression remained so preoccupied that I called out:
‘Mother, what’s wrong? Didn’t you hear me?’
She recovered herself immediately.
‘Yes, dear, of course I did.’ Drawing me towards her she held me tight. ‘And what fine red cheeks it’s given you. Now sit beside me, very close, and tell me all about it.’
Chapter Fourteen
During that spring and summer I spent entrancing hours of happiness and well-being on the moors, sometimes with Miss Greville, more often alone. My passion for natural history had at least the merit of improving my health. Or perhaps this was due to the light dumbbells Miss Greville had placed in my room and those morning cold baths which, though Mother demurred, I now persistently endured under the admonitions of my patroness who, with compelling instances of the austerities endured by runners training for Olympia, continued to fire me with the Greek ideal.
‘You have not been endowed with too remarkable an anatomy, Carroll. You must make the most of it.’
While no visible muscular bulges appeared, and it was mortifying when Miss Greville sought vainly for the first sign of my biceps, nevertheless, I did at last begin to grow. And beyond this, I became absurdly expert in moorland lore. I knew, and had found, practically every wild flower between Ardfillan and Glen Fruin, could spot the subtle difference between a Cinquefoil and a Tormentil and, when I wanted to show off, could even cut and stain sections to demonstrate to Mother on Miss Greville’s ancient Zeiss microscope.
My solitary wanderings through the heather had failed to afford me my greatest wish, the congenial companionship of someone my own age, but they had brought me, incredibly, the friendship of that spectre of my early childhood, a gamekeeper. After a painful introduction when, observing my figure against the horizon, keeper John Mackenzie had come striding in pursuit to charge me with ‘berrying’ grouse eggs, the contents of my vasculum had partially reassured him, and the botanical jargon which I gabbled in excuse probably convinced him that he was dealing with an oddity. On subsequent occasions, watching through his stalker’s telescope, he must have assured himself of my innocence and took occasion to meet up with me, to sound me out and, when later on he found me useful in locating outlying nests
for him, to have a companionable chat. As keeper for Glen Fruin his task was to provide a maximum of birds for the twelfth of August. I think in the end I earned his respect for he took trouble to tell me many interesting things about his work, which provided me with stimulating topics for my lunchtime conversations with Miss Greville.
‘Do you know something. Miss Greville?’ I would begin, having sampled with relish my first spoonful of a red soup which was apparently called borscht.
‘I know a great many things, Carroll, to which of these do you refer?’
‘Grouse, Miss Greville.’
‘Yes,’ she replied meditatively. ‘I am fairly familiar with that bird, both on and off the table. My poor father shot a great many of them on the Yorkshire moors.’
‘But do you know, Miss Greville, that when the young bird flies only five days after hatching it couldn’t exist without two things?’
‘The young green shoots of the heather?’ she suggested.
‘And?’
She shook her head.
‘Midges!’ I exclaimed.
She looked up from her soup.
‘Good heavens, Carroll. You startle me.’
‘I thought I should,’ I said triumphantly. ‘ That’s one of the reasons the old rooty heather must be burned off, and the damp patches kept on the moor as a breeding ground for the protein-rich insects.’ I was rather proud of that word ‘protein’—Mr Mackenzie was quite a learned man. ‘Water is needed too, Miss Greville. The hen bird drinks a lot when she’s sitting. Of course the sheep are Mr Mackenzie’s greatest curse, he’s always counting them.’
‘Does he sleep badly?’ she inquired blandly.
‘Oh, not that, Miss Greville. The sheep grazing on the moor. Only a certain number are supposed to be allowed and they eat the young heather day and night. They’re worse than the hooded crows. They never lose their appetite.’
