Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Shoulder the Sky

  D. E. Stevenson

  © Dorothy Emily Peploe, 1951.

  Dorothy Emily Peploe has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1951 by Ace Books.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Author’s Note

  Foreword

  Shoulder the Sky is another story about Mureth Farm and Drumburly and the people who live there; it continues the theme of Vittoria Cottage and Music in the Hills but it is a complete novel in itself. The three books are merely strung together by the story of James and Rhoda and their friends.

  Mureth and Drumburly are not real places in the geographical sense of the word. There is no metalled road that leads to Drumburly (the best road to take is an easy chair before the fire on a winter’s evening), but the picture represented is artistically true of the Scottish Border Country; of the rolling hills, the rivers and the burns, of the storms and the sunshine. So, in one sense, Drumburly is real and in another it is imaginary — and the same is true of the characters in the story; they are not real individuals and yet they are true to life. To me they are real and human for I have been living amongst them and sharing their joys and sorrows for months on end. Now the time has come for me to leave Drumburly and say good-bye.

  D. E. STEVENSON

  1

  BOSCATH FARM House was a small two-storeyed building of grey stone with a snugly fitting roof. It faced south, down the valley, and from its windows could be seen the silvery links of river, now dashing between black rocks in a frenzy of impatience, now dawdling along through green meadows in its journey to the far-off sea. The house stood on a slight eminence; behind it was the steading and the barns, beyond rose the rolling rounded hills of the Scottish Border Country dotted with Cheviot sheep.

  Boscath belonged to Mr. Johnstone of Mureth Farm which lay upon the other side of the river; he had bought it some fifteen years ago when farms were going cheap and although it was a good little farm with a fine dry hirsel he had sometimes regretted his action. The river was the trouble. It was a beautiful river and he was extremely fond of it; he had lived beside it all his life, he had fished its pools and gone to sleep with the sound of it in his ears but as a farmer he found it inconvenient. When the river was low it was easy enough for Jock Johnstone to ride through the ford and visit Boscath but in winter, or at other times when the river was in spate, the two farms were separated by a rushing roaring torrent and the only way to pass from Mureth to Boscath was to cross by Drumburly Bridge — five miles away. It was not very far, of course, but Jock Johnstone found the evagation very irritating. There lay Boscath before his eyes, he could have thrown a pebble across the river onto Boscath ground, but if he wanted to visit the place he was obliged to turn his back upon it, to drive five miles down the valley to the little town of Drumburly, to cross by the bridge and drive back another five miles upon a rough and rutty road.

  “It’s a daft road,” Jock would say. “Goodness knows who planned it. I’ve spent pounds on that road and I might as well have poured the money into the river for all the good it’s done.”

  Jock’s description of the road to Boscath Farm was justified. It wound hither and thither for no conceivable reason, it climbed the shoulder of a hill when its obvious course was comparatively level. No sooner had a culvert been repaired than the ground shifted and the culvert fell in, no sooner had the surface been mended than the hill-burns rose and washed it away. The men declared Auld Hornie himself took an interest in the Boscath road and that their labours were in vain.

  It must not be thought that the sensible, hard-working men really believed in their own assertion. They knew perfectly well that Auld Hornie was too busy finding work for idle hands to take pleasure in the destruction of a silly wee road. Their fathers might have believed it, their grandfathers would have believed it implicitly, but they themselves were less credulous than their forebears. All the same it was odd … one had to admit the fact. For instance they mended the road in the middle of a dry summer when the ground was hard as iron and the burns a mere trickle in their rocky beds; and then, before they had left the place, a small black cloud appeared in the cerulean sky and sitting down comfortably upon Crowthorne Hill it discharged a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder and emptied itself completely in less than half an hour. Down came the burns, roaring and rushing like a stampede of grey horses, carrying all before them in their stride.

  It was a fine sight of course, but the men did not appreciate its grandeur. They stood and watched the result of two weeks’ labour being swept away before their eyes. Auld Homie or not, there was something uncanny about the road.

  *

  It was a fine afternoon in early autumn. The weather had been dry and the river was low. Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone crossed it in a farm cart with the greatest of ease and, dismounting upon the other side, walked up the path to Boscath Farm. They were going to inspect the alterations which were in progress and to see if their instructions were being properly carried out by the workmen from Drumburly. The house was being renovated and thoroughly done up for their nephew and his bride who, at that very moment, were enjoying a honeymoon in Cornwall.

  As far as the outside of the house was concerned the preparations were complete. Everything was tidy and clean. The chimneys had been whitewashed, the paths weeded and the clutter of broken barrows and old wheels and such-like rubbish which had disfigured the place for years had been gathered up and burnt.

  “What a difference!” Mamie Johnstone exclaimed.

  “It’s tidied up nicely,” agreed her husband. “I told Willy Bell to get a move on. He knows how I like things kept.”

  “I hope they’ll be happy here,” said Mamie softly.

  “Of course they’ll be happy,” declared Jock. “They’ve everything to make them happy. James is one of the best — and Rhoda — you said yourself he couldn’t have found anybody nicer.”

  “I know,” agreed Mamie.

  “What are you worrying about, then?”

  “I’m not worrying, Jock. At least I’m not really worrying, but it’s very isolated. Boscath is like an island in some ways.”

  “I see what you mean,” nodded Jock.

  “And Rhoda isn’t used to islands.”

  “Very few people are,” Jock pointed out.

  Mamie was not listening. She said, “If only it was spring! I mean it would break them in gradually, wouldn’t it? I like winter at Mureth myself; I like the snow and lovely big log fires, but it will be so awfully different for Rhoda after London … and marriage is always a risk.”

  “It’s too late to think of that now,” said Jock sensibly. “They’ve taken the risk and it’s up to them to make a success of it. Come on, Mamie, we’d better go and see what Flockhart is doing, hadn’t we?”

  “Mr. Flockhart is
very nice but terribly slow,” said Mamie as they walked on. “It’s such a bad mixture. I mean if he weren’t so nice you could be firmer with him and make him hurry up.”

  “I’ll be firm with him,” said Jock, smiling.

  “But not horrid,” said Mamie quickly. “You won’t be horrid, will you? His wife has been ill and he’s got such a beautiful voice …”

  Jock laughed. He and Mamie understood one another very well. There had not been much risk in their marriage.

  The front door of Boscath stood wide open, revealing the mess inside. Two ladders were set at an angle across the hall and a plank was balanced upon them in a precarious manner. Mr. Flockhart was sitting upon the plank with a paint pot beside him; he was splashing distemper upon the wall and singing “Roaming in the Gloaming.” As Mamie had said, his voice was beautiful; it was a full, rounded bass and seemed to well up and flow out from his throat without the slightest effort. Incidentally his voice could be heard every Sunday morning amongst others, less round and full and velvety, in Drumburly Kirk.

  “Don’t speak to him!” whispered Mamie, clutching her husband’s arm. “If you give him a fright he’ll fall!”

  But there was no need to speak for Mr. Flockhart had seen them and was not in the least alarmed. He stopped singing and painting and ran down the ladder with the agility of long practice, an agility which was remarkable in a man of his build. Mr. Flockhart had a big round body and very short legs, his face was large and round and he had very little hair. Mamie always thought of Humpty Dumpty when she saw Mr. Flockhart and the resemblance was accentuated by the fact that one so often saw him sitting upon a plank with his tiny legs dangling in mid-air.

  “What’s all this, Flockhart?” enquired Jock.

  Mr. Flockhart did not reply, but stood looking up at Mr. Johnstone with a seraphic smile. He had quite a long way to look up, for Mr. Johnstone was unusually tall and unusually broad-shouldered into the bargain.

  “You promised to be out of here by Saturday,” continued Jock. “You promised faithfully — and look at the mess!”

  “I’ll not let you down, Mr. Johnstone,” said Mr. Flockhart earnestly. “Things have held me up a bit, that’s all. When things hold you up you can’t do nothing, but I’ll not let you down.”

  “You have let me down,” declared Jock. “The furniture is arriving. Mrs. Johnstone wants to get the place cleaned.”

  Mr. Flockhart gazed round the hall. “It looks worse nor it is,” he said in comforting tones. “You’d be surprised how soon it’ll be all ship shape. Give me tomorrow, Mr. Johnstone. Just you give me tomorrow — that’s all I ask. I’ll not let you down nor Mrs. Johnstone neither.”

  Jock hid a smile. Mamie was right, you could not be angry with the little man, he was too nice. The absurdity of the whole affair struck Jock, for Jock had his own dry sense of humour. Firstly Mr. Flockhart’s request was impossible to grant, for what human being could give tomorrow? Secondly Jock had no alternative but to grant the request for the work could not be left unfinished and there was nobody else to finish it. Thirdly tomorrow was obviously inadequate for the completion of the job … tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, thought Jock, trying to master his amusement and to look as annoyed as he ought to feel.

  “It’s very disappointing,” he said. “Mr. James and his wife are coming next week and we wanted the house ready for them. Where are all your men? Could you not put more men onto the job?”

  “I will,” nodded Mr. Flockhart. “I’ll get them onto it tomorrow. They’ll maybe need to work overtime but I’ll not let you down. You see it’s like this, Mr. Johnstone. Lady Steele wanted some painting in a hurry and you know what a dominant lady she is.”

  Jock knew. So did Mamie for that matter. The Steeles of Drumburly Tower had been lords of the district for countless generations. Partly because of this and partly because the present Lady Steele had an exceedingly strong, though admittedly benevolent, personality, she invariably got her way.

  “Oh, Lady Steele …” began Mamie in doubtful tones and then, remembering James and his bride, she pulled herself together. “But, honestly, Mr. Flockhart,” said Mamie. “It will be dreadfully disappointing if the house isn’t ready for them when they come home from their honeymoon. You see that, don’t you?”

  “It will be ready,” declared Mr. Flockhart. “I’ll be out on Tuesday, that’s flat. And I tell you what,” he added, smiling up at Mamie. “I tell you what, Mrs. Johnstone. You can have Dorrie if you like.”

  Mamie gazed at him.

  “It’s my sister,” he explained. “You were speiring about a cook, they were telling me.”

  “Oh yes!” cried Mamie, who had indeed been speiring about a cook or in fact about any kind of maid who would be willing to brave the isolation of Boscath and help Rhoda in the house. “Oh yes — I was”

  “Well then,” said Mr. Flockhart.

  “Do you mean your sister would come?” asked Mamie incredulously.

  “For a wee while anyway,” said Mr. Flockhart with sudden caution. “I’ll not say she’ll stay for long. It all depends. Dorrie’s a queer one. If she takes a fancy to a place she’ll settle down, but if she takes a scunner at it she’ll be out at the end of her month. That’s Dorrie.”

  “Yes,” said Mamie doubtfully. “Yes, but perhaps —”

  “It’s like this, you see. Dorrie’s been stopping with us for the last year helping in the house — Mrs. Flockhart has been a wee bit under the weather as you might say — but now Dorrie’s wanting another job. And to tell the truth we could do with her room,” added Mr. Flockhart confidentially.

  “But I wonder …” began Mamie, for so far she had heard nothing that could be taken as a good recommendation of Dorrie’s character or capabilities.

  “There’s no need to wonder,” interrupted Mr. Flockhart. “You take her, Mrs. Johnstone. You’ll not regret it. She’s a real good cook but she and Mrs. Flockhart … well the truth is they don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Your sister was with old Mr. Brown, wasn’t she?” asked Jock.

  “That’s so,” nodded Mr. Flockhart. “She was up at Tassieknowe with old Mr. Brown till he died and then she was in Peebles for a month but she didn’t like it, so she came to us.”

  “Oh, of course!” cried Mamie. “Miss Flockhart! How silly of me! It would be simply marvellous if she could come.”

  “She’ll come,” said her brother, who obviously was determined that she should. “She’ll come next week — or whenever you’re wanting you — and she’ll see how she likes it.”

  Jock was a trifle shocked; he expected Mamie to be shocked too, but Jock had not been scouring the countryside for a cook. Mamie had been doing so for weeks and therefore was far too delighted at having a cook thrown at her head to mind the slightly unconventional gesture.

  “How lovely!” Mamie exclaimed. “I’ll come and see her tomorrow morning. Of course Miss Flockhart is the very person. She’s a marvellous baker; I used to enjoy her scones when we went to tea with Mr. Brown … and I’m sure she’ll like being here.”

  “I’m sure I hope so,” said her brother. “She’ll want out, of course. Dorrie’s a great one for the pictures, but I daresay her and Mrs. James can work it out.”

  “Of course they can!”

  “About the money and that,” continued Mr. Flockhart. “You see Dorrie has a wee bit of money of her own. Mr. Brown left her an annual-allity. She could live on it quietly by herself if she was sensible, but — but I tell you what, Dorrie would not do by herself. She’s not just awful sensible.”

  As they walked back to the ford the Johnstones discussed the matter.

  “Not sensible,” said Jock in a worried tone. “Do you think it’s wise, Mamie?”

  “Nonsense,” said Mamie cheerfully. “It doesn’t matter a bit. I’m not awfully sensible myself and I could never live alone, but I’m quite a good housekeeper.”

  Jock laughed. He said, “I tell you what: you’re fishing.”

  “It
’s infectious, isn’t it?” nodded Mamie. “Not fishing, but telling people what. Jock, you can’t imagine how lighthearted I feel … a real live cook!”

  2

  MR. FLOCKHART took a week of tomorrows to finish his job but at last he and his men vanished from Boscath taking with them their paints and brushes and ladders and planks. Mamie went over to see the results of their labours and decided that they had done well; but oh, what a mess! The whole place needed scrubbing before the carpets could be laid; the furniture stood about, mournfully draped in dust-sheets and the crates of china and kitchen ware which had been sent from Rhoda’s home at Ashbridge were piled one on the top of the other in the tiny hall.

  “It’s impossible,” said Mamie to Jock as they were having supper together in the comfortable dining room at Mureth House. “I simply don’t know how to start. The floors can’t be scrubbed until the furniture is unpacked and the furniture can’t be unpacked until the floors are scrubbed.”

  “You’ll have to leave it as it is then,” said Jock after a moment’s thought.

  “Oh, Jock!” exclaimed Mamie, half laughing and half annoyed.

  “Well, what about Miss Flockhart? You’ve engaged the woman. Could she not help?”

  “No,” said Mamie firmly. “No, that’s not a good plan. It would be awful if she took a scunner at Boscath and it’s enough to give anybody a scunner at the present moment. I’d rather she came when the house is reasonably straight.”

  “This is Monday and they’re coming north on Friday.”

  “I know,” sighed Mamie. “It’s quite hopeless. They’ll just have to come here for a few days, that’s all.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t, really, but I did want to have it ready for them.”

  Jock saw she was disappointed. He decided something must be done. Mamie had said it was impossible to get Boscath ready by Friday but if he knew anything about her she would wear herself out in the attempt.