by Guy McCrone
The boy was sitting on his barrow beside her trunk, waiting. He looked a thin, depressed sort of boy, Phœbe thought, but quite good enough to have a conversation with.
“What age are you?” she said, sitting on the barrow beside him.
“Seeventeen.”
“Yer ower wee fur yer age. Are ye no’ weel?” she said, looking at him critically.
“A’m fine.”
“Dae ye get enough tae eat?” she said presently, still unconvinced.
“Whiles,” was the fatalistic reply.
She was quite unconscious that she had fallen into the broad Scots of the Laigh Farm. It was natural, for the boy’s replies to her were in Scots too. But while Phœbe spoke with the clear, as yet uncontaminated, peasant accent of Ayrshire—little changed, probably, from the accent of the poet Burns—her companion’s tongue had all the slovenliness of the Glasgow underworld. This difference, however, went unremarked by the two young people sitting on the barrow. Indeed, the boy wondered that such a well-put-on little girl should speak a tongue so like his own.
They were great friends, exchanging many confidences, when her two elder brothers re-emerged from the warehouse.
“Well,” Arthur was saying, “you know the way. I’ll be up in about an hour.” And, giving the boy directions how to go to Ure Place, Phœbe and Mungo set off behind him up the Candleriggs.
Chapter Seven
BEL realised at once that her mother was merely being naughty when she called at four. She knew that old Mrs. Barrowfield had for once let her native inquisitiveness get the better of her. For, on this particular afternoon, little Phœbe Moorhouse was expected to arrive, escorted by her brother Mungo. Bel felt that her mother might have had sense and seen that her hands would be full.
The child’s room had to have its last touches—you couldn’t leave everything to maids—and the best room had to be got ready for Mungo.
Besides, Bel was just a little defiant about Phœbe. Her mother and even her sisters-in-law—though much more cautiously, lest they themselves should become involved—had felt it their duty to warn her more than once that the child might be far from easy to put up with. But Bel’s honour was already committed. There was no getting out of it unless, of course, she hauled down her colours—a thing she never even thought of doing. So, by way of retaliation, she had high faluted and insisted that she would stand by Arthur’s sister, whatever she turned out like.
No. She felt her mother had come out of sheer curiosity, to see the child whose arrival she was prepared to resent. And she could very well have done without her.
But Bel was a woman of quick resentments and just as quick repentances. She chided herself for an undutiful daughter and rang for a cup of tea.
“When are you expecting them?” the old lady asked, pouring her tea into her saucer and sitting complacently with both elbows on the parlour table, holding up the tea and blowing upon it.
This habit of her mother’s was a great cross to Bel, who considered it vastly ungenteel and did not like even her maids to see her do it.
“Any time now,” she said with that gentleness in her voice that goes with controlled annoyance. “Arthur must have taken them round by the warehouse or they would have been here long ago.”
“Bel dearie!” The door had burst open. “I just dropped in for two minutes to see wee Phœbe!” It was Sophia.
Bel, for a bewildered, ashamed moment, had an idea of standing between her mother and Sophia, so that Sophia should not see the old lady in the act of saucering her tea, but Mrs. Barrowfield, who hotly resented that Sophia should have come at this moment to bother her daughter, finished her saucerful at one gulp and, placing her teacup upon it, got up and said very stiffly:
“Good-day, Sophia. Phœbe’s not here.”
“Never here yet? Oh, well, anyway, I’m not sure that I can stay. I promised Wil and Margy to be back.” Then, looking about her: “I couldn’t have some tea, could I, Bel dear? I’ve been down town trailing round the Polytechnic. I’m nearly dead.”
Bel went to the embroidered bell-pull and gave it a convulsive, irritated tug.
“You haven’t been up to see us for such a long time, Mrs. Barrowfield. Wil and Margy were just talking about Auntie Bel’s mother the other day. What did you think of their wee thankyou letters for your Christmas presents? I showed them to William. He said he thought they were lovely!”
Wil and Margy’s letters had each betrayed signs of having been written by grubby little paws that had been shakily guided by their mother’s hand—the only really original additions being inky fingermarks and a blot or two. But Mrs. Barrowfield, downright though she was, dared scarcely remark on this. Besides, she was waiting for Sophia to say that it was very kind of her to think of sending toys to Wil and Margy at all. For, after all, her connection with them was slight. But as Sophia said nothing more on the subject, and as the pause was becoming noticeable, she said:
“They’re wee to be writing letters.” This, at least, she felt, was a remark.
But Sophia, who was still ranging the room, did not appear to hear her. The door-handle turned. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Here’s my cup!”
But instead of the parlourmaid, Mary McNairn came in. Her calm demeanour and her gentle, controlled tones were almost more exasperating to Bel than Sophia’s fussiness.
“Bel dear, just for a moment. I brought these little books for Phœbe. I know she’s coming to the dearest sister-in-law in the world. But the child will be lonely and have a sore heart sometimes. No matter how good you are to her, and no matter how brave the wee body is. So I thought perhaps these might help her. They’re little books of comfort and good conduct and things.”
Bel was far from feeling the dearest sister-in-law in the world. There were moments when Mary’s saintliness made her sick. And this was one of them. Besides somehow, as often with Mary, her words had left a sting. The very use of the word “sister-in-law” had somehow implied that the child was coming to a house where inevitably she would be unhappy and misunderstood.
But now she felt beaten. Let them all come! It was a pity, she told herself, that she did not have another dozen sisters-in-law and another half-dozen mothers to see Phœbe’s arrival.
Her maid had followed Mary into the room with Sophia’s cup. She bade her bring another for Mary.
As the girl returned with this, she turned to Bel. “I think that’s them, Mam. There’s a gentleman like Mr. Moorhouse comin’ up the brae. I looked out for a minute.”
“Was there a little girl too, Sarah?”
“I didna see right. There was a barrow wi’ luggage.”
“She must be there.” Bel got up. At her own front door at least she herself would receive them.
II
“Listen! We’ll all go to the door and give them a grand welcome!” Sophia exclaimed.
Bel gave up. The spark that had dared to revive within her was immediately extinguished. It was no use trying to be a separate person this afternoon. So everyone trooped outside the door to where they could see the travellers coming up the steep incline of Montrose Street.
“Where’s Phœbe?” Mary asked.
In the light of the street lamps they could discern Mungo coming up on the pavement, carrying his own carpet-bag. His strong body was inclined forward against the hill. His natural farmer’s stoop was accentuated by the effort. Out in the middle of the street a little hand-cart with a black box was being pushed upwards. On one side they could discern the face and ragged cap of the youth to whom the cart presumably belonged. They could see his shoulders rise and fall with his steps as he pushed it upwards. Suddenly a little girl’s head appeared from behind the box. She was shoving and pushing just as hard as he was. It was Phœbe.
“Good gracious! There’s Phœbe, and look what she’s doing!” Sophia exclaimed.
“Mungo ought not to let her. If the boy has a barrow, surely he must be able to push it himself,” Mary said.
Bel didn’t like it either
. After all, if Phœbe were coming to live in a refined quarter like Ure Place, she must learn to behave with dignity. Bel, at this stage, was very much of that social cast that allows its life to be ruled by the nameless critic lurking behind the neighbouring lace window-curtains. She was mortified, too, to feel that the eyes of her sisters-in-law were emitting furtive gleams of triumph.
“I can see you’ll have to be firm with her, Bel dear,” Sophia said with relish.
“I’m sure your little sister means to help the poor boy,” Bel retorted with the shadow of stress on the words “your” and “sister”.
But the old lady, who had had her beginnings in an age that was much less genteel, when prim refinement had not been at such a high premium, was pleased with the little girl. She liked people to have what she called “smeddom”. And this child obviously had it. The box had to be pushed up the hill, so, without thought of dignity, Phœbe was giving a hand. She could not have chosen to do anything better to put herself into old Mrs. Barrowfield’s good graces.
And yet, if Mrs. Barrowfield had stopped to think, it was precisely this unfashionable straightforwardness that she had striven to eliminate from the behaviour of her own daughter. She had paid high fees at an establishment for young ladies, so that Bel should be taught to seem—in public at least—as frail and useless as possible.
Now they had arrived and were standing before Bel’s front door under the lamp. After all, perhaps, it had not been such a bad idea of Sophia’s that they should all go out together and greet the newcomers. It was cheerful and fussy and it helped to cover up shynesses. She was pleased to see Mungo, whom she knew so little. He was a shy man, but he had that placid force about him that is to be found in many farmers. He was very like her husband, but bigger, ruddy and physically stronger. But his mind seemed slower, and he did not have the quick, appraising eye of the merchant and townsman.
“Bel, this is our little sister Phœbe,” Mary was saying.
Bel bent down and kissed this child about whom she—and all the others—had thought so much. She seemed a well-grown, sturdy little girl in her black country-made clothes. Her round apple cheeks were glowing with the effort of pushing the barrow. Her blue Highland eyes were large and penetrating. As the little girl looked up at her, Bel could see shyness and curiosity in them.
“What a lot of people all at once, isn’t it, Phœbe?” Bel said, keeping her arm about her. “It’s terrible to have your sisters and brothers all so old that they might be your uncles and aunts!”
Phœbe’s face relaxed into a vague smile. It was impossible to make out what the child was feeling. Had her words—said at random—conveyed the goodwill that she, Bel, had intended? Or had Phœbe thought them a little silly? She couldn’t tell. Nor could she say whether she liked or disliked the child in these first moments.
Phœbe’s eyes kept turning towards the boy who was waiting with the little hand-cart. She seemed anxious that he should get whatever was due to him. Mungo was standing talking to his sisters and Bel’s mother, paying no heed. At last, breaking away, Phœbe went to him and touched his arm.
“Mungo, the boy’s money.”
Queer little thing. She seemed almost worried over a slum waif who could mean nothing to her. Was it kindness of heart? Was it self-importance? Was it a premature habit of responsibility?
Presently they were all inside the house.
III
Phœbe had taken off her little round black hat. Her sister-in-law was better able to examine the child’s face under the light.
Apart from an impalpable family look, the child was unlike her brothers and sisters. Her face was round and undeveloped. But her eyes were fine and set like a foreigner’s, as Bel thought to herself, meaning that strange, high-cheeked, almost Tartar look that you meet here and there in the Highlands. Her colour was glowing and vivid, though a little too countrified to Bel’s way of thinking. Her hair was raven-black and glossy.
Bel insisted that everyone should come and have tea before Phœbe and Mungo should be settled, as she put it. She wondered at herself a little for doing this, considering her annoyance at her mother, Mary and Sophia ten minutes ago. But the truth was, perhaps, that she wanted to postpone for a little longer being left alone with these unknown relatives of her husband. The slow, ponderous farmer and the puzzling little girl.
But in a very short time Mary stood up. “Sophia, we’ve taken too much of Bel’s time. But you can understand how much we wanted just to get a glimpse, Bel dear. You’ll come to see us of course. Bel, when can you and Arthur bring Mungo?”
Mungo hastened to say he would only be staying two nights. Bel protested politely at the shortness of his visit, then Mary went on: “Well, tomorrow for tea at six. And we’ll arrange for you to come and see the children very soon, Phœbe.”
Phœbe didn’t say anything. She was not used to being kept apart with other children. She had always eaten with her elders in the big, cheerful farm kitchen. And when Mary finished by saying: “Now, dear, remember to be a good girl, and do everything Bel tells you, for it’s very kind of her having you here,” it made her feel infinitely bleak for a little, and somehow her feelings towards her elder sister did not grow any warmer.
Sophia was able to regret with a clear conscience that there would be no time, then, for Mungo to come and have a meal with herself and William. William could not be counted upon to come to their midday dinner, so that was no use.
Sophia and William must come to them too, then, Mary the Saint insisted.
Might they? Was she sure it would be all right? Mary was sure it would be all right. Thereupon the sisters prepared to go. Mary kissed Phœbe and told her how pleased she was to have her where she could get to know her, and Sophia likewise kissed her fussily, arranged for her to come to see Margy next morning, and to everybody’s amazement gave her half a crown.
And Phœbe’s ten-year-old summing-up of Sophia was that she was stupid but quite nice.
In another ten minutes Mrs. Barrowfield’s maid, Maggie, acting on previous instructions, arrived to see her mistress home. Maggie, breathless and not so much younger than the old lady herself, was allowed by Bel’s young and smart housemaid to sit and wait for her mistress on a chair in the hall. At which she was furious. For a cup of tea in the kitchen would have made all the difference. Arrived home, she reported to her neighbour this discourtesy of Miss Bel’s girl—said that servants nowadays were new-fangled besoms, and opined that that one would come to no good anyway.
IV
It had been a strange day for Phœbe. Later in the evening, hand-in-hand with Bel, she climbed to the top of the house to the little bedroom that was to be her own. For Bel, even though she had not entirely given her heart to Arthur’s little sister—she was not a child who responded with quick, open warmth—was, after all, a womanly woman. And it would have taken someone much less motherly than she, to be insensible to the fact that the little girl should, at this time, want some show of affection and sympathy. Bel, like everybody else a person of mixed motives, was determined to do her duty. But the motive that moved her to her duty at this moment was one that made her duty easy, and its name was kindness.
Phœbe, although she did not show it, was very impressed with Bel. There was much about her she could not understand. Bel’s quiet voice. Her restrained way. Her—as it appeared to the child—lack of insistence in everything she did. In the country her elders had behaved quite differently. At the farm, if you had guests, you fussed, you insisted on them eating, insisted on them having the chair at the kitchen fire. You talked and laughed, often about nothing, until your voice boomed loud and heartily all over the kitchen and resounded on the stone floor and scrubbed pans in the milk-house.
Here it was different. Everyone was quiet in comparison to the Laigh Farm people. They seemed to try to make as little noise as possible. And Bel was the most restrained. She wondered at first if it was because they were in mourning, then decided it must be the way people behaved in Glasgow.
As for Bel herself, she was the most beautiful person she had ever seen. Her shining fair hair, her neat, well-cut mouth, that now and then expanded into a smile that was charming. There was something so elegant about Bel’s smile. Phœbe made a mental note to practise smiling like that before the mirror. And she had sat so well-poised and splendid in her beautiful black dress at the head of her own tea-table, saying in that curiously quiet way of hers, things that seemed incredibly suitable and right to Phœbe, who was used to abrupt manners.
She had seen at once that Bel was going to have a baby. The wives of the two ploughmen at home were forever having babies. The little girl was perfectly used to it. The cow had babies; the mares had babies; the ploughmen’s wives had babies. This child, even in these mid-Victorian days, looked upon the births one and all as things of great interest, rejoiced and asked questions.
Now she was enchanted to think that this glorious person who was sitting on the edge of her bed watching her undress was also to have a baby. It would be a very special baby, she decided. And she would be here to help to nurse it. The idea took hold of her. Bel, helping her now to brush out her almost blue-black hair, saw her reflection in the mirror and wondered why, suddenly, she looked so pleased.
Finally she was ready for bed in her long flannel nightgown. It was not very elegant, but it was new and clean, Bel decided, and highly suitable for a little girl.
Bel bent down and kissed her. “Now I’ll put out your gas and you can say your own prayers and go to sleep.”
Phœbe was grateful to her. She had said nothing about being good nor about trying to be happy. And it would have been embarrassing to be “heard” her prayers.
Yet Bel waited for a moment. There seemed to be a question hanging on Phœbe’s lips. It came.
