by Anne Hampson
And at this time of the year there were the captivating little fawns, dappled and full of life, bounding along by their mothers. A few weeks ago they had been neglected, for during the rutting season the does were otherwise occupied. But a fawn would never be too far from its mother, even at that time, merely grazing at a safe distance from the buck, who could be decidedly unfriendly towards it-though it would never actually harm it. But towards the doe the roebuck had a deep fidelity, being monogamous, unlike the red deer stag who, with his herd of does, would often have to fight another stag who challenged his right of possession.
'What I can't understand,' said Gail one day to Sinclair, with whom she was always able to speak more freely than with her husband, 'is that although the rut-ting season for the roe is in August, and that of the red deer in October, the fawns are all born in June.'
'Some are born in May-the roe, that is,' he said. 'But the majority come in June, as you say, at the same time as the red deer. The reason is that there's a sort of delayed action with the roe 'Delayed action?'
'It's more technically described as "delayed implantation". The animals mate, but there follows a period of dormancy until December, when normal development begins.' He smiled and shook his head in a reflective sort of way. 'Nature's very strange at times, Mrs. MacNeill. The safest month for these little creatures to be born in the Highlands is of course June-and that's when they are born-at the same time as the red deer and the sika deer. Odd, isn't it?' 'It's wonderful, and mysterious,' she breathed. 'As you say, Nature's very strange at times.'
While these beautiful little fawns were a delight to Gail the month of September was marred somewhat because then it was that the sporting highlight of the year began-the stalking of the red deer stags. However, she was coming round gradually to the acceptance of the shooting, Sinclair having talked seriously to her about the danger of over-population of the deer in the Highlands. The stalker would always advise the 'rifle' which stags to shoot. Old and sickly animals must always be killed for the ultimate good of the herd. He said much the same as Andrew had said, but in a gentler, more patient sort of way. If the stalk-ing was done with skill and with concern for the animal, it did not know it was being pursued and, there-fore, suffered no apprehension or fear. If the kill was clean it suffered no pain.
But Sinclair admitted that the kill was not always clean. Nevertheless, it was an unwritten law that a wounded animal must be followed and secured, even if this meant the ruining of the rest of the day's sport for both stalker and 'rifle'. 'A wounded beast is a great anxiety to everyone until it's secured,' the factor went on to add. 'And you'll find that most lairds allow only marksmen on their land.' The stag stalking took place on one of his other estates further north, but for some reason Andrew did not go. Gail naturally did not ask him why, because nothing personal ever entered into the conversation, but Morag one day provided the answer.
'He won't go away because he thinks I'll be off. I hate him-and I've told him so! He always goes up there in September, and I never thought he'd forgo his sport just to remain on guard over me.' She paced the floor, her eyes blazing. She had been up and about for some weeks and appeared to be perfectly well again. Gail sensed her desire to be off and had herself kept a watch on her whenever possible. But of course Gail had to be out for part of the day, when she was taking Robbie and Shena to school or bringing them home. It seemed as if Andrew had also guessed at Morag's desire to go away, and this time he was quite determined to keep her at home, even at the expense of his own recreation and pleasure. Morag's allowance had been stopped, but Andrew gave her small amounts of money now and then. She would buy cigarettes-all those in the house having been put out of her way-and smoke them, as she always had, when her father was not about. 'I'll get away,' threatened Morag, coming to a halt before Gail. 'As soon as I can get hold of enough money I'm off! He can't keep a watch on me all the time; it isn't possible!'
'You know that whatever he does it's for your own good. You're still not well, Morag, and therefore...'
'I'm perfectly well! I know how I feel, and I've never been better. But I'll be ill if I have to stick much more of this-ill in my mind. I'll go mad!'
Gail let the matter drop, unwilling to be disturbed by Morag's tantrums, and the normal routine continued-Gail being absorbed with the children, An-drew with his work, and Morag remaining as a stranger in the house, scarcely speaking to the children and rarely appearing at the table at meal times. 'There's something evil about that girl,' Heather had said on one occasion during her last stay at Dun-lochrie House, but Gail now wondered if the girl suffered from some abnormality of the brain. She had hinted at this in a recent letter to Heather, and the reply, sharp and to the point, was that Gail was altogether too soft. Morag was bad, and this was by her own volition and not the result of some misfortune.
Robin had never come to the loch since Gail's last quarrel with Andrew and she knew he had carried out his threat and forbidden Robin to fish in the loch. Gail had not seen Robin for several weeks, but she knew that inevitably she must do so one day, as he lived not so very far away, and she dreaded the meeting, for embarrassing questions would naturally be put to her by Robin. The meeting occurred as she was coming out of the village sweet shop. He greeted her, looked at the car standing on the road, and asked her to give him a lift. She could scarcely refuse without an excuse and reluctantly she invited him to get in. And she knew immediately he opened his mouth that the request for a lift had been made with the deliberate intention of questioning her.
'Gail, what happened when I was up last time? Your husband was so short and stiff the next time I came, and he told me I was not to use the loch again--or ever to come to the house. I hadn't done anything wrong that I could see-just having talked
to Morag for a while and then gone about my business. I borrowed the boat, it's true, but the factor gave me permission to do so.' Gail did not answer at once and he continued, 'I have average intelligence, Gail, and I could see at once that your husband's manner portrayed all the evidence of a deep and furious resentment of me. What have I done?' Gail started the car, shaking her head in refusal as he offered her a cigarette. 'Didn't you ask him?' she parried, searching for a way of avoiding anything personal entering, the conversation. 'Ask him!' The exclamation was accompanied by a lifting of his brows. 'No, I did not. Your husband was in no mood to be questioned by anyone like me. But you must know what it's all about. What have I done?' he repeated. She considered for a while and then decided frankness was the best policy. In any case, she felt he was owed an explanation and she told him what Morag had done. To her surprise the expected outburst did not come and she realized her candour had been a mistake as he said slowly and with emphasis, 'Well, Gail, Morag was right. I liked you the moment I set eyes on you'
'Robin, please'
'You've been frank with me and I'll be equally frank with you,' he went on, ignoring the interruption. 'It's all over the village that Andrew MacNeill decided that a mother for his children was preferable to a nanny, be-cause he'd never been able to keep a nanny, and also because he had got it into his head that his children would grow up feeling they were different-having no mother.' A small pause, but Gail could find nothing to say, being aware only of the humiliation that was sweeping over her at the idea of this unflattering gossip concerning her position at Dunlochrie House. 'Is this true? But I've really no need to ask, Gail, because Andrew MacNeill would never fall in love-he hasn't got it in him to love; he's too hard. Gail, this sort of life isn't for you!'
They had reached a lonely byroad and Gail turned into it, stopping the car after drawing on to a grass verge. 'Robin,' she said, turning in her seat, 'you don't know me well enough for this kind of talk. The total length of time we've spent in each other's company can't amount to more than a few hours-'
'Time! What is time?' he interrupted, reaching out to take her hand, but she withdrew it swiftly from the steering wheel. 'Why do you think I wanted to come up to the loch? To see you, of c
ourse-but you seemed always to avoid me.'
She gave an anxious glance around her, afraid they would be seen by someone who might casually mention the matter to her husband.
'Andrew has forbidden me to speak to you,' she told Robin quietly at last. 'And after what you've just said I've decided to heed his wishes. Obviously it's common knowledge what he's been through, and I shall be the last one to bring further hurt and humiliation to him.'
'You're not going to speak to me again? Not even speak?' He stared at her in disbelief. 'But the laird's wife is expected to be friendly with everyone; her position demands it. The laird himself is the kingpin of the village and people bring their problems to him. He and his wife are friends to them all; you've been here long enough to know that.'
'You've made it impossible for me to be your friend,' Gail reluctantly told him. 'I'm married, Robin, and quite content with my life, no matter what the gossip might be.' A silence ensued, but from outside came the fierce roar of a tumbling burn as it sped on its way to join the valley of the Tilt. 'You're ... angry with me?' Robin spoke at last, staring straight ahead. 'I'm certainly not pleased at the way you've spoken to me. I've never given you the slightest encouragement and wouldn't ever do so. As I said, I'm quite content with my life.'
He looked at her long and hard.
'I don't believe you!' Gail merely threw him a rather haughty glance and he shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 'So you're going to pass me by whenever we meet?' Gail nodded and he said, 'Do you want me to get out here?'
'If you please, Robin. It's better if you do; someone might see us.'
'In the ordinary way no one would give the matter a second thought. It's nothing unusual for the laird or his wife to offer a lift to one of the villagers.'
'In the ordinary way no one would give the matter a second thought,' Gail agreed readily, but added, 'However, the present circumstances are far from ordinary.' She switched on the engine; Robin stubbed his cigarette in the ash tray, got out of the car, and walked away without a backward glance.
Gail continued some distance along the deserted lane, her nerves tensed and her heart beating a little too quickly. There had been something sordid about the conversation in which she had been engaged just now, for it would seem Robin was more than ready to indulge in a flirtation with her. His attitude had lacked the respect due to the laird's wife and she experienced a feeling of shame, just as if she had given him encouragement-which of course she hadn't, as she so firmly reminded him.
On reaching the end of the lane she stopped the car and got out, revelling in the feel of frosty air on her face and in her nostrils. The dawning had been grey, glowering over the stark Highland landscape, but with
increasing light the indeterminate skyline cleared as the drifting mist succumbed to the onslaught of the sun. Vast areas of parkland and estate forests lay to her right, while to her left lay sterner country- the wild solitude of the moors and dark immensity of the distant heights, deeply dissected by the Garry and its numerous tributaries.
Presently Gail drove away, calmer now and refreshed in mind and body by the heady air and the vast stillness which had surrounded her as she stood there beside the car, absorbing all that was clean and pure, and wondering at the magic hand that wrought such splendour on the trees- the short-lived splendour of rose and gold, and bronze, for the leaves were falling swiftly now and soon the parklands and the forests would be dominated by the dull green foliage of the pines and firs rising gauntly to a sombre winter sky. It was a week later that Andrew used the car. He did not smoke himself, and used the ashtray only as a receptacle for tidbits of paper and items like parking fee tickets. It was on depositing one of these in the ash tray that he noticed the half-smoked cigarette which robin had left when in angry haste he had stubbed it before leaving the car. The first Gail knew of this was when he broached the subject by a preliminary inquiry. 'Do you smoke?'
'Of course not.' She stared at him, puzzled. 'You know I don't smoke.'
'Has Morag used the small car?' She shook her head. What was he getting at?
'No, she uses the runabout.' Morag loved driving and would spend hours going round the estate roads in the runabout. No-one uses the small car except me-and you, occasionally, of course.' He regarded her through half-closed eyes, his features harsh and accusing. 'Then who,' he inquired softly, 'left the half-smoked cigarette in the ash tray?' Gail caught her breath. She had made a mental note of the presence of the cigarette, intending to remove it-but the matter had slipped her memory. And now, in her anxiety to prevent a further deterioration in their relationship, she said flounderingly,
'I do smoke sometimes, and I probably left it there. 'Don't lie! You've had that man in the car- in my car!'
White-faced and trembling, she admitted- to giving Robin a lift, and at the dark and almost murderous expression coming over her husband's face she went on swiftly to say she had told Robin she wasn't ever going to speak to him again. Contrary to her expectations her submission to Andrew's wishes did not have the desired effect. 'You actually discussed me with him-?'
'Oh, no, Andrew!'
'You must have! There would have to be some sort of talk, otherwise how did you come to the point of telling him you wouldn't speak to him again?' 'I had to explain why I couldn't speak to him,' she began unhappily. 'I couldn't just cut him dead as you wanted me to. But I didn't say very much at all.' His mouth went tight, and at the look he gave her she was plunged into misery. His cold indifference she had come to accept and endure, but this suspicion, this icy contempt springing from the conviction that she had discussed him with a young man from the village ... these she could not bear, and in a little beseeching gesture she spread her hands, opening her mouth to speak, anxious to placate him, but he was before her. 'That you could openly discuss me with this man, endeavour to humiliate me 'Andrew, I didn't!' She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. 'Why should you think I'd try to humiliate you? What good would it do me?' She took a halting step towards him.
'If only I could make you understand I don't ever want to hurt you then you wouldn't suspect me as you do.' She looked up into his face, her eyes wide and filmed, distorting her vision. 'You asked me not to speak to Robin again, and I'm willing to observe your wishes. Surely we can now let the matter drop-and never bring it up again.'
She was close to him, and in a little dejected movement she had allowed her outstretched hands to drop to her sides. Whether it was this which effected a softening in him, or whether it was the pleading sincerity of her words she would never know, but he did soften-not to any great extent, it was true, but at least his fury dissolved and the harshness faded from his eyes.
'Very well, Gail, we won't speak of the matter again.' But he did not apologize for his unkind accusations, or provide any indication that he would have liked to withdraw them.
And life from then on continued as before, still in an atmosphere of coldness and total lack of interest, with Andrew becoming human only when Robbie and Shena were there-at teatimes and on Sunday morning when they all went to church, and later when they took their customary walk, which they did in all weathers, except of course in heavy rain. When the half-term break came in October, Gail, feeling the necessity of a change which would give her frayed nerves a rest, asked Andrew if she could go and stay with Beth for the week. 'It would be a nice change for Robbie and Shena,' she added, and as his brows shot up in surprise she guessed at once that he'd concluded she wanted to go alone. 'You indicated just now that you needed a rest,' he said, a difficult and unexpected smile touching his lips. 'You won't have much of a rest if you take the children.'
'I wouldn't go without them,' she returned simply. He regarded her in silence for a space, cold and un-emotional, it seemed ... except for the movement of a muscle in his cheek.
'Very well. Do you want to take the car?'
'If it's all right with you. Otherwise we can go on the train. Beth or Harvey will meet us at the other end.'
'Use the train then
,' he said. 'It's a long way to drive, and the children are sure to get troublesome.'
She smiled at him, wondering if his concern was as genuine as it sounded, or whether his suggestion of using the train was merely a manifestation of his usual practicality of mind.
Andrew drove them to the station and saw them on to the train, buying books and chocolates for them all. As the train moved off he waved; the children hung out of the window and waved furiously until their father was eventually lost to view. Then they sat down, opening their books, but Gail remained by the window until the train passed the end of the last curving building. Andrew was walking to his car and, as if suddenly conscious of being watched, he glanced up. Gail waved and he waved back. She thought he smiled at her, but at this distance she could not be sure.
Beth met the train and within half an hour Gail was once again in the home to which she had come on the death of her mother. Thomas and Marilyn were also on holiday from school and immediately took Robbie and Shena off to play in the garden. 'So you can have a cup of tea in peace,' said Thomas obligingly after suggesting that they all go outside. 'Come in as soon as it rains,' said his mother. 'It looks as if it'll come down any minute now.'
'It's like old times!' The eagerness in Gail's voice brought her sister's head up with a jerk, and she said slowly, 'Aren't you happy, Gail?'
'Happy? Of course I'm happy. Why should you ask that?'
