‘A doll? Good heavens, did you say a doll?’
‘Yes, my lady. I don’t want to speak about it, my lady, especially to you. I hope I ken my place, and it’s not for me to foul the ears of my betters. What he said this morning before me and my poor lassie was meant to be no doubt, in the good Lord’s plan of things, for our punishment and our betterment; but I would never have thought such foulness could lie in a man’s mind so many years without ever showing. It showed today, God help us. I ken, my lady, I shouldn’t be saying all this to you. I’m likely keeping you from your lunch, and I can hear my ain potatoes boiling over in the kitchen. I’ll be sure to give him your message, my lady, but it’ll be like talking to a wild beast through its bars.’
Lady Runcie-Campbell had let her run on for want of something pertinent to say to stop her. She knew how Mrs Lochie exaggerated, and how she had always miscalled her son-in-law; but even as she made these reservations, into her mind kept coming some understanding of the horror that might be in Duror’s.
‘Where did he get this doll?’ she asked.
‘I couldn’t tell you that, my lady. It’s not got a stitch on.’
‘All right then, Mrs Lochie, don’t worry. I’ll find out all about it when I see him this afternoon. In the meantime, you go and see to your potatoes. Depend on me. If there’s anything to be done, I’ll see that it is done. However, I don’t think there’s any reason for you to be alarmed. Probably what’s wrong with him is simply that he’s mentally exhausted. It’s a common enough complaint these days. Goodbye then for the meantime. I shall keep in touch with you.’
As she put down the telephone the smile that she had involuntarily been manufacturing to give support to her tone of encouragement faded.
‘It is no business of mine,’ she murmured. ‘Why should I become involved?’
The answer came in her father’s voice. Years ago, twelve years to be exact, when she was pregnant with Sheila, her father had been judge in a sordid murder trial. The verdict had been guilty, and he had had to put on the black cap and sentence the murderer to death. Though living here by the wood, which was in its summer splendour, and though avoiding all newspapers at the time and all talk about the trial, she had felt a dreadful but inescapable kinship with the poor brute doomed to be hanged; and the child forming in her was condemned to the same relationship. Afterwards, months later, when she had confided in her father, in an apparently facetious but really desperate complaint, he had asked her how could she avoid that kinship since, when passing sentence, he had known the miserable creature in the dock to be his brother in God.
By being born therefore, or even conceived, one became involved.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After lunch the forester helped Neil and Calum to carry their long ladder down to a rocky promontory where pine trees grew. He had already reconnoitred the place, and had ascertained that the cones were not only plentiful but could also be got without too much exertion; but what chiefly caused him to send the cone-gatherers to work there was his belief that of all the bonny corners in the wood this was the bonniest. Walking over the short heather and the smooth turf, from one great gnarled red-branched tree to another, he had felt, with some cones in his hand and the glitter of the loch in his eyes, that the purpose of life was good and would be fulfilled. He had lingered there longer than he ought. In other forests time was so hoarded that men had been dismissed for lengthening their breaks by five minutes; he himself in loyalty to his instructions would reprimand for such thieving. With such miserliness necessary in the interests of one’s duty, it was an inestimable liberty here on this promontory to holiday for half an hour and feel at one’s disposal a whole skyful of time.
Therefore he helped to carry the ladder there, and for an hour climbed trees to throw twigs down to the heather where Neil could pluck off the cones. In an adjacent tree Calum filled his bag, and looked so happy there, so oblivious, so eager, and indeed so indigenous, that to the forester he seemed time’s favourite, never to be abandoned to dullness or frustration or despair.
When it was time for the forester to go up to the big house, he bent down at the loch’s edge and, dipping his handkerchief in the clear water, wiped the grime of the trees off his face. Seeing his reflection, he grinned in appreciation at the jokes made about his face: its flatness, high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and yellowish tan, had from childhood ensured that in every volley of abuse to come his way was some reference to the Chinese. Then it had lacerated his pride, although he had never shown it; now it amused him. His wife could see no humour in it; in revenge she ridiculed the appearance of all the jokers, finding in each of them a resemblance to some other nation, Africans or Japanese or Eskimos or, what was the worst abuse these days, Germans. It increased his amusement that so small a place as Ardmore should represent so universal a humanity.
He took his leave of the brothers. Neil’s arm he gripped for a moment.
‘I won’t quarrel with the lady, Neil,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want that, and neither would I. All I’ll do is tell her you’re returning to Ardmore on Saturday.’
‘What if she tries to get us the sack altogether?’ asked Neil.
‘She won’t do that, Neil. She’s not a vindictive woman. In any case, I’d have a say in that.’
‘But she might want us to go before Saturday.’
‘If she insists on that, then I’ll come straight back here and let you know. We’ll make different arrangements in that case. But don’t worry, you’ll be here till Saturday. I’ll be out myself with the lorry. In the meantime keep here and gather pine cones. You don’t have to climb yourself if you don’t feel like it. Calum can break off small branches as I was doing, and you can strip them on the ground. This is a bonny spot, Neil. I’m sure, after working here for a day or two, you’ll leave on Saturday without any feelings of bitterness. As for Calum –’ he paused, smiling, and glanced up at the tree where the little man was as busy as a squirrel.
Neil proudly finished the sentence for him.
‘He’s got no bitterness in him,’ he said, ‘for the lady or anybody else. Not even for the gamekeeper.’
‘Has he troubled you since the deer drive?’
‘No, he’s kept his distance. But he frightens Calum.’
‘Well, after Saturday he’ll be well away from him. Cheerio, Neil. Take things easy till your rheumatics get better.’
Neil took a step or two after him.
‘Thank you, Mr Tulloch,’ he called. ‘Thank you.’
Tulloch waved thanks aside, and then widening the gesture turned it into a farewell to Calum, who snatched off his cap and brandished it vigorously, like a man repelling wasps or cheering a goal scored at shinty.
‘Cheerio, Calum,’ he shouted.
‘Cheerio, Mr Tulloch, cheerio,’ sang the little man.
Laughing, the forester turned and made up through the wood towards the house.
He was within sight of it, indeed near enough to distinguish its mistress between the pillars of the portico, when he was hailed eagerly by name. From behind some bushes Roderick came hurrying. It seemed to him somehow that the boy’s was a penitential eagerness, and his first words strengthened that impression.
‘Where are your cone-gatherers working today, Mr Tulloch?’ cried the boy.
Tulloch stopped: he had only a minute or two to spare if he was not going to be late for the interview, and surely that green speck against the tawny walls of the house betokened impatience.
‘They’re gathering pine cones on the Scour Point,’ he answered.
‘Will they be there all day?’
‘Till finishing-time.’
The forester smiled, but stooping to pluck a blade of grass to chew found his fingers clumsy. He had to do what he hated: oppose this boy’s sincere repentance and wish to atone.
‘I don’t want them disturbed,’ he murmured, still crouching, with his eyes on the distant house. ‘They’re still upset, after what happened yesterday.’
‘I’m sure they must be.’
‘They want to be left alone till Saturday. They’re going home then.’
‘Are they leaving the wood?’ The boy’s voice was sad. ‘I thought they would be.’
‘I believe you’re their friend.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Please cause them no more trouble then. If you were to seek them out today, or tomorrow, just to tell them you’re sorry for what happened or even to say goodbye, your mother might be angry with them. You can understand that.’
Roderick nodded. Suddenly a disappointment overwhelmed him, that seemed to the forester quite disproportionate: his eagerness went out like a light, leaving his face with its large eyes and protuberant teeth haunted and afraid; even his hands on their thin wrists seemed to wilt.
‘Did you have your mind set on going to wish them well?’ asked the forester.
The boy nodded.
Tulloch rose to his feet. ‘Your mother may be angry,’ he said, ‘and they themselves might not understand your purpose; but you have my blessing.’
The disappointment fled, and relief equally disproportionate took its place.
‘Thank you, Mr Tulloch. I have my own reason for wishing to speak to them.’
Tulloch was walking away towards the house.
‘They might not understand,’ he repeated.
‘They will, I’m sure they will.’ Then he came running after the forester. ‘Mr Tulloch, please.’
‘Well?’ Tulloch had to wait.
‘I’ve got a book here.’ He dragged it out of his pocket. ‘It’s a book on trees. I’ve been trying to identify as many as I can. Are those big ones noblesse silver or common silver? I can’t be sure from the description.’
‘All those,’ said Tulloch, staring slowly towards the plantation of tall trees, ‘are common silvers. They are beautiful trees. But I’m afraid I’ll have to hurry now. Your mother’s waiting for me. I’m sorry I haven’t time to discuss trees with you; there’s no subject pleasanter to me.’
Again he hurried away.
‘The cones are very large, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, some are six inches long.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to fill a bag with those. Not like larch or pine. Eucalyptus cones are the tiniest of all, aren’t they?’
‘Well, they’re pretty small.’
‘And yet they come from such large trees.’
Grinning, the forester had to break off this shouted conversation, which must have been heard at the house. He gave a last wave, and made straight across the lawn for the front steps.
Lady Runcie-Campbell sat on a chair that had not been chosen for comfort; with its upright back and carved top it looked like a throne or judgment seat. Her hands were clasped on her lap, and her feet in their solid brogues were firmly on the stone. To the approaching forester, light-hearted after his encounter with her son, she seemed to be impersonating some goddess in disdainful contemplation of human frailties. Yet as he came nearer, and saw her face unflinching in the sunshine, he realised that, if she were condemning those frailties, she was not omitting her own.
‘I hope you don’t mind our talking out here, Mr Tulloch,’ she said. ‘I have a cold, and I have a belief that the quickest cure is fresh air and sunlight.’
‘A sound belief, my lady,’ he said.
He halted on the second top step, and leaned against a stone urn. It was a position that accorded her honour, without damage to his own self-respect.
‘Was that my son Roderick you were talking to?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady. He was asking me about trees.’
‘Did you notice if he had on heavy shoes? He really ought not to be out. The grass must still be damp after yesterday’s deluge.’
The forester noted how she had been about to say rain, and had deliberately changed it for the much stronger word.
‘I did notice,’ he said. ‘He had on a very sensible pair of shoes, with thick soles and tackets.’
‘Thank you. I warned him not to go out of sight of the house. I had the doctor in seeing him this morning.’
Then round the corner of the house came her daughter Sheila on a bicycle, with the dog Monty yapping disconsolately behind.
‘He wants carried in the basket,’ cried Sheila as she passed. ‘He’s too fat.’
They watched the girl and her dog disappear again behind the house.
‘Have you any children, Mr Tulloch?’ asked Lady Runcie-Campbell.
‘Two, my lady; like yourself, a boy and a girl. The boy’s five, the girl’s just thirteen months.’
She showed surprise.
‘I thought of you somehow as clear of such entanglements,’ she said, laughing. ‘A mountain pine, with only the storms of nature to contend with.’
‘My wife thinks the wee lad’s such a storm whiles.’
‘I have no doubt she does.’ For a moment or two she paused, evidently thinking about her own son. ‘Your men will have to go, Mr Tulloch,’ she said suddenly, and looked very tired.
‘I understand that, my lady. I was hoping, maybe, you’d let them stay till Saturday. It would be more convenient to have them shifted then.’
She lifted her hand and let it fall: permission was granted; Neil and Calum could enjoy the liberty of the pines till Saturday.
‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Where are they working today?’ she asked, without much interest.
‘On Scour Point, gathering pine cones.’
Still apparently not interested, she began to smile. ‘I think it is the most beautiful place on the estate,’ she murmured.
‘I think so too.’
He waited but she said no more on that subject.
‘There’s something else, my lady,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
She expected, he thought, a justification of his men’s sheltering in her beach hut.
‘May I replace them with two others?’
She carefully showed no relief. ‘Yes, I think so. The cones are necessary, I suppose.’
‘Thank you, my lady. The two I have in mind as most suitable are conscientious objectors.’
‘I see.’
He paused. ‘You don’t object to them on that account?’
Her hands on her lap tightened painfully in their clasp, and then relaxed.
He remained silent. By doing so, he said more eloquently than by any form of words that these men, she must remember, had a deformity of the mind just as Calum had one of the body. They were human, they were in God’s shape, but they lived in a hut at Ardmore which still had the inscription, in faded paint: ‘This is the den of the yellow-bellies.’ He had wanted to have it scrubbed off, but they had asked him to leave it.
‘Ought I to?’ she asked.
‘Most folk do,’ he said, ‘to begin with. My own men did; my own wife.’
‘Did you, Mr Tulloch?’
It was hardly possible to miss the mockery in her voice.
‘I did not,’ he said, calmly and firmly.
‘Really. You shame us all. I suppose people who have men in danger cannot be expected to look with approval upon these men.’
He refused to remind her that his brother, whom he had loved, had been killed.
‘Are they cowards?’
‘I don’t think I’d send them to climb trees if they were.’
She glanced towards the wood. ‘Is it not child’s play? When I was a little girl I loved to climb trees. My daughter seems to have inherited the liking.’
But not your son, he thought.
‘You have a magnificent wood, my lady,’ he said. ‘Many of the trees are over a hundred feet in height. I love trees. I would not send men I distrusted to gather their seed.’
While she was meditating, with apparent tranquillity, this challenge, round the corner of the house walked Duror, with his gun over his shoulder. No dogs accompanied him: the effect was as startling as if in that bright sunshine he lacked a shadow.
&nb
sp; To Lady Runcie-Campbell he had not come merely from the rhododendron thickets behind the house, where every leaf, and every insect on every leaf, had its ordained shape and shadow. He was from some gruesome other world where a child’s toy became an obscene symbol, and potatoes boiled over as a housewife watched horrors rearing out of the dark icy pools of her mind. A moment ago she had been irritated by the forester’s facile Oriental grin and by his assumption of messianic forgiveness: now she was grateful he was present. He would not be needed to protect her from Duror, from whom she anticipated no violence either of word or action; but he might prevent her from stumbling into Duror’s other world.
She noticed the gamekeeper was again unkempt, with the neck of his shirt grubby. His tie was askew with the knot low, as if, choking, he had wrenched it loose. Two buttons of his waistcoat were unfastened; his boots were thick with mud. When he took off his cap, she frowned as if displeased; yet she was feeling a strange, remote, sterile pity: his hair was so much whiter than she had remembered. When he spoke, too, his voice was like an old man’s, harsh, yearning, querimonious. She was reminded, grotesquely, of Sheila’s dog cheated out of the ride in the bicycle basket.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, my lady,’ he said. ‘Ever since the storm yesterday my wife’s been badly upset; she’s still a bit hysterical. Her hand shakes so much’ – he held out his own, and could not still its shaking – ‘she has to be fed.’
She wondered if he had fed her.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Duror,’ she murmured.
Tulloch prepared to leave. ‘If you will excuse me, my lady,’ he said, ‘I’d better be going. My car’s at the foot of the drive.’
‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘Please wait another minute or two. What Duror and I have to discuss concerns you, or rather your two men.’
‘It surely does,’ muttered Duror, and he took from his pocket a doll that she immediately recognised, though she had not seen it for years. It had belonged to Sheila, and during its reign had been an especial favourite. Now when she saw it, naked, without its gay frilly clothes, squirming one-legged in Duror’s huge lustful fist, it seemed to her that her daughter’s innocence was somehow being publicly outraged. Faint swellings represented a bosom, and its buttocks seemed, in their saucy chubbiness, unutterable, shameful.
The Cone Gatherers Page 16
