They walked up from the town and arrived at half past three.
“We’re a bit early,” said Minnie apologetically. “But Maggie is wanting to see the house so I thought I would take her round and show it to her before tea.”
I let them go together while I prepared the round table in the kitchen window—we had all our meals there. I had made potato scones and a sponge cake and Charles had provided chocolate biscuits; it looked very nice when it was all set out with my best lace tea-cloth and our new china.
They spent a long time examining the little house.
“It’s pairfect,” declared Maggie as she sat down at the tea-table. “I’ve seen a wheen o’ big hooses—and I’d not say ‘thank ye’ to them—but this wee cottage puts ye oot o’ conceit wi’ yer ain.”
Maggie’s speech was broad (she had never been away from the district in her life, except for an occasional visit to a married sister at Dunoon and a yearly outing to Edinburgh). Minnie was different; she was the “traveller” of the Dell family. She had lived with us at Fairfield; she had been to London; she had spent her holidays with an aunt in Brighton and, during her stay in England, she had learnt to speak English as it is spoken in England. Minnie could speak English, or broad Scots, with equal facility depending upon her company but her usual speech was reasonably good English with a salty mixture of her native tongue.
“It’s all furnished except that wee spare room,” said Minnie.
“Yes,” I agreed. “We’re going to Edinburgh one day to get a carpet and some furniture for the spare room . . . but there’s no hurry about it.”
“Ye’re no’ wantin’ veesitors,” suggested Maggie, smiling coyly.
“Not in the meantime,” I admitted.
“We’re tae see Maister Reede, I’m hoping?” asked Maggie.
“Yes, he has gone for a walk but he’ll be back soon.”
“I’ve haird a lot aboot Maister Reede,” Maggie explained.
I wondered what “Maister Reede” would think of our guests. They had put on their Sunday best and looked extremely nice: Minnie was wearing a coat and skirt of heather-mixture tweed obviously made to measure; Maggie had on a navy-blue frock and a long matching coat with a little grey fur collar. Their faces were well scrubbed and innocent of cosmetics—a London beauty might have envied the smooth velvety texture of their complexions!
“It’s a new costume; Jamie made it for me,” said Minnie when she saw me looking at her.
“Oh, your brother of course! It’s a lovely tweed and very well cut.”
“Jamie’s a reel guid tailor, Miss Sarah,” said Maggie proudly.
“You ought to say ‘Mrs Reede’,” put in Minnie, in reproving tones.
“Pardon!” said Maggie, blushing. She added, “But it’s your blame, Minnie. I’ve haird ye speakin’ o’ ‘Miss Sarah’ sae it comes natural-like.”
“You’ve not heard me speaking of ‘Miss Sarah’ since she was married to Mr Reede.”
“I have so,” Maggie declared. “Ye were speaking of ‘Miss Sarah’ even on, this very efternune, as we were climbing the brae.”
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” I said hastily. “As a matter of fact it still sounds rather queer when people call me ‘Mrs Reede’.”
“He used to be Mr Reeder,” said Minnie. “I suppose people can change their names if they want?”
“Not without permission; it has to be done by deed poll. You see Mr Reede has become a British national so he wanted a British name.”
They looked at me in doubt, so I explained it all carefully. I was glad to take the opportunity of explaining the matter to the Dells: they knew everybody in the place so it was as good as sending round the Town Crier.
“Oh, was that the way of it,” said Minnie, nodding. “There’s been talk in the town—some saying this and others saying that—but it’s nice that he’s British now. You’ll be pleased about that, Miss Sarah.”
“You ought to say ‘Mistress Reede’,” put in Maggie with a mischievous smile.
Minnie smiled too. “Och, I’ll never get into it!” she said . . . and it may be stated, here and now, that she never did.
We were half-way through the meal when Charles came in. I introduced him and they shook hands cordially.
“You’re just the same, Mr Reede,” said Minnie. “It hasn’t made a bit of difference to you, being British.”
“I was half Scots before,” said Charles chuckling. “There was only half of me that had to be changed . . . but for all that it took them a long time to do it.”
Maggie, who had been gazing at him in silent admiration, murmured, “Naebody would ever ken.”
“It’s a fine wee house,” said Minnie. “The only thing is it’s a bit quiet. Maggie and I like the town.”
“You have a gay time, I expect,” suggested Charles solemnly.
“It’s no’ as cheery as Dunoon,” declared Maggie.
“Dunoon!” said Minnie scornfully. “You should see London and Brighton and Oxford. That’s the sort of places Mr Reede’s accustomed to.”
“Maybe he’ll find Ryddelton a bit too dull, then,” said Maggie sadly.
“It couldn’t be too dull for me,” declared Charles.
They looked at him inquiringly.
“There are many people in the world who would give all they possess for the peacefulness of Ryddelton,” he explained.
“Och, there’s quite a lot going on——” began Maggie.
“Maggie,” said Charles, leaning forward. “What would you do if you were walking down Ryddelton High Street and you saw a man pull out a gun and shoot another man in the back?”
She gazed at him in bewilderment.
“What would you do?” repeated Charles, smiling kindly.
“I just—wouldna believe ma eyes.”
“Och, it would be for the pictures,” said Minnie brightly. “When I was in Brighton with Aunt Jeanie they were making a fillum—shooting people and jumping into cars and tearing away down the street. Smash and Grab it was called.”
“Very interesting,” said Charles, looking at our guests as if he had never seen anything in the least like them before.
“Yes, it was interesting—exciting too,” agreed Minnie. “There were big cameras taking photos all the time. I was hoping I’d be in one—but they just missed me.”
I saw Charles preparing another question and I thought it time to change the subject. “How is your business getting on?” I asked.
“Not so well,” replied Minnie. “You sec it was war work—I told you that, Miss Sarah.”
“It was all we could dae,” interrupted Maggie. “Minnie and me would have liked fine tae jine the Wrens but they wouldna have us. Minnie was too wee—that’s what they said—and there wis something wrang wi’ ma foot. I tellt them there wis naething wrang that I’d ever noticed—but they wouldna tak’ me.”
“It was their loss,” declared Minnie. She added, “So we just came home to Ryddelton and set to work and did what we could, making and mending . . . and washing smalls.”
“Very useful war work,” commented Charles.
“There was money in it while it lasted,” said Minnie with a little sigh.
“It was fine while the tickets were on,” added Maggie.
Charles looked bewildered.
“Coupons,” I explained. “Clothes were rationed; you couldn’t buy them without coupons.”
“Aye, that’s it,” nodded Maggie. “Ye can get things noo, without tickets, sae folks are not wanting their auld duds done up by me and Minnie—small blame to them!”
“It was war work, Miss Sarah,” repeated Minnie. “We’re not complaining . . . but I was just wondering if you’d be needing a bit of help in the house now and then?”
“Well, I don’t think——” I began.
“Splendid idea!” exclaimed Charles. “We ought to have thought of it before. When can you come?”
I was silent. The little house had been carefully designed so that I could m
anage it myself—and to tell the truth I was looking forward to being on my own—but already Charles and Minnie were discussing “hours of work” and Minnie’s face was as bright as the rising sun.
“Yes,” she was saying eagerly. “I could come at nine—or sooner if Miss Sarah wanted—I mean Mrs Reede. I’d do the fire and bring in the coal and scrub the kitchen floor . . . and I’d clean the vegetables of course. If Miss Sarah wanted me to stay a bit longer and do the dinner—the lunch, I mean—it would be no bother. I can cook vegetables the French way; Miss Sarah showed me when she came home from France.”
Maggie was smiling happily; she said, “And if ye were wanting oot for the day Minnie would leave things nice. You’d come hame tae find the hoose redd up and a fire in the grate and a nice wee pie waiting on ye to be hotted up for yer suppers.”
“Excellent!” declared Charles. “We shall probably be—er—wanting out quite often.”
“Have you been to Kirkoobry?” inquired Minnie.
“Kirkoobry? What’s that?”
“It’s not far—and it’s a nice wee town; you’d like it, Mr Reede. You should go to Kirkoobry one day. Shouldn’t they, Maggie?”
Our guests were too well mannered to prolong their visit unduly. We went to the gate with them and watched them walk down the hill together.
“Charles, why did you?” I asked reproachfully. “I can do everything myself quite easily—that was the whole idea! It’s a waste of money.”
“A waste of money . . . to make two people happy?”
“Oh, I know, but——”
“You can’t buy love. Minnie knows you and loves you . . . and love is a priceless possession. Besides, we shall be ‘wanting out’ frequently,” declared Charles with a little chuckle. “We want to explore the country together and how pleasant it will be to come home and find the hoose redd up and a nice wee pie waiting on us to be hotted up for our suppers!”
I laughed. “Your accent is not yet pairfect.”
“There will be scones too, waiting on us,” continued Charles with a satisfied air. “And, more than likely, a hot water bottle in our bed . . .”
“Sybarite!”
“. . . and all for the outlay of a few shillings. Is that extravagance?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Definitely not.”
Our visitors had got to the corner now. They turned and waved . . . and we waved back.
“You were interested in them,” I said.
“Who wouldn’t be? They’re the salt of the earth.”
“You looked at them as if they were visitors from another planet.”
“No, I’m the visitor from another planet,” said Charles thoughtfully. “They’re in their own place: a place where nothing violent ever happens; a place where violence is unbelievable, even if you see it with your own eyes, a happy place, Sarah.”
“You put them under a microscope. It was rather naughty of you.”
“I don’t think they minded. I want to understand these people; I want to know how they tick; I want to forget all the unhappy people and places and dig myself in at Ryddelton.”
“I thought you had forgotten.”
“Not quite,” said Charles with a sigh.
Chapter Four
Charles was starting a new life in a new country; he had never been in Scotland before, except for flying visits, so he wanted to explore the district round about Ryddelton . . . and farther afield. He enjoyed driving his powerful car and I enjoyed going with him. It was beautiful autumn weather so we were seeing it at its best: the trees were turning red and brown and golden, they were gorgeous in the sunshine; the heather had faded; the coarse grass on the moors was orange-coloured. Hundreds of little burns, their waters sparkling like silver, came tumbling down the hills. Here and there a stand of dark green conifers made its bold contrasting note in the landscape; here and there a small farm-house nestled in a fold of the hills. Above, the sky was a tender blue and big cumulus clouds sailed along majestically, trailing their shadows over the quiet land.
We didn’t say much but enjoyed it in a “togetherness” which was deeper and more satisfying than words.
One morning when there was air-frost, and a thin crackle of ice in the ruts untouched by the sunshine, we stopped in a small quarry by the side of the road and walked up a hill path. A few pearly white sheep were nibbling the green grass beneath the coarser orange tufts, they lifted their heads and watched us as we passed but were unafraid.
“We ought to be more thankful than we are—for eyes,” said Charles suddenly.
I thought so too. There was so much in the world to see and to enjoy. We had been in Skye for our honeymoon, and had been impressed by the wild beauty of its scenery, but there was something in this softer land which appealed to me even more. I tried to put my feelings into words.
“Yes, it touches one’s heart,” agreed Charles. “It’s a friendly land, Sarah. Later, when things are more settled, I’d like to show you Venice and Rome and Athens—and the wonders of other countries—but I think we shall always be glad to come home.”
The spell of fine weather lasted for more than a week and then the mist came down on the hills and we had a soaking wet day. I wasn’t really sorry for I had several letters waiting to be answered. First I wrote to father, who seemed to be settling down happily in his new parish, and then I wrote to Lottie, whose birthday was approaching. It was always difficult to find a present for Lottie, she could buy anything she wanted, but this year I had got a blue lambswool pullover at the local hand-loom weavers which I was sure would please her . . . and I intended to enclose a letter in the parcel. I began my letter by asking what she was doing (Lottie was very gay, she loved parties and was a leading light in the Fairfield Amateur Dramatic Club) and I went on to ask for news of Frederica, who was now nearly five years old. Freddie had had measles so I said I hoped she was better. It was a mystery to me how the child had caught the complaint for she was isolated on the top floor of Brailsford Manor with a thoroughly trained nursery nurse in attendance.
When I was in London I had seen quite a lot of my small niece, but latterly I had been too busy to make the expedition to Brailsford; I had been busy helping father and Willy to move to Allington, getting my successor installed at Barrington’s and with preparations for my marriage.
My letter to Lottie had been full of questions, which I hoped she would answer when she thanked me for my gift; now I went on to tell her about our doings. Unfortunately there were no grand parties to describe, so she would think it very dull, but I told her about our little house and about our drives round the country. I was trying to think of more news to interest Lottie when Charles came in and said that the weather was clearing and if we had tea early we could go out for a spin . . . so I finished my letter hastily, did up the parcel and made tea.
The day had been hopelessly dull and rainy with leaden clouds on the hills, but a breeze from the east was tearing the clouds to pieces, and scattering them, and the sun was shining on a glittering world. These dramatic changes are not unusual in Scotland; when we got to know the country better they did not surprise us. This evening we were surprised and happy at the unexpected pleasure. Charles hummed cheerfully as he turned south on the main road and put on speed.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Anywhere,” he replied. “That’s one of the reasons I’m enjoying myself so much—it’s a left-over from years behind barbed wire—I can go wherever I like, I can turn to the left or the right, I can go straight on to John o’ Groats.”
“You’re heading for Land’s End at the moment,” I pointed out.
“I could turn if I wanted. You don’t mind, do you, Sarah?”
“Not a bit,” I replied, smiling. “Go straight on to Land’s End or turn and go to John o’ Groats. I’ve been shut up for years between the four walls of a London flat and chained to my job.”
“Did you mean it when you said ‘go straight on’?”
“Yes; ther
e’s nothing to prevent us.”
There was silence for a minute. Then Charles said, “I really wanted to, you know. I felt I should like to drive all night, but we haven’t got shaving tackle and toothbrushes and all the rest of it—so it would be more sensible to go home. We can go to John o’Groats another day.”
I agreed with secret relief; I was willing to go anywhere with Charles—to John o’ Groats or Land’s End or farther—but it would be more comfortable to make the expedition with a suitcase.
“We’ll go home,” said Charles. He added, “When you know you can do a thing the urge to do it doesn’t seem so strong.”
Having decided to go home Charles took the next turning to the right and we found ourselves in a part of the country where there were numerous small towns and villages and big farms with cattle in the fields. It was getting dark now and lights were springing up here, there and everywhere. We passed several wide lochs and came to a little town . . . and here Charles slowed down. There were lots of people about, some of them walking along in a purposeful manner, others lingering beneath a street lamp and chatting. There were hundreds of little houses with lights shining from their uncurtained windows; we could see a family gathered round a table enjoying their evening meal. We drifted along slowly and noiselessly.
“I like to see them,” explained Charles. “I like to see them happy. They don’t know they’re happy which is a pity. I suppose they would think I was a raving lunatic if I knocked at that cottage door and told them they were happy.”
I knew what he meant for he had said it before in different words: these people had never known fear; they had never been ground beneath the heel of a conqueror; they had never been interrupted in the middle of a meal by the bursting open of their door, and the entry of men in uniform with guns in their hands, nor wakened from sleep to find their house full of noise and violence; they had never had their dear ones torn from their arms and dragged away to prison camps.
*
The next morning was fine and dry and sunny. I was quite prepared for Charles to suggest that we should set forth immediately on an expedition to the northern limit of Scotland but the urge to visit John o’ Groats seemed to have vanished completely. Charles dug in the garden and played his piano, which had now arrived and was comfortably installed in the sitting-room; we visited Craignethan and went for pleasant drives in the afternoons.
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 3
