Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I think it’s very, very interesting,” said Frances, looking up at him with large serious blue eyes. “I had no idea that history was written on tombstones.”

  “It does seem curious,” agreed Mr. MacDonald. “The people who carved them had no idea that they were writing history books . . . but stone is the most enduring material we possess, and much of the history of the human race has been handed down to us in stone. To take a few random examples: there are the flint weapons and implements of prehistoric man, there are the Pyramids, the Druidical altars, the ruins of ancient Rome . . .”

  “Shakespeare should have said: ‘history in stones,’ instead of sermons,” said Frances thoughtfully.

  Frances had a great deal to think about as she walked back to Cairn. She looked at everything with new eyes. The woods did not seem so empty now, for she could imagine the people who had lived here all those hundreds of years ago . . . quiet, inoffensive people, living peaceful lives, catching fish and cultivating their little plots of ground, welcoming the holy man when he visited them and taking small presents of milk and meal and fish to his lonely cell. They might have continued like this, and become a little nucleus of Christianity and civilisation (they might have developed the arts of peace under the guidance of the monks), had not the Norsemen invaded them and laid waste their land. Even in those days there was aggression, thought Frances rather sadly, even in those days people could not live peaceably upon their own soil and allow their neighbours to do the same.

  She had reached the cliffs now and she stood there for a few moments gazing out across the blue sea to the distant islands, and, as she looked, she seemed to see a great galley rounding the point, the sun flashing upon its dripping oars and on the torcs and armlets of the yellow-haired crew. . . .

  Could it happen again? she wondered, and, although the sun was still warm and brilliant, she shivered suddenly, and hurried back to the hotel for her belated lunch.

  CHAPTER V

  Every one at the Bordale Arms seemed to be aware that Frances intended to go to Weston for the day, and every one was anxious to advise her as to how she should go and what she should do when she got there; indeed she received so much advice that she began to feel quite dazed. She was tired of saying: “Yes, thank you, I’ll remember that . . . a large shop called MacTaggart at the corner of the square,” or “Oh, thank you, I mustn’t forget that . . . the first turning on the left after I leave the station.” The advice was somewhat conflicting—as advice so often is—and the only point upon which every one was unanimous was that she must catch the half-past seven bus from Cairn.

  “I’ll wake you, never fear,” declared Annie. “I’ll be up at six and you’ll get your breakfast at a quarter to seven sharp. Maybe you would get me a wee red belt if you have the time. It’s to wear with my new spring outfit.”

  Frances could not help smiling. She reflected that “a wee red belt” sounded a very modest request, so much more modest than a large red belt, and the joke was that the belt would have to be a fairly long one to encircle Annie’s ample waist. Frances took the pattern and put it in her bag and promised to do what she could.

  The journey was performed without a hitch. Frances caught her bus to Rithie, and from there she was conveyed to Weston by a small but fussy train which bustled its way through some of the most gorgeous scenery she had ever beheld. There were mountains and forests and lochs, there were dashing rivers and deep ravines. She rushed from one window to the other, gazing out at the magnificent country . . . it seemed strange that she was getting all this beauty for the price of a third-class ticket.

  Arrived at her destination Frances lunched and shopped; she enjoyed her shopping, for it was a new experience to be able to buy exactly what she liked (there was no need to ask for the goods on approval so that they could be changed if Aunt Zoë did not like them), and, because it was so new, the experience went to her head and she spent a good deal more than she had intended. She bought the oilskins and a torch and several pads of notepaper and envelopes; she bought a lovely warm scarf and knitted gloves to match; she bought two woollen jerseys and a pair of stout walking-shoes, and—most daring and exciting of all—she bought a pair of navy blue trousers and a polo jersey. By this time she had so many parcels hanging on to her fingers by loops of string that she was obliged to buy a cheap suitcase to hold them. The belt caused Frances more trouble than all the rest of her shopping put together, for Annie’s spring outfit was an unusual shade of red. In pursuit of a belt which would tone with the pattern—or at least would not clash with it so violently as to set one’s teeth on edge—Frances very nearly missed her train to Rithie. She tore down the platform as the whistle blew; the guard wrenched open the door of a third-class compartment and shoved her in, and the train moved off with a jerk that sent her backwards into a corner seat.

  It was an old-fashioned compartment designed to seat eight people, and when Frances had recovered herself a little she looked round and saw that there were another three women in the compartment sitting together at the other end. As she had not had time to buy a paper she amused herself by trying to determine their relationship to each other and to guess their business—it was a game in which she had often indulged as she went about London by herself. People’s faces were so interesting; there was a story in every face, and Frances adored stories. These three women were difficult to place. They were all much the same age—about her own age or a trifle older—but they were not sisters, that much was certain. After a second glance Frances decided that they were not related to each other at all. She took her fellow-travellers one by one, scrutinising them with growing interest. They were talking to each other earnestly and never glanced in her direction; in fact they seemed oblivious of the fact that there was any one in the compartment besides themselves. Perhaps I’m invisible, Frances thought, and a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. It would be fun to be invisible, to move about unseen amongst one’s fellow human beings. “A chiel’s among you takin’ notes.” Frances had discovered a whole set of Waverley Novels at the Bordale Arms and had been reading The Heart of Midlothian. She had found the quotation from Burns on the title page and had been very much struck with it. She was not quite sure what a “chiel” was, but she felt certain that an invisible chiel would be able to gather volumes of notes without any difficulty.

  Having decided that she was an invisible chiel, Frances set to work to observe her fellow-travellers. They were well worth the trouble, not only individually but collectively. They were all quite different, as different as three women of much the same age could possibly be, and yet there was something common to all three, something which Frances could not define. Perhaps they all belong to some sort of club or society, thought Frances, but what sort of club could include such different types?

  The woman in the corner seat was wearing a dark-green tweedy coat with a squirrel collar. Her shoes were neat brown brogues, beautifully polished. They had attained that dull gleam which only comes after long and meticulous care . . . neat feet she had, and slim ankles clad in heavy silk stockings. Glancing at her face Frances saw that it was a “heart-shaped face,” fair and slightly freckled. Her hair was the colour of old mahogany, her green eyes sparkled with life. Her lips were slightly reddened, but apart from that she was not made-up at all . . . she couldn’t be an actress with those freckles. Beside her sat an older woman—she might have been thirty—with a keen thin face and dark eyes. She was in black, with a white frilled shirt and long jade ear-rings. Everything about her was in exquisite taste—fine silk stockings, patent-leather shoes and a patent-leather bag to match. The third woman was not so easy to see, for she was sitting in the corner seat on the same side as Frances, but Frances could see her feet—and what strange feet they were—shabby and slightly bulgy in their black strapped shoes. What on earth were those black strapped shoes doing in company with the gleaming brogues and the shining patent leathers?

  The conversation which was taking place was baffling in t
he extreme. Frances could not help overhearing it, for it was conducted in voices raised to carry above the rattle of the train.

  “I know,” the owner of the brogues declared. “I didn’t want to, of course, but she asked me straight out. I couldn’t say no, could I?”

  “I’m glad she didn’t come herself,” declared the owner of the black strapped shoes.

  “Why?”

  “Because she would bag the best for herself.”

  “She always does, doesn’t she?” nodded the owner of the brogues.

  The woman in black laughed somewhat cynically and remarked: “Yes, and she always will. You don’t imagine that she will be content with less, do you? She asked Tommy to find her a house, so Tommy will have to offer her the nicest.”

  “I shan’t,” declared the owner of the brogues in savage tones.

  “Of course you will.”

  “But, Elise, why should I?”

  “Because she’ll be impossible if you don’t.”

  “Elise is right, Tommy,” said the shabby woman regretfully.

  There was a few moments’ silence. The woman with the brogues—who had been addressed as “Tommy”—took out a packet of cigarettes and handed them round and they all lighted up, even the bulgy-footed woman in the corner. She leant forward to light her cigarette with Tommy’s match and Frances saw her face. It was a round face with an indeterminate sort of nose, and was framed in fair hair which straggled a trifle shaggily from beneath an old-fashioned helmet-shaped felt hat.

  Who are they? wondered Frances. Where can they be going, and why? What is it that has brought them together and made them so intimate?

  “Let’s decide what we want,” said Tommy suddenly. “It’s easier if we make up our minds beforehand. Tillie must have the biggest, because of the children. I want to be as near as I can—that’s all I mind about . . . but it must be cheap, of course . . .”

  “We’re absolutely on the rocks,” announced Tillie. “It’s school fees—they’re simply terrific—and Winkie’s operation cost fifty pounds.”

  “Fifty! Good Lord!” exclaimed Tommy. She had taken a small writing-pad out of her handbag and was making notes upon it in a business-like way, but now she paused and looked at Tillie in dismay.

  “It can’t be helped,” said Tillie in a resigned voice, “and, anyhow, Winkie is all right . . . nothing else matters.”

  Tommy returned to her notes. “What do you want, Elise?” she inquired.

  The woman in black laughed and uncrossed her elegant feet. “I’ll tell you what I want,” she said. “I want a small house with all modern conveniences, electric light, company’s water, and two bathrooms. I want it facing south, of course, with a nice garden and a garage—”

  “Elise!” exclaimed Tommy, pausing, pencil in air.

  “And now I’ll tell you what I shall get,” said Elise blandly. “I shall get a pigsty with no water laid on but plenty coming through the roof, or else a mansion standing in an enormous park.”

  Tommy smiled. “Our little optimist,” she said indulgently.

  The compartment was beginning to get hazy with smoke, and Frances decided to smoke too. She had started smoking as a gesture—it was a practice that Aunt Zoë abhorred. She opened her bag, took out a cigarette, and began to search for her matches, and then she saw that Tommy had a box of matches in her hand and was offering it to her with a shy but wholly delightful smile. So I’m not invisible, thought Frances, as she accepted a match and smiled back.

  The ice was broken now and Tommy addressed her in a sweet high voice—it sounded quite different from the voice in which she had addressed her companions. “Could you tell us—” asked Tommy. “Could you possibly tell us whether we have to change at Rithie for Cairn?”

  “Cairn!” exclaimed Frances. “You can’t be going to Cairn; that’s where I’m staying.”

  Elise laughed. “Do you require the whole of Cairn for your own use?” she inquired.

  “No, of course not,” said Frances, somewhat taken aback. “But there isn’t anything there—I mean, nothing for you to do—nothing that you would want to do—” She stumbled over the words, for it was difficult to express her meaning without seeming rude.

  “I told you it was a one-horse hole,” said Elise with a sigh.

  Frances had not intended to convey this impression of Cairn. “Oh, I love it!” she exclaimed. “It’s perfectly beautiful. I just meant that you—that there isn’t much to do—”

  Three pairs of eyes were fixed upon her with interest, and Frances was so embarrassed by their gaze that she wished she was invisible again.

  “If you like it, why shouldn’t we?” asked Elise.

  Frances could find nothing to say.

  “Shut up, Elise,” said Tommy quickly. “It’s a shame to tease her. It’s because you look like Bond Street—that’s why.”

  “Bond Street!”

  “Exactly like Bond Street,” said Tommy firmly. “You create an impression of elegance and affluence, of jewellers’ shops and cocktail bars.”

  “How frightful!” exclaimed Elise with a light laugh.

  “Of course, we know Cairn is bound to be a one-horse hole,” Tommy continued, “but even in one-horse holes one can find amusing things to do. Is there a cinema?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Frances.

  “What about houses?” asked the shabby woman, leaning forward and looking at Frances anxiously.

  “Houses?” echoed Frances.

  “Buildings with four walls and a roof,” explained Tommy with a grave expression. “Places where people live—do you happen to know of any at Cairn?”

  “You don’t mean you’re going to—to settle down in Cairn!”

  “Of course we are,” said Tillie.

  “If we can,” added Tommy.

  “For as long as we are allowed,” declared Elise.

  Frances gazed at them in amazement. Why were they going to Cairn when they knew nothing about the place?

  “It’s a shame to tease her,” said Tommy, laughing. “She thinks we’re mad. She thinks we’re escaped lunatics or something.”

  “We’re the people who are supposed to live on puddings and pies,” said Elise with a quiet smile.

  “On two and ninepence a day,” added Tillie grimly.

  “Officers’ wives, you know,” explained Tommy, taking pity upon the bewilderment of their new acquaintance. “It’s quite simple, really, and not nearly so crazy as it sounds. The Battalion is going into camp at Cairn, so we must have houses—furnished houses—you see that, don’t you?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Frances.

  “Did you say ‘No’?”

  “No, I said ‘Oh,’” replied Frances hastily. “I was just trying to think . . . I don’t believe there are any houses at Cairn.”

  “None at all?”

  “None that would suit you.”

  Tommy laughed with relief. “Oh, anything will suit us. I thought you meant there were no houses at all.”

  “There are fishermen’s cottages,” said Frances in desperation.

  “Fishermen’s cottages,” said Elise. “That will be a new experience. I’ve never lived in a fisherman’s cottage before.”

  “We had a cowman’s cottage at Barnhurst,” said Tillie in a reminiscent voice, “and then we moved to Stapleton and took Stapleton Place. It had twenty bedrooms. I preferred the cottage every time, it was so much easier—”

  “We’ll find something,” said Tommy comfortably.

  “I suppose there’s some sort of pub where we can stay while we have a look round?” asked Elise.

  Frances assured her that the Bordale Arms was quite a comfortable place to stay. “It’s rather primitive in some ways, of course,” added Frances, glancing at Elise, who looked as if she usually put up at the Ritz.

  “No bathroom, I suppose?” said Elise with a sigh.

  “Oh, quite a nice bathroom,” replied Frances hastily.

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Tommy. “Ho
w lucky we met you!”

  Frances could not see that she had been of much service, and she looked at Tommy in case the remark was intended to be sarcastic, but Tommy’s heart-shaped face wore a perfectly innocent expression. Tillie was smiling, and even Elise (whom Frances had credited with a somewhat cynical disposition) was looking at her in a friendly way.

  “You can tell us all about Cairn,” explained Tommy. “It is lucky, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve only been there three days—”

  “Three days is ample,” replied Tommy. “You can turn a place inside out in three days if you set your mind to it.”

  Frances could not help laughing. “I’m afraid I didn’t,” she said. “I just walked about and explored and talked to one or two people.” She could not make up her mind whether she was glad or sorry that these people were coming to Cairn. It had been very quiet and peaceful and she had enjoyed it immensely, but on the other hand these people seemed interesting and unusual. . . . After all, thought Frances, I can always go up to my room and read. . . . I needn’t see much of them unless I want to. . . .

  “I’m Mrs. Widgery,” said Tommy, who had suddenly decided to introduce herself and her companions. “That’s Mrs. Crabbe, and that’s Mrs. Liston.”

  “I’m Frances Field,” said Frances.

  They all smiled at each other—the acquaintanceship had gone a step further. Frances thought it would be difficult to remember that they were Mrs. Widgery, Mrs. Crabbe and Mrs. Liston after having fixed them in her mind as Tommy, Elise and Tillie.

  Now that they had introduced themselves, they began to ply Frances with all sorts of questions about Cairn, and Frances answered to the best of her ability. She was somewhat surprised when Elise (now to be known as Mrs. Crabbe) admitted to a baby and inquired whether it was possible to procure certified milk.