FIVE
WINDOWS
D. E. Stevenson
© D. E. Stevenson 1953
D. E. Stevenson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1953 by COLLINS.
This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books.
Table of Contents
The First Window
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Second Window
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Third Window
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Fourth Window
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Fifth Window
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The First Window
“ My window looked out over the garden to the bridge and the hills. In summer this view was hidden by a glorious old chestnut-tree which had grown as high as the house. I loved this tree at all seasons of the year: in spring there were the candles to watch and I saw the pink flowers unfolding: the leaves were fresh and green, they waved with the wind or hung quietly drinking in the golden sunshine. The tree was full of birds chirping and building their nests—they would fly to my window for crumbs to feed their nestlings. In winter when the leaves had fallen my view of the world was enlarged and through the delicate tracery of twig and branch I could see the countryside: the bridge, the woods and the hills.”
CHAPTER ONE
“ The farmer’s in his den,
The farmer’s in his den,
Heigh ho ma Daddy O!
The farmer’s in his den.
The farmer takes a wife,
The farmer takes a wife,
Heigh ho ma Daddy O!
The farmer takes a wife.”
The other children had begun to play when I came out of the school-house; they were forming circles and dancing round, chanting the well-known rhymes in their shrill voices. I stood on the steps of the school-house for a few moments blinking my eyes in the bright sunshine which was so dazzling after the dim coolness of the class-room. From the four corners of the playground children were running to break the circles and join in the game; some of them saw me and shouted to me. “ David! ” they cried. “ Come and play! ” But to-day I had something better to do than to join in childish games, to-day was my birthday, I was nine years old, and Father had given me a fishing rod. I had brought it with me to school and had left it hidden in the wood amongst a tangle of brambles. It was there, waiting for me: the rod, the reel and a tin full of worms. I set off to find it.
The other children called after me. “ Come back! Where are you going, David? ” and Freda Lorimer, who was my special friend and often came with me on expeditions, began running towards me across the playground; but I waved to her and took to my heels for I wanted no companion. Fishing is a solitary sport. I wanted to wander up the stream, rod in hand, with nothing to distract my thoughts. I wanted to catch a basket of trout for breakfast. Four would do, four shiny brown trout, one each for Father, Mother, old Meg and myself.
The village of Haines lies in a bend of the Ling. The main street of the village winds steeply down to the bank of the stream and a solid stone bridge carries the road across the water. Just beside the bridge is the church, standing upon a green hillock, and beside it is the manse with its walled garden and tiny orchard. The manse is a solid stone-built house (a very comfortable dwelling, as I had reason to know; for Father was the minister of Haines and we had come there when I was two years old and had lived there ever since). The front windows of the manse look out across the bridge to the rounded hills of Nethercleugh and westward down the green and beautiful valley of the Ling with its woods and fields and prosperous farms. These windows have red blinds and as one comes across the bridge on a winter’s evening it is a pleasant sight to see the red glow of the lights behind the blinds and to imagine the comfort and warmth of the rooms inside. To me, at least, there is no more pleasant sight in all the world.
My bedroom was at the front of the house; my window looked out over the garden to the bridge and the hills. In summer this view was hidden by a glorious old chestnut-tree which had grown as high as the house. I loved this tree at all seasons of the year: in spring there were the candles to watch and I saw the pink flowers unfolding; the leaves were fresh and green, they waved with the wind or hung quietly drinking in the golden sunshine; the tree was full of birds chirping and building their nests—they would fly to my window for crumbs to feed their nestlings.
In winter when the leaves had fallen my view of the world was enlarged and through the delicate tracery of twig and branch I could see the countryside: the bridge, the woods and the hills. This opening view was one of the compensations for cold wintry days and dark evenings.
Above Haines village the scene is different. There are no snug farm-houses nor tilled fields. The country is wild and becomes wilder and more deserted with every step one takes. The hills are steeper and higher; there are tumbled rocks and bogs; every few hundred yards a burn swirls amongst brown peat or trickles over grey stones or leaps from bare rock to bubbling pool. It was this wild country—the upper reaches of the Ling—to which I hastened with my new rod and my tin of worms on that fine May evening of my ninth birthday.
The woods were green with new bright leaves, the marsh-marigolds were gold in the sunshine and the banks of the stream were starred with tiny wild-flowers. Larks rose from the tufted grasses at my feet and soared into the blue sky. Spring was here and summer was on its way and the knowledge lifted my heart and made me happy, but it was the Ling itself that drew my eyes and filled my conscious thoughts. The stream was in perfect condition; there had been rain in the night—warm, soft rain—and the water was discoloured by peaty sediment. It was not in spate, but it was the colour of beer, and, like beer, it foamed in the pools where it was trapped for a moment between the boulders.
About a mile above the village there was a heap of stones and a cluster of nettles. Once, long ago, this had been a little house with people living in it but now it was utterly deserted. Owls nested in the ruined chimney, grass and ferns sprouted on the walls. Freda and I had discovered this place on one of our expeditions and often used it in our games. Sometimes we pretended it was a shop and collected stones and leaves and laid them out on a slab to represent eggs and biscuits. We brought paper bags and filled them with fine white river sand; this was sugar, of course. It was usually a grocer’s shop but sometimes it was a confectioner’s with brown gingerbread cakes, made of mud,
and tiny round pebbles which did very nicely for toffee or peppermint balls. Sometimes our games were wilder and more active; the place was a smugglers’ cave or a bandits’ lair or the haunt of a Covenanter pursued by the soldiers of Claver-house. “ Our Cottage ” we called it … and indeed we had never seen any other human being near it to dispute our claim.
Close by the ruined cottage there was a pool in the stream and it was here I intended to catch my basket of trout. I assembled my rod and, baiting my hook with a worm, began to fish.
I had often fished before, but never with a real rod and the spring in the rod bothered me, but after a little I got the hang of it and began to enjoy myself. I dropped my hook into the current and let it drift down into the pool.
At first there was nothing doing … and then suddenly it happened. There was a sharp tug, the rod bent and the reel ran out. The fish was a big one, there was no doubt of that, I could feel it struggling to escape. I kept the line taut, winding it in and letting it out, my hands were trembling with excitement.
What a monster it was! How strong and full of fight! It rushed across the pool from side to side, it leapt half out of the water in a shower of spray—a gleaming shiny trout—it sulked under a stone and then dashed out again. Presently it began to tire and very carefully I coaxed it towards me. But when it was almost within reach it saw my shadow and away it went across the pool with the reel screaming. I realised that I should have had a net; I should have borrowed Father’s net and brought it with me. The small fish I had caught before had been easy to land, I had flicked them out of the water. This fish was different, this fish was a monster, I should never be able to land this fish without a net.
“ Stick to it, David! ” said a voice behind me. “ Keep a hold on him. Wind in the slack.” The speaker was Malcolm. I would have known his voice anywhere.
“ I’ve no net! ” I cried. “ Malcolm, I’ve no net! ”
“ I’ll land him, David,” said Malcolm. He waded into the pool and, taking off his cap, scooped the fish neatly out of the water.
“ Oh, Malcolm, how lucky you were there! ” I exclaimed rapturously.
“ He’s a good one,” declared Malcolm as he disengaged the hook and knocked its head on a stone. “ He’s a fine wee fish—every bit of a pound.”
“ I thought he was big! I thought he was enormous! ”
“ He would have been if he’d got away,” said Malcolm, smiling. “ Maybe it’s a pity he didn’t get away—he would have been two pounds at least—but on the other hand he’ll make a nice breakfast for the minister. Now you’ll need to catch another nice one for Mistress Kirke.”
“ Oh, Malcolm, it was lucky! If you hadn’t come——”
“ You’d have managed, David. The fish was well hooked. You’d have landed him yourself.” While we were talking he was baiting the hook and we were ready for the next one.
I caught my other three fish quite quickly, they were small compared with the first, and then I took down my rod and went over to Malcolm who was sitting on a tree-stump, smoking his big briar pipe.
“ Are you finished, David? ” he asked in surprise.
“ I’ve got four,” I explained. “ One each for breakfast. That’s what I wanted, you see.”
“ I see,” he said, nodding.
We sat there together in the pale spring sunshine. The little river prattled by and the birds were singing and chirping in the trees. Malcolm was in a silent mood but I did not mind, it was enough just to be near him, he made me feel rested and happy and safe. The restful thing about Malcolm was the fact that time meant very little to him; he ordered his days by the sun and not by the clock. He could do this quite easily because he was a shepherd and lived alone except for his dog Bess, so he could get up when he liked—which was usually very early—and have his meals when it suited him. He was a giant of a man with broad strong shoulders and big rugged features. His face was brown and weather-beaten from going out in all weathers to care for his sheep. I had known Malcolm all my life and often, when school was over, I used to go up the hill to his little cottage above Nethercleugh Farm; he was always pleased to see me.
There was an odd sort of excitement in visiting Malcolm because I never knew whether or not he would be there. I would hurry up the hill with my heart beating fast and climb on to a rock from which I could see the cottage from afar. If the windows were shut I knew that Malcolm was out and I would turn and go home (somehow it was less disappointing to turn back then; it was unbearable to arrive at the door and find it locked). If the windows were open I knew Malcolm was in and I would shout to him and run on. Then Malcolm would come out, bending his head because the lintel of the doorway was low, and stand there shading his eyes with his hand and watching me approach. Bess would be at his heels, she would look up at her master for permission and when he nodded she would bound down the steep path to meet me with her feathery tail waving in the breeze.
“ Well, Davie lad! ” Malcolm would cry, his eyes creasing at the corners as he smiled. “ Come away in and tell me the news. I’ve been wearying to see you.”
I was thinking of all this, sitting on the bank of the river, and presently Malcolm turned and said, “ What are you thinking about, lad? ”
“ Well,” I said slowly, “ I was thinking it’s nice to go and see people who want to see you. It’s the nicest thing I know.”
“ You’re growing up, David,” said Malcolm, looking at me thoughtfully.
“ Yes, I’m nine,” I said.
CHAPTER TWO
All the children in the district went to the village school; there were children from the big farms—like the Lorimers of Nethercleugh—and children from the village. Most of them spoke two languages: the local dialect and a reasonable imitation of English. Unlike the others my home-language was English of course but when I was playing with the other children I spoke as they did; it was more friendly somehow. I was rather proud of my accomplishment and sometimes I amused Mother with it. She would hold up her hands in mock dismay and cry, “ Davie, what are you saying! ”
As a matter of fact the dialect was so broad as to be practically unintelligible to anybody who had not been born and bred in that part of the country.
“ It’s Haines language,” I would tell her.
Then Mother would smile a little doubtfully and say, “ Well, I suppose it’s all right as long as you keep it separate but don’t get it mixed, will you? ”
I saw what she meant of course and I never got it mixed. As a matter of fact the two languages were so different that there was little fear of it.
Mr. Semple, the schoolmaster, had a good deal of trouble with the dialect and children who came to school from the outlying cottages spent most of their first year learning to speak. Mr. Semple sometimes came to supper at the manse and I remember listening to a conversation between him and Father on the subject. Perhaps conversation is hardly the word, for Mr. Semple was a great talker and Father was a silent man.
“ They must learn to speak English,” declared Mr. Semple earnestly. “ We can do nothing with them until they’ve learnt that. They can speak as they please at home. You see, Mr. Kirke, apart from anything else these children will get out into the world some day (it’s unlikely that they’ll remain here all their lives) so it’s essential that they should be able to make themselves understood.”
“ Quite,” agreed Father.
“ I’ve been accused of trying to stamp out the local dialect,” continued Mr. Semple fretfully. “ It is untrue. I couldn’t stamp it out if I tried—and I’ve no wish to stamp it out. The dialect is picturesque and, what is more important, it’s useful. These children have little difficulty with the pronunciation of foreign languages—especially German. The vowel sounds are similar; that’s the explanation, Mr. Kirke.”
“ Yes,” said Father.
“ Of course they all have the radio now and listen to it in their homes so they understand English—or what they are pleased to call Oxford English,” said Mr. S
emple with scorn. “ Oxford English—that’s what they call it, Mr. Kirke. Did you ever hear the like of that? ”
“ A misnomer, certainly,” agreed Father.
“ Before the advent of the radio the children from up the glen had never heard their own tongue properly spoken; they would come to school and sit with blank faces unable to understand a word that was said.”
“ Deplorable,” said Father mildly.
“ Deplorable! ” echoed Mr. Semple fiercely. “ Simply deplorable. There was one family in particular …” and Mr. Semple embarked upon a long story about the family of a shepherd, the members of which had caused him more trouble than all the rest of his scholars put together.
Mr. Semple continued to talk and Father continued to make suitable comments and rejoinders … but I could see that Father had ceased to listen and was thinking of something else. Father could do this quite easily, he withdrew inside himself and meditated, leaving a sentry to guard the door of his inner room. People who did not know him well would go on talking quite unaware of the fact that he was not attending to a word they said.
I was very proud of Father. My proudest moment was on Sundays when he went up into the pulpit and stood there for a moment without speaking, looking down. He had wavy grey hair and dark flashing eyes and his voice was deep and musical. When I was a child I did not understand his sermons, of course, but I liked to sit beside Mother and listen to his voice. Then gradually as I grew older I began to follow his arguments and appreciate what he said. His sermons were well thought out and interesting and they were always Bible sermons; he never preached about secular matters nor topical affairs.
Father was a good deal older than Mother and, because his nature was grave, he seemed older than his years. Mother was proud of him—as I was—she understood him through and through and managed him beautifully. Although we never spoke of it we both tried to shield Father and this made a queer sort of secret bond between us. Mother was only eighteen years older than myself; she played games with me when I was little and enjoyed the games as much as I did. We played singing games together and sometimes we played hide-and-seek all over the house. When I was older we started keeping a diary about the weather and the birds and things that happened in Haines, and we collected wild flowers and pressed them between sheets of blotting-paper and we made drawings and painted them. Mother was good at drawing and she taught me all she knew. She tried to teach me to play the piano, too, but we never got very far with that. I preferred to listen to Mother playing.
Five Windows Page 1