Sometimes when the organist was ill or away for a holiday Mother played the organ in church, but she was not good at it and it made her very nervous. I hated it when Mother had to play the organ; it was sheer agony to see her sitting there on the high bench struggling with the pedals and occasionally playing wrong notes. My hands got wet inside and cold shivers ran up and down my spine.
One Saturday father came in to lunch and said, “ Thomson has just heard that his mother is ill, he wants to go at once. I said it would be all right and that you would play the organ to-morrow, Mary.”
“ No! ” I cried. “ No, no, no! ”
Father gazed at me in astonishment.
“ She’s not to! ” I cried. “ You’re not to make her! You don’t understand.”
“ Mary! ” exclaimed Father, looking at her.
“ It’s all right,” she said quietly. “ I’ll—I’ll do it, of course.”
“ No! ” I cried. “ You’re not to make her! I won’t let you! ” and I burst into tears.
I never knew what happened after that, because I was sent up to my room, but Mother did not play the organ. She never played it again.
Other children had brothers and sisters and sometimes they said to me it must be dull being an only child. “ What do you do? ” they asked. “ Fancy having nobody to play with! ”
I was never dull; there was plenty to do and I had Mother to play with. I never thought of Mother as being “ old ” or “ young.” In fact I never really thought of her at all. She was just Mother.
One day I was talking to an old woman in the village; she had been ill and I had been sent to take her some books. She said to me, “ Will Mistress Kirke be coming again soon? ”
“ She’ll be coming to-morrow,” I said. “ She’s rather busy to-day.”
“ To-morrow,” said the old woman, nodding. “ That’s fine. Mistress Kirke is a gay, pretty creature. It makes your heart glad to look at her.”
I went home and looked at her—and it was true. She was gay and pretty and nobody could look at her without feeling happy. I saw she had grey-blue eyes and light brown hair curling naturally at the back of her neck and round her ears, and I saw she had rather a large mouth which curled naturally into a smile and I saw that she was not very tall but looked taller because she held herself so bravely.
“ What are you looking at me like that for! ” she cried. “ Have you never seen me before, Davie boy? ”
“ No,” I said seriously. “ I’ve never seen you before.”
Our home was very happy. I took it for granted of course, it was only when I got older that I realised all homes were not as happy as ours. Father was good and patient and kind and he never spared himself. I understood Father very well but I knew he did not understand me. He did not understand children. Sometimes he expected too much of them, and sometimes too little. He believed sincerely that “ of such are the Kingdom of Heaven.”
I have often wondered about that saying of Our Lord, because my experience of children is that they have a great deal of “ the old Adam ” in their make-up. Quite often they are ruthless and unkind to one another and deceitful to their elders. There are exceptions of course but on the whole they are more like savages than saints and therefore further from the Kingdom of Heaven than most grown-up people. That was my opinion (and it still is) but Father thought otherwise. He tried hard to understand the children of his parish and to make friends with them. Perhaps he tried too hard, for children are suspicious of a man who seeks them out and talks to them and are apt to be more friendly with somebody who disregards them.
When Father spoke to children he put on a special manner, and many is the time when I have stood by, in agonised embarrassment, while he endeavoured to make contact with a group of my playmates. I remember one occasion in particular; we were playing tip-and-run on the village-green, and Father, who happened to be passing on his way to visit a sick parishioner, stopped to talk.
“ Cricket is a fine game,” said Father. “ I’m glad to see you playing cricket. How many runs have you made, Sandy? ”
Sandy was older than I was and a great deal bigger, he was growing so fast that all his clothes were tight—he seemed to be bursting out at every seam. He had a shock of carroty hair which looked as if it had never been brushed or combed and his face was fat and pink all over with no eyebrows and queer little eyes like boot-buttons. To my mind Sandy was the ugliest boy in Haines and his personality matched his appearance for he was a bully and a sneak.
Father did not know these facts about Sandy but even if he had it would have made no difference. He would have spoken to Sandy just as kindly. I knew that.
“ How many runs, Sandy? ” asked Father again.
Sandy stood first on one leg and then on the other. “ Three,” he said.
“ Three? ” said Father. “ That’s a good start. You’ll have to go on and make a lot more before they get you out. The great thing is to be cautious at first. Play yourself in before you start hitting sixes.”
Sandy remained dumb.
“ It’s tip-and-run,” I murmured. “ You’ve got to——”
But Father took no notice. Perhaps he had never played tip-and-run when he was a boy. As a matter of fact I could not imagine Father as a boy. I could not believe he had ever been young and small with dirty hands and untidy hair—it was incredible.
“ Cricket was my favourite game when I was a lad,” continued Father. “ I was fond of reading too. On a wet afternoon when you can’t play cricket you can be happy with a book. I expect you all like reading stories.”
There was silence for a moment and then one or two of them said gruffly that they liked it fine.
“ I wonder if I can guess your favourites,” said Father, smiling. “ Perhaps Robinson Crusoe. That’s a grand story.”
They gazed at him in silence. I could have told him that when they read anything—which was seldom—they read the Adventures of Three-Gun Dick which appeared in a weekly “ Comic,” but it was not for me to interfere.
“ You’ve all read the story about Robinson Crusoe and Friday, I’m sure,” said Father encouragingly.
None of them had, but it was obvious that the minister wanted a reply in the affirmative so there was a murmur of assent from all.
“ And where did Robinson Crusoe live? Robert will tell us.”
“ On an island,” muttered Robert. Everybody knew that.
“ Quite right,” nodded Father. “ He was wrecked on an island, poor man, and he lived there for years. It’s a good story. We can all learn something from Robinson Crusoe.”
Father passed on and the game was resumed without comment but the incident had its sequel.
That evening when we were all in the school changing-room getting ready to go home a voice suddenly remarked, “ And where did Robinson Crusoe live? Robert will tell us.”
It was Sandy, of course. Sandy was a mimic and he had got Father’s voice and intonation pretty well. His effort was greeted with a gale of laughter.
As I said before Sandy was older than I, and a good deal bigger, but I was too angry to count the cost; I turned and hit him as hard as I could on his grinning mouth. It was only when my knuckles crashed against his teeth that I came to my senses. He’ll kill me, I thought.
After that I had no time to think of anything; I was too busy shielding myself from blows, dodging them when I could and trying to get in an occasional blow in return. At last I was sent reeling into the corner and lay there, dazed and breathless, amongst a welter of dirty boots.
“ That’ll learn you! ” cried Sandy, standing over me, his face red as fire and the blood dripping from his mouth. “ Say you’re sorry, you little——! ”
I could not speak and perhaps it was just as well, for I might have recanted.
“ Och, leave him,” said Robert, taking his friend by the arm. “ You’ve skelped him properly. There’ll be trouble if you kill the wee runt.”
Twenty minutes later I was on my way hom
e with a swelled nose and a rapidly closing eye. My knuckles were skinned and bleeding; I was stiff and sore all over and my collar had been torn off my shirt. It had been a most inglorious battle as far as I was concerned and my only consolation was that my opponent had lost a tooth. When I reached the manse I hid in the shrubbery for a few minutes to see if the coast was clear and then made a dash for the back-door. Father was a man of peace but old Meg would help me. I could wash in the scullery and make myself look more respectable. Unfortunately, however, old Meg was out and Father caught me on the stairs.
“ You’ve been fighting again! ” he exclaimed. “ Oh David, will you never learn! Why do you like fighting? ”
“ I don’t like fighting,” I said; nor did I, for I was no hero and I hated getting hurt.
“ Why do you do it then? The Book tells us to turn the other cheek. You know that.”
“ Yes, I know, but—but——”
He looked at me. “ Did the other boy strike you first? ”
“ No,” I said.
“ You struck him first, David! ”
“ Yes,” I said.
The punishment was not severe. It was bed and no supper—and I was feeling so sick and giddy that bed and no supper was exactly what I wanted.
Presently Mother came up to my room and looked at me.
“ Oh Davie! ” she said sorrowfully. “ Oh Davie, your poor face! Did you have to fight! ”
“ Yes, I had to,” I said.
She asked no more but busied herself preparing a wet dressing and binding it over my eye with a big silk handkerchief.
The psychologists will tell you that when children are punished unjustly it creates a complex but as a matter of fact it did not seem unjust that Father should punish me. I understood Father and respected him. He practised what he preached.
I can see now that the affair had its comic side but at the time I saw no humour in it. The affair seemed quite ordinary and all in the day’s work.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Lorimer was an important man in the district; he owned the big sheep-farm of which Malcolm was the shepherd. His house was about half a mile from the village, across the bridge and up the hill. I remember how surprised I was when I discovered that “ Malcolm’s sheep ” really belonged to Mr. Lorimer. There were three girls in the Lorimer family: Freda, who was a few months older than myself and Janet and Elsie who were twins and several years younger. Freda was clever and pretty, she had two long plaits and rosy cheeks and dark eyes. We usually walked home from school together for our ways lay in the same direction and in the holidays we sometimes took a picnic lunch and went for long expeditions. Freda was as good as a boy at making dams and climbing trees and walking over the hills. She would have liked to be a boy.
“ You see, David,” said Freda, one day when we were going home together. “ You see, if I had been a boy I could have been a farmer. Nethercleugh will be mine some day. Of course I shall be a farmer, but it would have been easier if I had been a boy.”
“ You’re just as good as a boy, Freda.”
“ Boys have a much a better time than girls.”
“ I don’t see how.”
“ You would if you were a girl! I wish I could cut my hair,” declared Freda, shaking her pigtails impatiently. “ I wish I could wear shorts. I wish Mother wouldn’t keep on telling me it isn’t ladylike to climb trees and whistle. I don’t want to be ladylike.” Then suddenly she laughed and shouted, “ I’ll race you to the bridge, David! ” and off she went like an arrow.
It was not a fair race because she had taken me by surprise and was away before I started, so of course she won. I did not mind (if it pleased Freda to think she could beat me, she could go on thinking it) but I would have minded if she had been a boy … and this was rather funny if you thought about it.
Mrs. Lorimer was a friend of Mother’s; she often came to tea at the manse and brought the twins with her. They were very alike, with straight silky brown hair and solemn dark-blue eyes. I did not like them much, they were too young to be interesting, but mother seemed to like them. She always baked special cakes for them, little iced cakes with pink sugar on the top.
One afternoon when they came, Mother had two little dolls for them, she had made the clothes herself and after tea she sat on the floor and showed the twins how to take off the clothes and put them on. The twins leant over her and breathed down her neck and she pretended they were tickling her and had fun with them. Mrs. Lorimer sat and said nothing and I went out into the garden and ate gooseberries.
When it was time for them to go we saw them off at the gate. One of the twins ran back and hugged Mother again and said “ Thank you! ” I did not know which of them it was, and did not care, but Mother knew it was Janet. We watched them walk over the bridge.
“ Do you wish I had been a girl? ” I asked.
“ Davie! ” she cried, turning and looking at me. “ What a thing to say! What a ridiculous thing! ”
“ You seem to like playing with them,” I said uncomfortably.
“ Oh Davie, you mustn’t be jealous! There’s more misery caused by jealousy than anything else in the world. Jealousy is wicked and foolish too. It’s like a disease,” said Mother earnestly. “ It’s like an awful creeping disease. It’s like ivy strangling a tree.”
“ I’m not jealous,” I told her. “ I just thought you liked them. I just thought perhaps you were sorry you hadn’t got a girl.”
The three figures were still in sight walking up the hill: Mrs. Lorimer in the middle and a twin on either side.
“ I would have liked a wee girl,” admitted Mother with a sigh. “ It would have been good for you to have a sister. I had no brothers or sisters, and I know I missed something valuable in life.”
“ I’m happy as I am.”
“ I know,” she agreed. “ But it would have been good for you all the same. Only children are too old in some ways and too young in others. They’re too sensitive; they never learn to tease and be teased and there’s nobody to be rude to them and break their toys, so it’s much harder for them when they have to go out into the big wide world and have their corners rubbed off. That’s why I should have liked a sister for you, Davie; but we can’t choose. Some people get what they want and some don’t.”
“ Mrs. Lorimer——” I began.
“ Poor thing! ” exclaimed Mother. “ She was set on having a son, and she got twin daughters! Mr. Lorimer wanted a son, too. Perhaps Mr. Lorimer wouldn’t be so difficult if he had got what he wanted. They say it’s bad for you to have everything you want but some people can’t bear to be thwarted. Nethercleugh would be a happier house if there were a laddie in it.”
“ Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “ It isn’t very happy.”
Mother could never be serious for long. She took my hand and added, “ But I’ll not swap with them, Davie. I wouldn’t exchange my son for a dozen daughters. Oh Davie! Think of a dozen daughters! Think of them sitting round the breakfast-table eating porridge! ”
“ You’d need a leaf in the table——”
“ Two leaves! ” cried Mother.
We looked at one another and laughed.
Perhaps I had been a little jealous of the Lorimer twins, because after that I liked them better, and the next time they came to tea I played horses with them and gave them rides on my back. Elsie was good and obedient, but Janet was naughty. She ran away and hid when it was time to go home and I had to go and look for her. When I found her she did not want to come and I was obliged to pick her up and carry her to the gate. She did not scream or kick, she just looked up at me and said, “ I want to stay here with you and Mrs. Kirke.”
“ You can’t,” I told her.
The twins were so alike that when they arrived with Mrs. Lorimer it was impossible to tell them apart—they looked identical—but after they had been playing in the garden for half an hour there was no difficulty about it. Janet would rush about wildly and tear her frock and get hot and dirty and Elsie s
till looked as if she had been washed and dressed that very minute. I found this difference very convenient, it was a nuisance not knowing which was which.
Mother had said that the Lorimer’s house was not happy and this was true. Sometimes Freda asked me to tea but I never went if I could avoid it. There was a queer sort of atmosphere about Nethercleugh and it made me feel uncomfortable. Mr. Lorimer was a boisterous sort of man; he was pleasant to me but not so pleasant to his family.
“ Well, David, here we are again! ” he would say, seating himself at the tea-table. “ You’re a brave man to come to Nethercleugh. It’s a houseful of women. What was it John Knox called the female sex? A monstrous regiment! Hand the scones, Janet. Don’t sit there gaping like a fish. Women should be ornamental—or useful. Hand the scones to David.”
Sometimes Mrs. Lorimer would talk to me about Mother or ask whether old Meg’s rheumatism was better and Mr. Lorimer would chip in.
“ Women’s talk! ” he would say scornfully. “ David doesn’t want to be bothered with women’s nonsense. You don’t know how to talk to boys, Edith.”
For a long time I did not know what was the matter. I knew Mr. Lorimer was being unkind and I hated him for it, but I did not understand. It was not until Mother told me that the Lorimers had wanted a son that I understood. The next time I went to Nethercleugh I held the key to the mystery and it was a mystery no longer—or rather it was a different mystery. Mr. Lorimer wanted a son, but whose fault was it that he had not got what he wanted? It was not Mrs. Lorimer’s fault, it was not Freda’s fault, nor Janet’s nor Elsie’s. If Mr. Lorimer had thought for a moment he must have seen how illogical it was to make their lives miserable for something they could not help. He made his own life miserable too for nobody can be happy if he has a grudge.
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