“ Davie,” said Mother thoughtfully. “ You remember the disciples. They were fishermen, weren’t they? I expect they liked fishing and could do it well … but Jesus called them away from their fishing and gave them more important things to do. They followed Him gladly and did what He told them and listened to all He said. They were happy just to be with Him. It was better than fishing; it was better than being at home with their families; it was much, much better than anything they had known before.”
“ Yes,” I said. “ Yes, of course. It was silly of me.”
We sat there for a long time saying nothing but just looking at the river as it flowed past.
It had seemed an easy thing to promise that I would never forget Malcolm. How could I possibly forget him? But after a bit I realised I was not thinking about Malcolm quite so much and I realised that people who die are apt to be forgotten even by their best friends; or at least not remembered very often. I knew this was true because several people in Haines had died and amongst them Willy Mackie. I had liked Willie a lot, but how often did I think of him now? The words of that fine hymn, by Isaac Watts, came into my head (as a “ son of the Manse ” I had many hymns and psalms by heart) “ They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.” I saw what it meant, now. Dreams fade very quickly. You awaken with a dream clear and bright in your head, and in a few minutes it has gone. How dreadful if that happened with Malcolm!
The idea worried me; I thought about it and wondered what to do; and at last I decided to write down everything I could remember about him. That was the best way. Then there would be no danger of forgetting him.
It was early morning when I thought of this plan, and it was Saturday, which meant that I had the whole day to do it. I got up at once and found my history exercise-book, which fortunately was almost new, and I turned it upside down and began at the other end. I began by describing what Malcolm looked like: a giant of a man with high cheek-bones and blue eyes, his face brown and hard from going out in all weathers to care for his sheep. His hands were large, but very neat and clever, and his feet were so enormous that he had to have his boots specially made by the cobbler in the village. I described his cottage and the big black pot which hung on a hook over the fire, and I described his workshop and his tools and the beautiful solid furniture he had made. I described his garden, fenced with wire-netting to keep out the rabbits, and the geraniums which he grew in barrels, cut in half and painted with creosote. When I had written all I could about Malcolm and his cottage I began to put down things he said and did and my own memories of him.
It was impossible to do this all in one day—or in two days—or three. I had known Malcolm all my life—I could not remember a time when I had not known him—so the story went far back into the mists of the past and the more I thought about him the more I remembered. At first I found it difficult to put my thoughts into words, for I had never tried to write anything like this before, but after a bit I found it came quite easily and in a way I enjoyed it. The story went on and on, it overflowed into several exercise-books; I began to think it would never be finished.
The story was written in pencil and it was very untidy, I had written it just as it came into my head, so after a bit I stopped and read it over to see if I could put it in better order. Some parts were better than I expected and other parts were worse, but the thing that bothered me most was the discovery that there was a lot about myself in the story. I could not understand how it had happened. The story was supposed to be about Malcolm Fraser, not about David Kirke. I tore up several pages and tried again but it was no good. I could not keep David Kirke out of the story however hard I tried. (It was like poor Mr. Dick in David Copperfield who kept on writing about King Charles’s head.) At last I gave up struggling; I had to let David come into the story and make the best of it.
When I had remembered all I could I copied it out neatly in another book and made some little drawings of the cottage and of Malcolm walking up the hill with Bess at his heels. I drew the stell and the sheep and the little shed on wheels where I had spent the night with Malcolm. At the beginning of the story I copied out the verse from the hymn, because that had been the beginning of the whole thing, it had given me the idea of writing Malcolm’s story:
“ Time, like an ever rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.”
The story had been a secret, I had said nothing about it to anybody, but now that it was finished I took it to Mother. She was in the sitting-room, darning socks, and she looked up and said, “ What’s this, Davie? ” but I did not answer. I put it down beside her on the sofa and went away. I went up the hill a bit and sat down beside a rock and looked out across the valley. I thought of Mother reading it and wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she would think it was silly. Perhaps she would not understand why I had done it. Perhaps I should have explained.
When it was supper-time and I had to go home I felt quite sick. I was afraid she would say something about it … but she said nothing at all. We sat down and had supper as usual. Father talked about the affairs of the parish and about Mrs. Mackie who was ill.
It was not until I was in bed and Mother came up to say good night to me that the subject was mentioned. She brought the book with her and she sat down on the end of the bed.
“ Oh, Davie, I don’t know what to say! ” she exclaimed.
I did not know what to say either, and I could not look at her. “ The spelling is all wrong,” I muttered.
“ The spelling! ” she cried, lifting her arms as if to throw it away. “ The spelling! What does that matter? It’s the love that matters … and all the remembering. Malcolm is not dead as long as you’re alive! ”
I knew what she meant because it was like the box that I had made. It was the same sort of thing. Malcolm had had a hand in making me.
“ And it’s beautiful,” Mother was saying. “ The idea is beautiful and you’ve done it beautifully. It made me laugh and it made me cry! Oh, David! ”
We hugged each other and it was all right. After that I could talk about the story without feeling shy. I wanted Mother to make suggestions and to correct the spelling but she said it was better just as it was and the spelling did not matter. We talked about it for a long time and I told her how it had been difficult just at first and then easier … and about David Kirke cropping up where he was not wanted like King Charles’s head. There was no need to explain why I had written the story, she understood that.
Just as Mother was going away she stopped at the door and looked back. “ You’ll write other stories,” she said.
“ Other stories! ” I exclaimed—but she had gone.
I was sure Mother was wrong. There was nothing more in me. I felt quite empty. Everything had gone into my story about Malcolm and there was nothing left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
All this time I had been at the village school but I could not go on there much longer. Father began to talk about the future and to say he wished he could send me to Fettes—he had been there himself—but that was impossible. There was not enough money to send me to a public school; I knew that so I did not worry. I did not worry about the future at all for I could stay at Haines for another year, and a year seemed a long time. Freda was going to school in Edinburgh in the autumn, she was excited about it and about all the new clothes she was going to get.
The weather was beautiful that summer. The war went on and all sorts of dreadful things happened but it did not affect our lives. The war was like a cloud far-off in the sky. In Haines the sun shone and the birds sang and the Ling ran on as usual. Freda and I went for long walks over the hills or played in “ our cottage ”; sometimes I went up to the garage and helped Dochie.
It was that summer I first met Cliffe. He was the nephew of the blacksmith at Haines. His home was in Edinburgh and his father kept an ironmonger’s shop in Leith Street. Cliffe had had measles very badly
so he came to stay with his uncle for a change of air. He was just about my age but a good deal bigger and although he was pale after his illness he looked pretty sturdy. Cliffe had never lived in the country before and knew very little about it. He did not know the difference between bulls and cows; he knew nothing about birds. One day he stood and gazed at a field of oats and said, “ It’s super! I’ve never seen such a fine big field of wheat.” The other boys laughed at him and said he was barmy, but there was nothing barmy about Cliffe. We would have made stupid mistakes if we had gone to live in town.
I took Cliffe fishing. I asked him to come because I thought it would be fun showing him things, but after that I took him because I liked him and found him good company. He was merry and he had plenty to say; sometimes when he got excited he stammered. I had to keep an eye on him of course; he would pound along beside me talking, and not looking where he was going, and would catch his foot in a heather clump and fall flat on his face. One day he walked straight into a bog and nearly lost his shoes in the sticky slime. It was quite a job pulling him out and when at last I managed it he sat on a rock and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.
“ You silly donkey! ” I exclaimed. “ Why don’t you look where you’re going? ” It had given me a fright and I was rather cross with him.
“ But I did! ” he cried. “ How was I to know that smooth green patch was nothing but mud with scum on the top of it? Gosh, how it stinks! I’ll need to wash my shoes in the river.”
It was that day Cliffe caught his first fish. I lent him my rod and showed him how to let the baited hook drift down the current. The hook fell in with a splash and away it went and the next moment a fish had taken it. Cliffe was so excited when he felt the tug that he forgot everything I had told him. He danced up and down on the bank waving the rod and shouting like a lunatic.
“ David, I’ve caught it! What am I to d-do? I’ve caught a f-fish! It’s a b-big one! It’s pulling like m-mad! It’s p-pulling the rod out of my hands! Gosh, it’s a m-monster! David, quick, what am I to d-d-do? ”
I shouted instructions, but it was useless. The only thing was to wade into the water and net it. More by good luck than good guidance the fish was well-hooked so I gathered the slack line in one hand and netted the fish and brought it to him.
It was a miserable wee trout, not much more than four ounces (if I had caught it I would have put it back) but Cliffe was delighted with it. He took it in his hands and examined it carefully, he opened its mouth and looked inside, he admired its pretty markings.
“ Could I send it home? ” he asked. “ The girls would like fine to see it. I could send it by post, couldn’t I? ”
Fortunately I managed to persuade him not to.
After that we were both so exhausted that we sat on the bank and talked. Cliffe told me about his home and about his father’s shop and about his sisters. He had five sisters, all younger than himself. He told me under a frightful oath of secrecy that his name was really Cuthbert.
“ Cuthbert! ” I exclaimed in dismay.
He looked all round and lowered his voice. “ Cuthbert Clifford Dodge,” he said. “ It’s awful … but not many people know. I made them call me Cliffe.”
This confidence touched me profoundly and I assured him that nothing would make me reveal his secret.
We fished all the afternoon but caught nothing; Cliffe did not mind. He was completely satisfied with his catch and went off saying he was going to ask his aunt to cook it for breakfast. I hoped Mrs. Dodge would not be too damping about the wee trout.
That night I dreamt that Sandy and Robert were trying to make me tell them Cliffe’s name; they were twisting my arm and screwing my thumbs and employing various other forms of torture. I woke in a sweat of terror and found myself shouting, “ No, no, I won’t! I won’t tell you! ”
It was dull when Cliffe went back to Edinburgh and I looked about for something else to do. One Sunday afternoon when I was lying on the bank of the river I saw an otter swimming about in the pool; he was diving and swimming under water, you could see where he was by the bubbles of air which rose to the surface. Presently he came out quite near me and sunned himself on the bank. I watched him for a long time and I began to think about a story. It was a made-up story of course (not a true story like the one about Malcolm). The otter had his hole in the root of an old tree and he lived there with his mate and three cubs. I drew a picture of the dog-otter and it came out rather well. The otter’s face looked quite human and, by some fluke, it had a slightly malicious grin which amused me a good deal. The only thing was I had to change the story for I had intended my otter to be of a benevolent disposition. Mother liked the story; she said the otter resembled Mr. Lorimer—in more ways than one—and we laughed about it. She had put Malcolm’s story into the wooden box and she put this one beside it.
“ There’s plenty of room for more,” she said as she closed the lid.
I wrote some more stories. One or two of them seemed quite good and I was pleased with them but the others seemed very bad. I wrote some plays, too, and Freda and I took our tea to the ruined cottage and acted them together for our own amusement. It was difficult when there were only two actors but we managed it by doubling and trebling the parts.
Freda always wanted a man’s part; the play she liked best was one about a King’s Messenger who was riding north with valuable papers. Freda was the hero of course. The hero rode up to the cottage (which had become a small inn) and called for wine and food and stabling. I was the innkeeper and received the King’s Messenger humbly and hospitably … then I drugged his wine and stole the papers. I handed them to an accomplice—who was myself—and he took to his heels with them. When the King’s Messenger awoke and discovered what had happened he went after the thief and the play ended with a wild hunt on the hillside amongst the bracken. It was a good game—though I should not say so—and we both enjoyed it.
One afternoon when Freda called for me she had the twins with her; they were dressed alike in kilted skirts and pullovers and I would have defied anybody to say which was Elsie and which was Janet.
“ Look! ” exclaimed Freda, pointing to them. “ Isn’t it absolutely sickening? Mother’s going out so I’ve got to look alter them. We shan’t be able to play the game.”
“ They can be part of the gang,” I suggested.
“ You mean take them to the cottage? ” asked Freda, looking at them doubtfully.
“ Yes, why not? ”
“ They’re so silly,” replied Freda.
The twins looked dejected and I did not wonder. It is not much fun being foisted upon people who obviously do not want you.
“ They’ll be all right,” I said. “ It will be fun having more people to play.”
Freda did not agree. “ You don’t know them. They’ll fall into the river or get lost or something—however it can’t be helped.”
By this time the twins were eight years old; they were country-children, used to playing on the hills, and I did not see what could happen to them. We set off together, carrying the basket with our tea in it, the twins tagging along behind.
There was a cloud over that expedition from the very start. Freda was out of temper and the twins were silent and depressed.
“ Let’s make the best of it,” I said to Freda. “ They’re not bad kids. Let’s all enjoy ourselves.”
“ I am enjoying myself,” declared Freda and she began to whistle. Whistling was one of Freda’s accomplishments, she was proud of her whistling and practised it in and out of season … whistling was a boy’s thing.
By the time we reached the cottage one of the twins had lost her hair-ribbon, and her socks had nearly disappeared into her shoes; the other was still as neat as a new pin, so there was no difficulty in knowing which was which.
“ Come on,” I said. “ We’ll have tea first and then we’ll teach you the game.”
We sat down on the soft green turf and opened the tea-basket.
“ It’s
nice here,” said Janet. “ I like it. We’ll come here often.”
“ You won’t,” replied Freda. “ This cottage belongs to David and me. We brought you here to-day because we had to. Where’s your hair-ribbon? ”
“ She took it off,” said Elsie. “ I told her not to but she wouldn’t listen.”
Janet had collected a little posy of wild-flowers and had tied them together with the ribbon. The posy was lying beside her in the shade of the wall.
“ What a nuisance you are! ” exclaimed Freda, seizing it and scattering the flowers. “ Come here and let me tie on your ribbon, Janet.”
No comb was available; a strand of hair was dragged back from Janet’s forehead and tied so tightly that it stood out from her head in a loop.
“ Ow! You’re hurting me! ” cried Janet.
“ I’m not,” said Freda. “ And even if I am, it serves you right. You had no business to use your ribbon for tying up flowers. I don’t know what Mother would say. There, that won’t come off in a hurry,” added Freda with satisfaction.
“ Doesn’t she look funny? ” exclaimed Elsie, giggling. “ You do look funny, Janet. You look like a tea-pot with a handle.”
Janet’s face was very red and a tear rolled down each cheek, but she made no sound. She was collecting the flowers and putting them together carefully. Her hands were very small and somehow that made me feel even more sorry for her. I found a little piece of string in my pocket and dropped it into her lap.
“ Say thank you to David,” said Freda.
“ She can’t,” said Elsie. “ She’s crying because you tied up her hair. I didn’t take my ribbon off. I’m not a nuisance, am I? ”
“ There’s no need to be smug about it,” Freda told her.
The picnic was not a success. It had started off badly and it went from bad to worse. The strange thing was that Freda was really fond of the twins (I knew that because when Elsie was ill Freda had been miserable). It was just that she had not wanted them to come with us, she had wanted to play our game. I looked at her face and suddenly I saw she was very like Mr. Lorimer. She had the same grim, miserable look.
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