But Rip and I were quite different from each other in some ways, for this glimpse of home, this return to the past, was just a “ breather ” in my race; time to look back upon what had gone and to look forward to the future. Until now I had not thought a great deal about the future (I had looked forward to this holiday and only vaguely beyond) but now I tried to envisage what it would be like to live in London and work in an office every day. During my period of National Service I had taken a course of shorthand, typing and book-keeping, but it had all seemed very difficult and there had been little time to practise. I had written and warned Mr. Heatley that I was slow and he had replied that it did not matter—but would it? Supposing they found me too slow! Supposing the work was beyond me! The idea of plunging into an office amongst a lot of other clerks who knew their jobs was alarming to say the least of it.
Would Mr. Heatley’s office be like Uncle Matt’s—a quiet sleepy place with huge desks and thick carpets, where a stray sunbeam, finding its way through the window, was laden with millions of specks of floating dust and the only sound was the subdued chatter of typewriters and the tinkle of a discreet bell--there was nothing very alarming about Uncle Matt’s office, but probably a London office would move more quickly.
It was pleasant sitting there in the still air with the sun shining softly and the river rippling past. It was soothing. My pipe was in my pocket and I took it out and looked at it. A smoke would have completed the soothing process but I had no tobacco. I was giving up smoking because it was too expensive a luxury for a junior clerk in a lawyer’s office. It would be difficult enough to make ends meet without that. I wondered if Miles smoked. He and I were sharing digs in London and if by any chance he had acquired the habit in a big way it would be … rather a pity. But Miles was booked for the same sort of job as myself and presumably would receive much the same weekly salary, which meant he would not be able to afford it either.
What fun it would be to see Miles again! I had not seen him for nearly two years and his letters had been few and short so I had only the vaguest idea of what he had been doing. He had not answered my last letter at all (not even by sending a picture postcard, which was one of his ways of answering) but probably he was too busy enjoying his spell of freedom in his own way with girls and social gaieties. My idea of enjoyment was different. For a moment a doubt crossed my mind as to how Miles and I would fit in with one another in London. Then I realised that Miles and I would be on our own with no outside interests; we would make our own life and share one another’s pleasures .… it was a cheering thought.
The days passed quickly (it was glorious weather) and every day I felt more settled at home and more disinclined to go away and start my new life in London.
One morning when I was cutting the grass Mother came out to speak to me and I saw from her worried expression that there was something on her mind.
“ What is it? ” I asked, pausing in my labours.
“ Nothing, really,” she replied. “ It was just—I wondered—you’re not finding it dull, are you? ”
“ Dull! How could I find it dull? ”
“ There’s nobody for you to talk to—nobody young. I’d hoped the Lorimer girls would be here. Freda will be back next month but you’ll be gone by then.” She hesitated and then added, “ I wish you were to be here longer; you’ve been here nearly a fortnight and it’s gone like the wind.”
I had been wishing exactly the same thing, but it was too late now to change my plans.
“ We ought to be thinking about your clothes,” Mother continued. “ You’ll need a town suit for London; you’ve nothing fit to wear.”
She was sitting on the garden-scat and she looked so small and dejected that I went over and sat down beside her. “ Don’t worry,” I said. “ We’ll go to Dumfries to-morrow and see about clothes. I had better start with a decent outfit and then I shan’t have to bother about clothes when I get to London.”
“ What about your room? ”
“ Miles has arranged that. We’re going to a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. Miles heard about it from a friend. He was to write and get rooms for us both. The only thing that hasn’t been fixed is the actual date we’re travelling south. Miles thought it would be a good plan to go a bit sooner so as to settle down and have a look round before we start work.”
“ Sooner than you need? ” asked Mother rather sadly.
“ Just a few days,” I said. “ I wrote to Miles and asked him about the date but he hasn’t answered my letter.”
“ Perhaps you should ring him up.”
“ Don’t fuss,” I said, smiling and patting her hand. “ Your little boy is grown-up now and he’s been in all sorts of funny places.”
“ I’m not fussing,” declared Mother. “ I just like to have things arranged in good time. It’s old-fashioned of me I know, but that’s how I’m made. Nowadays people leave everything to the last minute and somehow or other they muddle through. It’s an uncomfortable way of doing things to say the least of it.”
“ I’ve written to Miles.”
“ If you take my advice you’ll ring him up.”
“ All right, I’ll ring him up to-night,” I promised. “ But that’s not to say I’ll be able to speak to him. Miles doesn’t spend many evenings in the bosom of his family, he’s a gay lad is Miles.”
Contrary to my expectations I got through quite easily and Miles answered the telephone himself.
“ Hallo! ” he said eagerly. “ Is that you, Iris? ”
“ No, you old donkey, it’s David,” I replied, chuckling. “ Disappointing for you, isn’t it? ”
“ David? ”
“ Yes, David Kirke of course.”
“ Gosh, what luck! ” he exclaimed. “ Look here, you old stiff, we’re having a tremendous beano to-morrow night and we need another man. What about it? ”
“ I’m at Haines——”
“ Well, what of it? You can get a train, can’t you? We’ll give you a bed for the night. You must come, David. It’s going to be a whale of a party.”
“ Look here, Miles,” I said, interrupting him. “ You never answered my letter. Have you decided what day we’re travelling south? ”
There was a moment’s silence.
“ Are you there? ” I cried. “ This line is frightful. I want to know what day you’ve decided to travel. Can you hear me? ”
“ Yes, of course I can hear you. As a matter of fact I meant to answer your letter ages ago, but you know what I am—the world’s worst letter-writer! Look here, David, it’s a bit too complicated to explain over the phone. You come up to-morrow and I’ll tell you about it.”
“ Complicated? ” I said. “ What’s complicated? All I want to know is what day we’re going to London so that I can make my plans.”
“ Look here, David——”
“ Have you fixed the day? ”
“ Well—er—no. You see things have changed a bit since we talked about going to London. I’m afraid it’s all off as far as I’m concerned.”
“ All off! ” I exclaimed incredulously.
“ I shan’t be coming to London, old boy—at least not at present. You see——”
“ Not coming! But Miles——”
“ Change of plan,” said Miles’s voice cheerfully. “ It’s a pity in some ways. It would have been rather fun (you and I in digs together, wouldn’t it?) but it can’t be done. The fact is I’m starting to read Law in the jolly old University, so London is washed out.”
“ Miles! It was all fixed! ”
“ Not fixed, old boy. It was just an idea——”
“ It was fixed! ” I cried. “ You know it was. You said you would write to the boarding-house and engage our rooms.”
“ Did I? Oh, well, I must have forgotten about it. I’ll send you the address and you can write yourself. How about that? ”
“ But Miles,” I said desperately. “ I can’t understand it. The whole thing was your idea. You said nothing would induce y
ou to stay at home. You said there was no scope——”
He laughed. “ Oh, I know I talked a lot of hot air. As a matter of fact it will be a lot better to read Law and graduate than to go to London and swot in a mouldy office. There’s more future in it. You must see that, David.”
He paused but I did not reply.
“ I meant to write to you,” continued Miles. “ But you know how it is. Look here, old boy, why not come up to-morrow? I haven’t seen you for centuries.”
“ No, thank you,” I said.
“ You’re not fed-up, are you? ”
I did not answer.
“ I say! ” exclaimed Miles. “ Don’t be an ass, David. Come up to-morrow and I’ll explain the whole thing. Come and stay the night. It will be fun. I want to tell you about my experiences in the army. Some of them were pretty colourful.”
“ No, thank you,” I repeated and I put down the receiver.
It was a bitter blow. Miles had persuaded me to go to London; he had pushed me into it and now he had backed out and left me in the lurch. If he had written and told me of his change of plan I would not have been so angry but he had treated the whole affair casually: “ Not fixed, old boy. It was just an idea——” He had not even apologised for letting me down.
The fact that Miles had let me down was harder to bear than the disappointment caused by his change of plan—and that was hard enough in all conscience. I had looked forward to sharing digs with Miles, to going about with him and seeing London together. It would be a very different matter to go alone. My feelings were bitter and resentful. Looking back I remembered other occasions when Miles had let me down; this was not the first time—nor the second time. I had made excuses for him because I had admired him so tremendously. I had told myself that it was his nature; Miles was so gay and dashing and brilliant that you could not blame him for being a bit casual. I had told myself that you could not be angry with Miles. But now I was angry with him and angry with myself as well. What a fool I had been to trust Miles!
Mother was distressed when she heard that Miles was not going with me, but to her I made light of the matter and explained that Mr. Blackworth had arranged for Miles to go to Edinburgh University instead.
“ He should have let you know at once,” said Mother, putting her finger on the spot in her usual sensible fashion. “ You’d never have known if you hadn’t rung him up. I think it was bad of him, Davie.”
I thought it was bad of him too. I could not sleep for thinking about Miles and the rotten way he had treated me.
The next morning, after breakfast, I took a heavy spade and started digging the garden and presently Father came out and sat on the seat.
“ Digging is a good thing,” said Father when I stopped to rest. “ It’s the oldest cure for a sore heart. Adam dug when he was turned out of Eden and I’ve no doubt it helped him to get over his trouble. ‘ In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.’ ”
“ Yes,” I agreed, mopping my heated brow.
“ What a deal of resentment and bitterness can be purged from the human system by honest sweat! ” said Father thoughtfully.
I leant on my spade and looked at him. I knew what he meant all right. “ Yes, I do feel a bit resentful. Miles has treated me very badly,” I said.
“ So it appears, David. I’m sorry for him.”
“ Sorry for him! You don’t need to be sorry for him! ”
“ I wonder,” said Father. “ It’s a bad thing to be let down by a man you’ve trusted, but it’s worse to let down a man who trusts you.”
“ Miles doesn’t care. He was quite casual about it—he was quite cheerful. I daresay he couldn’t help his plans being changed but he should have written at once and told me. It was rotten of him not to let me know.”
“ That’s true; but I daresay he’s not fond of writing unpleasant letters; few of us are. If you think about it you can see how it happened: he would say to himself ‘ I must write to David, but what shall I say to him? I’ll wait and do it to-morrow.’ Then he would forget about it for a day or two, and then he would remember and say the same thing again.”
This was exactly what Miles would have done. “ But Father, you don’t know Miles! ” I exclaimed.
“ I know a wee bit about human nature.”
“ You’re making excuses for him.”
“ Not excuses. He’s behaved badly, I admit. I’m just pointing out how the thing might have occurred. As a matter of fact—whatever you say—I’m sorry for that young fellow. I don’t envy his state of mind.”
“ You needn’t worry about him,” I said bitterly.
“ Och, David, you’re not asking me to believe he’s happy about it? Nobody with a spark of decent feeling could feel happy.”
“ He hasn’t,” I declared. “ He’s an absolute rotter.”
Father was filling his pipe. He smoked very little—I think he had one pipe a day—but he made the most of it. I saw it was part of the pleasure to fill his pipe very slowly and carefully.
“ That’s even more difficult to believe,” said Father thoughtfully. “ Surely there must be quite a lot of good in him or you would never have made plans to go with him to London.”
I could not help smiling. “ Father,” I said. “ I believe you’d have made as good a lawyer as Uncle Matt.”
I dug another row while Father sat quietly on the seat and smoked.
Then I stopped and looked at him. “ It’s Saturday morning! ” I exclaimed.
“ That’s so,” he agreed.
“ But you always write your sermons on Saturday mornings!”
Father smiled gravely. “ Sermons are important, but they’re not my principal duty, David. Sometimes it’s more important to sit in the garden and smoke.”
That answer gave me a lot to think about.
Whether it was the digging or whether it was my talk with Father I began to feel better about Miles. My hard feelings about him softened. Two days later I received a letter from him saying he was sorry he had been a swine and enclosing the address of the boarding-house. It was quite a short letter but all the same I knew it must have cost him something. Miles hated to acknowledge himself in the wrong; he was one of those people who like to think that whatever they do is right.
Unfortunately the boarding-house had no room available (it was too short notice) but the proprietor enclosed a list of places in the same district which might or might not have vacancies. One of these was run by a certain Mrs. Hall and we decided to try her. By this time Mother was really worried—I think she envisaged her son sleeping on the Embankment—so she took the address and said she would write to Mrs. Hall herself. I have no idea what Mother said in her letter but Mrs. Hall’s reply, though somewhat illiterate, was cordial and reassuring. Fortunately she had a vacancy (the gentleman had left that very morning) and she would be delighted to let the room to me. It was a nice quiet room with a fixed basin and she was sure it would suit me. Her other guests were friendly and pleasant so I would not be lonely and she would do all she could to make me feel at home. Mrs. Hall’s terms were reasonable but if I wanted the fixed basin that would be extra of course.
“ What happens if David doesn’t want the fixed basin? ” asked Father as he folded the letter and handed it back. “ Does Mrs. Hall tear it out of the wall? ”
“ But he does want it! ” exclaimed Mother.
Poor Mother, her sense of humour was not working as well as usual; she was too worried and upset. As a matter of fact I have no idea to this day whether or not Father intended it as a joke—he seldom made jokes—but I thought his remark very funny indeed.
The day before I left Haines was cold and damp, with a thick white mist shrouding the hills. Mother lighted the fire in the sitting-room and got out her mending-basket; we settled down for a quiet chat.
“ London is a big place,” said Mother rather sadly.
“ So it is,” I agreed, trying to smile cheerfully. “ London is a very big place—and I’ve got a job ther
e.”
“ You’re happy about it, Davie? ”
“ I’m happy here,” I told her. “ I don’t want to leave home—not one little bit—but I shall make the best of it.”
“ If only you could be a farmer! The life would have suited you much better. Do you remember how you loved going on the hill with Malcolm and helping him with the sheep? ”
“ Yes, of course, but——”
“ He said you were wonderful with the sheep, Davie.”
“ But you can’t be a farmer unless you have the capital to buy a farm. Where could I get the money? ”
Mother sighed. “ I can’t help worrying,” she said.
“ You didn’t worry when I was in the army.”
“ Not so much,” she agreed. “ You weren’t on your own. You had friends and companions and, although it was rough, I knew you were being looked after. In London you’ll have nobody. Oh Davie, if you’re unhappy or if anything goes wrong you must promise to tell us.”
“ What could go wrong? ”
“ I don’t know—but you’re all we’ve got—and you’re so young.”
“ I’m twenty,” I reminded her.
“ That’s a great age I admit, but you’re very young all the same. Perhaps you’ll always be young.”
“ Like you,” I suggested, smiling. “ Who would think, to look at you, that you had a grown-up son. The thing’s ridiculous.”
Mother smiled and shook her head but she was not to be turned from the subject. “ You’re young,” she repeated. “ You’ve never had to—to manage for yourself, to stand on your own feet——”
“ Goodness! ” I cried. “ Do you think the army was a kindergarten? ”
“ It was different, Davie. I’m afraid you may be lonely without any friends and you won’t have much money. When you’ve paid for your board and lodging you’ll have very little left.”
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