Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  “ What is he like? ” I asked.

  “ Go and see.”

  I thanked Mr. Heatley sincerely for his help and apologised for taking up his time.

  “ That’s all right,” he said. “ But you’d better be here punctually to-morrow morning.”

  “ Do you mean I’m to have the day off? ”

  “ I do,” replied Mr. Heatley. “ You would be no use to me to-day. I don’t want my clients’ affairs mussed up by a young man with an inward eye. Take a bus into the country and sit under a tree.”

  “ Yes,” I said vaguely. “ Yes, perhaps I will.”

  When I got to the door he called out, “ Kirke, take ‘ Mother ’ with you! ”

  I looked back and smiled at him. “ It really was Mother,” I said. “ And I certainly would take her if she were here. Unfortunately she lives with Father.”

  I could hear Mr. Heatley laughing as I shut the door.

  By this time I had quite forgotten my crime. In fact I was so dazed that I had forgotten everything except my prospective interview with Mr. Randall. I passed through the outer office like a man in a dream and was taking my hat off the peg when I found Ullenwood at my elbow.

  “ Kirke, have you got the sack? ” he whispered.

  “ Got the sack? No, of course not. Mr. Heatley has given me the day off.”

  Ullenwood stood and gaped at me … and then I remembered. “ Cheerio! ” I said, laughing. “ See you to-morrow morning! ” and I ran off down the steps.

  Mr. Randall was surprisingly young. He was tall and well-made with a thin face and very dark brown eyes which were magnified in a curious way by the lenses of his spectacles. When he had read the letter and the contract he sat back and looked at me. “ I should like to read The Inward Eye,” he said.

  This pleased me enormously and I promised to send him the copy of the typescript which had been rejected by the other publishers. “ It’s dirty,” I said. “ It looks as if it had been kicked about the floor.”

  “ Who misused it so grievously? ” inquired Mr. Randall.

  “ Four publishers,” I replied, and I told him their names.

  “ We’ll try a fifth,” said Mr. Randall. “ Meantime there’s Basil Barnes. Are you satisfied with the contract? ”

  “ Satisfied! ” I cried. “ Of course I am. I mean, all I want is to have the book published, Mr. Heatley said you would know if it was all right.”

  “ It’s all right, Mr. Kirke. My advice is that you sign it here and now.”

  I signed. It was a solemn moment.

  Presently, when I had recovered somewhat from the excitement, I said to Mr. Randall, “ I suppose you have to have influence to get publishers to look at a book. That’s the important thing.”

  He smiled. “ The important thing is the book, Mr. Kirke. Publishing is a business. Publishers are on the look-out for any book which will please the public. If they think a book will sell they accept it and if not they don’t. That’s the real truth. Of course they make mistakes sometimes, but I can assure you they will never accept a book just because some influential person has recommended it to them. Now we’ll just run over the contract, shall we? ”

  Mr. Randall talked on, explaining the contract to me, and I began to understand what it meant. The only thing that worried me was that the publisher wanted five more books. Five more books! It seemed an impossible task.

  “ You’ll write them,” said Mr. Randall confidently.

  “ How do you know? How can you possibly know? ”

  “ Basil Barnes knows. He wouldn’t offer you a contract like this unless he was sure he had plenty of books in you.”

  This was an eye-opener to me. I began to realise that there was a good deal more in this business than I had thought. It was not just a hit or a miss. I realised that the American publisher must have read my book very carefully indeed and weighed me in the balance. In a way he was taking a gamble.

  We went on talking and I found myself telling Mr. Randall not only about The Inward Eye but also about myself.

  “ But I’m wasting your time! ” I exclaimed.

  He smiled. “ This is my business,” he said. “ I like to know about people. By the way, Basil Barnes will want some auto-biographical details about you and a photograph of course.”

  “ Will he? ” I asked, somewhat impressed.

  I was even more impressed when Mr. Randall offered me fifty pounds on account. I had told him I was going home for my holiday and I suppose he must have realised that I was pretty hard up.

  “ Fifty pounds! ” I exclaimed in amazement. “ But supposing the book doesn’t sell? ”

  He laughed and replied that even if it were not a howling success I should get more than fifty pounds. “ Take the money,” he said. “ You’ll enjoy your holiday much more with a full pocket and when you come back you’ll be ready to start another book.”

  He gave me a cheque and I went back to my flat. I felt too tired to take Mr. Heatley’s advice and make an expedition to the country.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  To my mind early June is the most beautiful time of the year in Haines, for spring comes late and June is the transition period from spring to summer; but September is lovely too, and I have seen still, crisp days in October which I would not have exchanged for any other day in the year. It is often beautiful in winter, when the snow lies untrodden and sparkling upon the uplands and every twig on every tree is rimed with frost, and there are days in March when the wind blows cold and clear and great clouds sail majestically across the blue sky … but I could go on for ever, finding its own peculiar beauty in every month, so perhaps the truth of the matter is that Haines is my home and in my opinion there is no place like it.

  This was June, so the wild hyacinths were in their glory, the woods were carpeted with blue and the gorse swept up the side of the hills like golden flames. The hedges were a mass of white may-blossom, so thick and rich that from a distance the flowers looked like snow, so fragrant that the air one breathed was heavy with their perfume.

  The train stopped at Drumburly and I got out. I had five miles to walk to Haines. My parents were expecting me to-morrow, but I had got away a day earlier and was so impatient to be home that I had flung my clothes into a suitcase and caught the night-train by a matter of seconds. There was a short-cut from Drumburly to Haines, it was a steep stony path which went snaking through the woods and over the saddle between the rounded masses of hills. I set my foot to it with a will and presently I left the land of blossom and scent behind me.

  June nights are short in Haines. It is scarcely dark before the light begins to glow in the east. To-day the first presage of the rising sun was a wash of palest lavender above the rounded outlines of the hills. As the light brightened the shadows of the pine-trees deepened; each rock, each tuft of coarse grass had a shadow. My own shadow, long and thin, took shape and trailed behind me on the stony path.

  Here upon the hills there was space and a wide lonely freedom, and there was such purity in the morning air that my spirit was stilled, as if I were in church, to profound solemnity. London with its noise and crowds was far away in time and space. The morning was like a gift from the past when no town sullied the surface of the earth and legendary heroes strode upon the hills.

  I was happy (for this was a joyous homecoming and I was the bearer of good news) but it was a solemn happiness … and presently when I came to the saddle I stood still and looked around me as if I had never seen the hills before. The sun was rising like a golden flame, dazzling and warming in the cloudless sky. Behind me lay the woods and the river and the little town of Drumburly, before me in the valley was the village of Haines. How small it looked! It was no more than a cluster of little grey houses on the bank of the stream. I saw the church with its pointed spire and beside it the manse embowered in a drift of fruit blossom. Just below me lay Nethercleugh farm-house with its steading and outbuildings, its byres and barns. Nethercleugh was broad awake already for farm people begin
their day early. Even as I watched a thread of smoke rose from one of the chimneys; it rose straight into the air, hung there for a few moments, and then drifted down the valley in a gauzy cloud.

  I wondered if Freda were at home. It would be fun to see Freda … and while I was thus thinking a girl came out of the house and walked across the yard. She was wearing a blue dress and although I was too far off to recognise her I felt pretty sure it was Freda, so I picked up my suitcase which I had put down to rest my arm and went down to Nethercleugh.

  I could not help smiling as I opened the gate into the yard; how surprised Freda would be!

  The girl had vanished by this time. I looked into the byre, but she was not there. Then I saw a flutter of blue in the stable and as I crossed in pursuit the girl emerged from the low doorway carrying a pail. She was not Freda.

  For a moment I hesitated but she came forward smiling. “ David Kirke! ” she exclaimed. “ Your mother said you were coming to-morrow—but here you are! ”

  “ Yes, here I am,” I agreed, taking her outstretched hand. This must be Janet, of course, or perhaps Elsie. It was amazing that this slim, grown-up young lady should be one of the twins.

  “ Don’t look so surprised! ” cried the girl, laughing gaily. “ People grow up, you know. Time doesn’t stand still—even in Haines.”

  “ I know. It’s just—it’s just that everything else seems the same.”

  She nodded. “ Yes, I felt that when I came home from school. Everything was exactly the same except the people; they were all older. It’s sad, isn’t it? ”

  “ Some people improve with age,” I said, looking at her. She certainly had improved for she was slender and straight, her deep blue eyes were sparkling with intelligence and her silky brown hair had golden lights in it. As we were talking she tossed it back from her face and fixed a clip in it and I remembered tying the ribbon for her, that day of the picnic. This was Janet, not Elsie. I was certain it was Janet.

  “ Come and have breakfast,” she suggested. “ You can tell us all your news. Freda is here.”

  I explained that I was on my way home to the manse.

  “ Then we mustn’t keep you,” said Janet, nodding. “ You must go home first of course. But there’s time for a glass of milk before you go.”

  We went into the dairy together, it was cool and dim and beautifully clean. All round the walls there were slate shelves with pans of milk upon them, and an electric churn stood on a little platform beneath the window.

  Janet took a dipper and filled two glasses. “ Here’s health and prosperity to David Kirke! ” she said.

  “ Here’s happy days to Janet Lorimer! ” I replied.

  We drank. I had forgotten how delicious milk can be; fresh milk, slightly warm with the cream all through it.

  “ Lovely! ” I exclaimed. “ You don’t get milk like that in London.”

  “ But you get other things, David. You get—you get freedom.”

  “ Freedom! ” I echoed in surprise.

  She hesitated and then said uncertainly, “ I’m going to London soon. I’m trying to get a job. The family is annoyed with me about it but I want to—to be on my own.”

  “ Oh, Janet, you won’t like it! ”

  “ Perhaps not,” she said rather shakily.

  “ Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “ Perhaps you’ll like it all right. Lots of people like living in town. I’m a country person so I feel a bit shut in. You must let me know when you come to London. You will, won’t you, Janet? ”

  “ Yes,” said Janet, nodding.

  “ It makes a difference if you know somebody. When I went to London I knew nobody at all; there were hundreds of thousands of people hurrying along the streets and not one of them cared twopence about me. It seemed—it made me desperately lonely. But I expect you have lots of friends in London.”

  “ Two,” said Janet. “ Two girls who were at school with me. They want me to go and share their flat.”

  “ That makes three friends, doesn’t it? ”

  She turned her head and looked at me. “ Thank you, David,” she said quite gravely; so gravely that I felt a trifle embarrassed.

  “ We’ll have fun,” I told her. “ We’ll go to a play together. You must come and see my flat—I’m rather proud of it.”

  “ Tell me about it,” said Janet eagerly.

  “ It’s a funny little flat,” I said. “ Just two rooms and a tiny kitchen in the attic of a tall house in Covent Garden. The windows look out on to roofs and chimney-pots—it’s a sort of Hans Andersen view. I’m happy there most of the time but occasionally when the sun shines and the skies are blue I get a shut-in feeling and I long to be out of town; to have a garden that I could work in and grow flowers and vegetables.”

  “ I suppose you could, couldn’t you? ” asked Janet. “ Lots of people who work in London live in the suburbs and travel in and out every day.”

  “ The suburbs are not the country,” I replied.

  Janet nodded understandingly. “ I know what you mean, David. I’m sure I should feel the same. If I couldn’t live in the real country I would rather live in the town.”

  We went on talking while we drank our milk and then I said I must go.

  “ But I shall see you again,” said Janet. “ You’re going to be here for a fortnight, aren’t you? Come to tea some afternoon.”

  “ Yes, of course I will—and you must come to the manse, or perhaps we could arrange a picnic.”

  Janet followed me to the door. “ David,” she said, “ I know it seems a funny thing to ask but would you mind not telling anybody about this morning. I mean don’t say you met me. It seems—it seems funny but—but it will save a lot of bother.”

  “ I shan’t say a word,” I promised.

  “ You don’t mind? ”

  “ Of course not.”

  “ It seems funny,” she repeated with a little smile—rather a sad little smile. “ But you see I’m still the naughty one of the family.”

  As I went down the hill I could not help wondering why our meeting should be kept a secret. There was nothing “ naughty ” about it unless perhaps Janet might get into trouble for giving me a glass of milk; but I soon forgot to wonder in the excitement of coming home.

  The clock on the church tower began to strike eight as I reached the bridge. It was a familiar sound and I lingered listening to its cadence. The sun was warm by this time, it sparkled on the water of the stream and filled the world with radiance. I waited for the last stroke of the clock and then jumped over the low wall into the manse garden. I ran through the orchard and up the path and paused at the dining-room window. Father and Mother had just sat down to breakfast and it was like looking at a scene in a well-known, well-loved play. Father had begun to eat his porridge; Mother was stretching out her hand to lift the big silver teapot.

  Suddenly Mother saw me. “ Davie! ” she cried.

  I leapt in through the open window and hugged her. I put my arms round Father’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. It was years since I had kissed Father—not since I was a child—but somehow I could not help it.

  He rubbed his cheek and said, “ Och, you and your southern manners! ” but he was pleased all the same.

  “ What’s happened! ” Mother cried. “ There’s nothing wrong, is there, Davie? ”

  “ Something marvellous has happened,” I declared.

  They were both gazing at me and in both their faces there was the same look—a look of anxiety, of apprehension.

  “ I’ve told you it’s marvellous! ” I said, laughing at them. “ It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “ I believe we could guess,” said Father gravely. “ But it will be better if you tell us in so many words.”

  “ Much better,” agreed Mother.

  “ There! ” I cried, taking the letter out of my pocket. “ I’ve written a book! It’s being published in America.”

  Whatever they had guessed
, it certainly was not that, for they were astonished beyond measure at my news and as pleased and excited as I could have wished. The porridge was left to cool upon their plates while they read and re-read the publisher’s letter and asked questions about it. What kind of book was it? How long had it taken to write? Were there real people in it? Why had I sent it to America?

  “ I’ll tell you later,” I said, laughing. “ I’ve walked four miles over the hills and I want porridge—good Scots porridge—before I answer any more questions.”

  “ Mercy! ” cried Mother. “ I’m an idiot! It’s so exciting that I’ve lost my wits! ”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I had not been many hours in the house before the telephone bell rang; it was Freda to ask me to tea at Nethercleugh.

  “ It will be lovely to see you, David,” she declared and her voice sounded warm and excited. “ We thought you were coming to-morrow but the postie said you’d arrived this morning. Come at half-past three and I’ll take you round the farm.”

  “ To-day? ” I asked in surprise.

  “ Yes, of course,” said Freda. “ You’ve nothing else to do, have you? ”

  I was not particularly anxious to go to Nethercleugh on my first day at home but I had no excuse ready, so at half-past three I was walking up the hill. I had put on grey-flannel trousers and a grey tweed jacket (which I had bought with some of the money Mr. Randall had given me) and a new blue shirt and tie. It was extraordinarily pleasant to be wearing new clothes; they were loose and comfortable and gave me a feeling of well-being. I had gone about for months in an old lounge suit; I had pressed it and sponged it and done my best to make it look respectable but it was so shabby and so tight that nothing I could do was much use. I had grown to hate the sight of that suit and, as I walked up the hill in the sunshine, I decided to give it to Mother for the Jumble Sale. I would never, never wear that suit again.