The Blue Sapphire

by D. E. Stevenson

  *

  4

  Mrs. Walker had warned Julia that the basket would be heavy, and although it did not seem so at first, it became heavier as she walked along. She changed it from one hand to the other but still it was heavy. She was toiling up the hill when a small brown van passed her; it had ‘MUSSEL—FISHMONGER’ in large letters on the side. She was just thinking what a good name it was for a fishmonger when the van drew up at the curb and a head topped with a mop of flaming red hair appeared at the window.

  ‘Will I give you a lift?’ inquired its owner.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Julia, who now discovered herself to be gazing into a pair of very bright blue eyes.

  ‘Not at all,’ declared her benefactor. He leapt from the van, took her basket and opened the other door.

  ‘It is very kind indeed,’ said Julia as she got in and sat down. She noticed that the van smelt strongly of fish, but that was natural, and she really was extremely grateful for the kindness which had prompted the boy to stop. She was surprised, also, for she saw that he was a youth of about eighteen—not much more, anyhow—and in her experience youths were not usually so thoughtful and considerate.

  ‘You’ll have been doing the messages?’ suggested the youth as he let in the clutch and drove on.

  Julia admitted that this was so.

  ‘It’s not a bad wee town,’ said the youth. ‘There’s some that say it’s dull in Leddiesford, but there’s a lot goes on. To-night there’s a whist drive at the Town Hall. Are you fond of whist?’

  ‘I’ve never played whist.’

  ‘Is that so? I suppose folks in London are too busy to play whist—going to theatres and that. There’s a dramatic society in Leddiesford and it’s not bad at all. Mind you it’ll not be up to London or Edinburgh, but it’s not too bad. It’s Bridie’s plays we do mostly. Maybe you’ll have seen some of Bridie’s plays? They’re real good.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have,’ declared Julia. ‘I’ve seen several; I think they’re very interesting. They give you something to think about. I saw Daphne Laureola.’

  ‘We’ve not tried that—it’s a bit too difficult—but we’ve done The Anatomist. . . .’

  They continued to discuss the plays of James Bridie.

  It passed through Julia’s mind that if she had been told several days ago that she would be sitting in a fish-van beside a red-haired boy talking about the plays of James Bridie she would not have believed her informant, but to-day it did not seem strange at all. Indeed she was so interested in the conversation that she had not mentioned where she was going. She was about to remedy this omission when the van drew up at the gate to The Square House.

  ‘Here you are, Miss Harburn,’ said her companion cheerfully. ‘I’ll just carry the basket through to Mrs. Walker; it’s too heavy for a lady like yourself.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘I didn’t notice where we had got to. Please don’t bother about the basket; I can easily carry it into the house.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said the red-haired boy cheerfully.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Thank you very, very much,’ repeated Julia. She hesitated for a moment and then asked, ‘Why is it that everyone in Leddiesford knows me?’

  She waited eagerly for the reply, for he was such an intelligent boy that now at last she would receive an intelligent answer to the problem which had been puzzling her so much.

  He smiled at her, ‘Oh, that’s easy answered, Miss Harburn. It’s because nobody in Leddiesford is acquainted with you,’ and so saying he drove off quickly and left her standing at the gate, more bewildered than before.

  This is Looking-Glass Country, thought Julia. Everybody knows me because nobody is acquainted with me! It just doesn’t make sense.

  It was only afterwards—some time afterwards when Julia had begun to understand the way of things in Leddiesford—that she realised the red-haired boy’s answer to her question was perfectly sensible and correct. In Leddiesford everybody knew everybody, therefore if they saw somebody with whom they were not acquainted it was only reasonable to suppose she was ‘Mr. Harburn’s niece from London that’s staying at The Square House.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Uncle Randal had got up for dinner at one o’clock; but he always rested in the afternoon, so Julia went out and weeded one of the beds in the neglected garden. It was a task which she had never attempted before but which she found unexpectedly enjoyable. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and a perky robin, who thought the earth was being turned for his benefit, came quite near and gorged himself with worms. When she had finished, the bed looked a great deal neater, but it was rather bare and she wondered whether she should buy some packets of flower-seeds. Being a Londoner born and bred she was abysmally ignorant on the subject, but she had seen dozens of packets with gaily coloured pictures of all sorts and kinds of flowers (she had noticed them that morning when she was searching for Brown—Milk). All you had to do was to put the seeds in the ground and wait for them to come up. What could be easier? And how nice they would look, thought Julia, envisaging the bare beds in Uncle Randal’s garden chock-full of brilliant flowers. It would be a lovely surprise for Uncle Randal.

  At four o’clock Julia began to think of tea, so she decided to go and see what Mrs. Walker was doing about it. She was surprised to discover Mrs. Walker and a young man sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a substantial meal.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr. Logan,’ said Mrs. Walker, and added in a flustered manner, ‘He comes in for a wee crack now and then.’

  Somehow Julia had a feeling that Mrs. Walker was slightly ashamed of being discovered drinking tea with Mr. Logan . . . and certainly he looked rather disreputable, for he had taken off his jacket and his braces were to be seen displayed over a shabby grey pullover. Julia noticed that he was wearing no shoes and there was a large hole in the heel of his sock. However, in spite of his unconventional attire, his lean brown face and merry brown eyes showed no trace of embarrassment. He rose politely and bowed at Mrs. Walker’s somewhat informal introduction.

  ‘He’s brought us a burrd,’ added Mrs. Walker, gesturing towards a mass of brown feathers lying on the draining-board of the sink.

  ‘Oh, how very kind,’ said Julia.

  ‘Poached, of course,’ explained Mr. Logan.

  ‘It’ll not taste any the worse of that,’ said Mrs. Walker, laughing.

  Mr. Logan laughed too, so Julia smiled. It seemed rather queer, but so many things were queer that she did not know where she was at all. She felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea-party—yes, that was exactly how she felt—and the feeling was considerably augmented when Mr. Logan moved his cup and saucer and plate to make room for her at the table and pulled up another chair.

  ‘Come on, Maggie,’ he said as he made these arrangements. ‘What are you thinking about? You’re not very hospitable, are you? Have you not got another cup in yon big brown teapot that you’re so proud of?’

  ‘Och, I never thocht!’ exclaimed Mrs. Walker.

  She stood there all of a dither while Mr. Logan padded over to the cupboard and returned with a cup and saucer and a plate, saying as he laid them on the table, ‘Maggie Walker, use the brains that were given you to think with. You know well enough that he doesn’t take tea in the afternoon.’

  ‘I was going to give Miss Julia her tea in the room.’

  ‘Oh, I dare say Miss Julia’ll not be too proud to drink a cup of tea with a poacher.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Julia hastily.

  ‘Och, Neil!’ cried Mrs. Walker. ‘You’re an awful laddie for a joke!’ She added, ‘Maircy! Look at yon hole in your heel! Is there nobody at Dunraggit can use a darning needle?’

  By this time Julia was seated at the kitchen table. Mrs. Walker was offering her hot buttered scones, and Mr. Logan was pouring tea into her cup from the comfortable-looking brown teapot.

  ‘This is a good pourer,’ remarked Mr. Logan examining the sp
out with interest.

  ‘Well, I would hope so,’ its owner replied. ‘What use would a teapot be if you couldna’ pour tea from its spout?’

  ‘There’s some that dribble,’ he told her as he helped himself to a scone and plastered it with an extra coating of butter. ‘Believe you me, when I was in Edinburgh I went to a shop to get a teapot and half the pots in the shop dribbled.’

  ‘How did you know that, may I ask?’

  ‘I tried them. I made the girl fill them with water——’

  ‘Maircy, you had a cheek! It’s a wonder she did it!’

  ‘She was a wee bit thrawn about it,’ admitted Mr. Logan, smiling reminiscently. ‘But I got my way.’

  ‘When do you not get your way!’

  ‘The experiment was well worth the trouble,’ declared Mr. Logan. ‘As I told you before, half the pots in the place dribbled out of the corners of their silly mouths.’

  ‘Oh, I know!’ exclaimed Julia, who felt it was high time for her to take part in the conversation. ‘I bought a teapot in London and it dribbled all over the place . . . and what’s more, the tea-leaves came through the spout into the cups.’

  ‘Look at that, now!’ cried Mrs. Walker in horror.

  ‘Regardez-moi ça,’ said Mr. Logan sotto voce.

  Julia glanced at him in astonishment and saw that he was looking at her with twinkling eyes.

  ‘French!’ said Mrs. Walker scornfully. ‘I’ve told you often enough that it’s not the right thing to talk foreign languages to folk that canna’ understand them. Miss Julia will think——’

  ‘But Miss Julia understands perfectly. Miss Julia looks slightly bewildered, not because she doesn’t understand French, but because it seems rather strange to hear it from the lips of a disreputable-looking poacher.’ He continued, turning to Julia: ‘If you stay here long—as I sincerely hope you will—you’ll discover a close link between the French language and the speech of the people of Leddiesford.’

  ‘Dinna’ heed him, Miss Julia!’ cried Mrs. Walker in dismay. ‘He’s just joking with you. He can talk like a book when it pleases him but he’s not meaning any harm.’

  ‘He only does it to annoy because he knows it teases,’ agreed Mr. Logan, smiling.

  ‘But it doesn’t tease me a bit,’ declared Julia earnestly. ‘It’s frightfully interesting. There was a woman in the town this morning who said the same thing in different words.’

  ‘What words?’ asked Mr. Logan, leaning forward and planting his elbows firmly on the table.

  ‘She said, “We’ve stolen a wheen o’ words from the Frenchies.”’

  ‘Quite good,’ nodded Mr. Logan appreciatively. ‘Allow me to compliment you on your accent.’

  ‘I wondered how—and why—’

  ‘It’s partly the Auld Alliance and partly trade in wines and silks and such like. Not always legitimate trade, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Smugglers?’

  ‘Yes, smugglers and Jacobites . . . we’ll discuss the whole matter another time. It’s a fascinating subject.’ He rose as he spoke.

  ‘Your coat’ll not be dry yet,’ said Mrs. Walker firmly. ‘Nor your shoes neether.’

  ‘I’ll just need to wear them wet,’ he told her. ‘I must get home, Maggie. I’ve a lot of work to get through to-night.’

  ‘You’ll not go home in yon socks. They’re just a disgrace. I’ll get you a pair out of his drawer and you’ll leave those ones to be washed and mended.’

  ‘What a woman!’ said Mr. Logan, shaking his head sadly.

  Julia had finished her tea and thought it a good moment to take her departure; so while Mrs. Walker was away, looking out a pair of Mr. Harburn’s socks to lend her visitor, she rose and said good-bye.

  ‘Au revoir,’ said the visitor, taking her hand. ‘You’ll stay as long as you can, won’t you? It’s good for him to have one of his own kin near him just now.’

  ‘Only a week,’ replied Julia. ‘You see, I’ve got a job in London.’

  ‘You’ve got an important job here,’ said Mr. Logan earnestly.

  Julia had been bewildered before, but now she was even more bewildered. First she had thought Mrs. Walker’s guest a disreputable character (Mrs. Walker had seemed ashamed of being discovered entertaining him to tea); then she had thought he must be a relation of Mrs. Walker’s, for he had seemed so at home in her kitchen. Then he had suddenly become an entirely different sort of person; he had spoken French with an impeccable accent and read Julia’s thoughts in a way that was quite alarming. Finally he had ‘talked like a book,’ as Mrs. Walker put it, and shown a knowledge and understanding of the history of his country which she had found immensely interesting.

  Who was he, what was he, Julia wondered. However, it was no good trying to understand, because every endeavour she made to get things clear took her deeper into the bog of bewilderment; and as Mrs. Walker had now returned with a pair of grey woollen socks, she said good-bye again and went away quickly . . . but not quickly enough to escape the astonishing sight of Mrs. Walker on her knees before her visitor helping him to change his socks.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Uncle Randal had his supper in bed; he was a wee bit tired, explained Mrs. Walker.

  ‘He’s wanting up,’ she added, ‘but he’s on a diet and it’s not very tasty. Maybe he’ll eat a bit more if he has it in his bed. I’ll get him up when he’s finished and he can come through to the room and talk to you. That’s what he’s wanting to do.’

  So Julia had her supper alone in the dining-room and then went into Uncle Randal’s study (which Mrs. Walker always referred to as ‘the room’) and waited for him to come.

  Julia had seen this apartment last night, of course—was it really only last night that she had arrived?—but she had been too interested in Uncle Randal himself to take in his surroundings, so now she sat down in a big chair by the fire and looked about her.

  It was a man’s den, she decided; the sort of place where a man could take his ease. Brown was the predominant colour: a brown fitted carpet; large brown leather chairs and a brown leather sofa with velvet cushions. There was a solid table in the middle of the room. Uncle Randal’s own chair, which she had noticed last night, was equipped with an adjustable lamp and book-rest. The whole of one wall was fitted with shelves which were full of books. The furniture was worn and shabby, like everything else in The Square House, but not too shabby to be comfortable.

  Julia had been sitting here for some time when the door opened and Uncle Randal came in. He looked less tired and was smiling cheerfully.

  ‘Hallo, Julia,’ he said. ‘I’m a very poor host, I’m afraid. I wanted to get up and have supper with you but Maggie wouldn’t let me. However, here I am, ready for a chat.’ He sat down in his chair and added, ‘We’ve a lot to talk about, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Julia. There were so many things she wanted to ask Uncle Randal that she did not know where to begin.

  ‘I’m very glad you’ve come,’ he continued. ‘To tell the truth I was doubtful about writing to ask you; I was afraid Andrew would object, but it seems I did him an injustice.’

  ‘An injustice?’

  ‘I mean he’s sent a dove with an olive branch. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Julia looked at him in dismay. ‘You mean Father sent me? Oh no, I’m terribly sorry, but—but he didn’t. He doesn’t even know I’ve come.’

  ‘Doesn’t know you’ve come?’

  ‘He and Retta are away from home, cruising in the Mediterranean, so I couldn’t ask him. Oh dear, I can see you’re terribly disappointed! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘A wee bit disappointed,’ he admitted. ‘I’m anxious to be friends with Andrew. When you get near your end you see things differently; you look at things in a clearer light. Feuds are foolish and bad, they should be forgiven and forgotten. It’s worst of all when it’s a feud between two brothers that have grown up together and loved each other dearly.’ He sighed and added, ‘I’ve done my best. I
’ve written three times. I doubt if I can do any more.’

  ‘You had no answer?’

  He shook his head. ‘But, Julia! What will Andrew say when he hears you’ve come?’

  She looked down at her hands and replied in a low voice, ‘I don’t know. I wrote and told him but there hasn’t been time for a reply.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll approve?’

  It was no good telling a lie, so she was silent.

  ‘I see,’ said Uncle Randal thoughtfully. ‘I’m seeing a good deal, Julia. I was an old fool to write to you and make bad blood between you and your father. I should have left it alone. I wanted to make things better but it seems I’ve made them worse. Why did you come, my dear?’

  ‘You said you were ill and wanted to see me.’

  ‘So you packed your bag and came?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he echoed, smiling at her very kindly. ‘You said to yourself, “Here’s a poor old man who is nearing his end and wants to see me; I’d never forgive myself if he went and died, so there’s nothing for it but to go and——”’

  ‘Uncle Randal!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Maybe you said to yourself, “It’s a Christian duty to visit the sick”?’

  ‘It is!’ cried Julia impulsively.

  ‘So we’re told on the very best authority.’

  ‘But I’m glad I came, not only because . . .’

  ‘I’m glad too, not only because . . .’ he told her with a little chuckle. ‘Of course I shouldn’t be glad. It’s sheer wickedness on my part; but there’s a kind of poetic justice about the whole affair that appeals to the lower part of my nature.’

  ‘Poetic justice?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Just that. Oh me, oh my!’ said Uncle Randal, shaking his head and smiling. ‘There’s an awful lot of wickedness in a man’s lower nature.’

  ‘Do you mean it’s wicked of you to be glad I’ve come?’

  ‘I do indeed. The right thing to do would be to pack you up and send you home to-morrow.’