The Tender Glory

by Jean S. MacLeod

  “Not a bit of it!” Alison passed her flowers to a hovering nurse. “But I thought I might go back to Craigie now that you look so much improved.”

  Helen nodded.

  “Don’t come every day,” she said gallantly. “Though I’ll want to see you whenever you can come.”

  “I’ll certainly phone every day.” Alison had kept her back to the bowl of yellow roses. They were still fresh and beautiful, but they seemed to mark something that was past. “Jim’s sister has promised to come in. You remember Cathie?”

  Helen nodded. She was looking at the roses.

  “If you see Mr. Daviot will you thank him?” she asked. “When I’m feeling stronger I’ll write him a wee note.”

  Huntley’s name seemed to feature in their conversation all the time, reminding her, reminding her!

  Alison rose to go, lingering for one final look in the doorway. “You’ll come back to the cottage for a cup of tea,” Jim suggested.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you mind, Jim? I think I’d rather go straight home.”

  He nodded.

  “Just as you say. I’ll get the car.”

  They had picked up her canvas grip at the hotel and soon they were on their way south on that familiar road, racing the darkness. It had been another clear, bright day, the sort of weather that made Caithness beautiful. They could see for miles over the moors and the deep straths were still daubed with all the glowing colours of an artist’s palette. They dropped down into Berriedale as the light faded, climbing steeply on the other side.

  “I wish we lived nearer,” Jim said. “But good will come out of bad if we see you more often while your mother is in Wick.” The long, lonely stretch of moor to Calders lay ahead of them and he steered the car with ease. Presently he put his arm along the back of the seat, pressing her shoulder.

  “It doesn’t seem only a couple of weeks,” he said. “I feel I’ve known you for a long time.”

  “We’ve really known each other all our lives, in a way.”

  He glanced down at her averted face.

  “Is there anyone else? You weren’t—fond of anybody in London?”

  “No.”

  She could tell him that quite truthfully. She had been too anxious to succeed, to justify her parents’ pride in her. She had wanted a career, to be able to play the piano as she knew she could play, but all that had changed. She had forfeited her scholarship, but somehow it didn’t seem so hard to bear now.

  Jim bent to kiss her on the cheek.

  “It won’t be too long before I’ve made a success of this job,” he said. “Then I’ll have more time. Time to see you more often, to take you about.”

  She ought to tell him. She ought to say that she didn’t love him, but suddenly she was too tired. All the emotions of the past few days rushed back to sweep over her like a vast, submerging tide and she could only sit looking through the windscreen at the approaching glen and Craigie Hill on the rise above it and Sterne out on its lonely promontory and Calders hidden behind its screen of trees.

  “Here we are!” Jim announced, pulling up in the farm yard. “We’re not expected.”

  “Kirsty must be somewhere around. There’s a light in the window.” Alison got out, feeling stiff after her long journey.

  “Neillie’s probably down at the clachan. Will you come in for something to eat before you go back?” Jim had been waiting for

  the invitation.

  “I wouldn’t mind. In you go. I’ll bring your grip.” Kirsty sat huddled in front of the kitchen fire with a shawl about her shoulders.

  “Goodness to me! I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, attempting to rise. “I’ve got a right good dose of the rheumatics this time, but I’ll soon put the kettle on.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Alison declared. “You’ll sit where you are and keep warm. Where’s Neillie?”

  “Och, I chased him out half an hour ago,” Kirsty explained. “Neillie’s aye grumbling. He’s been working too hard, or so he says. He’s got the rheumatics, too.” Kirsty looked as if she had more than rheumatism this time. Her flushed cheeks were as red as the fire, her eyes heavy and bloodshot.

  “Kirsty’s in for a dose of ’flu,” Alison prophesied when Jim followed her through to the scullery. “I’ll get her to bed, if you don’t mind.” She smiled up at him ruefully. “You’ll have to make your own tea.”

  “I’m a dab hand at it!” he assured her. Then, more seriously: “I’m sorry you had to come back to more trouble, Alison.”

  “It’s a good job I did come back.” Alison was preparing a hot toddy to give to Kirsty. “She would never have given in while I was away in Wick.”

  “And now it’s all yours!” he exclaimed. “Will you have Cathie down to help you?”

  “She goes to school on Monday,” she reminded him. “No, Jim, I’ll manage, thanks all the same. Kirsty won’t be any trouble.” “Can I phone the doctor for you?”

  She hesitated.

  “I’ll go down tomorrow.”

  “What about the milk?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’ve still got Neil.”

  “Which isn’t a great help.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she told him. “When the occasion demands it Neillie can work as hard as anybody.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said sceptically. “He looks as fly as a carload of monkeys.”

  “That’s because you don’t know him.” She passed him in the doorway. “If you’ll make the tea I’ll get Kirsty upstairs.”

  Kirsty wasn’t going to be coddled.

  “I’ll be as right as a trivet in the morning,” she declared hoarsely on her way upstairs.

  Jim had infused the tea by the time Alison came down again. “I’ll flush Neillie out on my way back through the clachan,” he promised. “He ought to be here with you.”

  “You might visit a dozen houses before you find him,” she warned. “Don’t bother, Jim. Neil will come home in his own good time.”

  “Dash it all, I don’t like leaving you here alone!” he exclaimed.

  “It doesn’t worry me,” she assured him. “Being alone never did. There’s plenty to do.”

  “Do you ever get a chance to—to go ahead with your music?” he asked diffidently. “You might still be able to take your finals.”

  She shook her head, trying to hide the pain in her eyes.

  “I couldn’t without hours and hours of practice. No, Jim, that’s finished. I’ve practically put it out of my mind. It’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

  He drank his tea standing before the fire.

  “Robin ought to come back,” he said truculently.

  “I’ve written to him.”

  “Did you ask him to come home?”

  “Not exactly. Not in so many words. I think it’s up to him.” “Maybe I could have his address?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t be quite sure what Jim meant to do. “I’ll give it to you next time I come to Wick.”

  He had to accept her decision, and presently he drove off. He hadn’t kissed her again and she was glad.

  Kirsty was no better in the morning, but at least Neil rose early and got on with the milking while she was busy about the house.

  “I’ll go out wi’ the van,” he offered, “but the byre won’t get finished. Not till after dinner time.”

  “Well, feed the cows and I’ll cope.”

  “What about the butter? I’ve skimmed the milk.”

  “It’ll have to wait, Neillie,” Her voice had sharpened. “I’ve only one pair of hands!”

  “The same as me,” Neil muttered. “An’ one pair of feet!”

  She felt sorry as she watched him shuffling off to fill the milk crates. Poor old Neil! He hadn’t deserved the rough side of her tongue.

  Before he set off with the van she scribbled a note.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers. My mother appreciated them very much. Alison Christie.’

  “Wi
ll you leave that at Sterne when you take Mr. Daviot’s milk?” she asked.

  “So I’m to go there?” Neil muttered. “A’ that way when Calders would hae done. It’s a daft like man that doesna’ know when he’s warm at hame! ”

  “Never mind, Neillie! Just deliver my note.”

  “Note? Note?” he grumbled. “Are ye takin’ to writin’ letters tae him now? Were ye no’ seein’ enough o’ him, maybe?” “Look, Neillie, you’re wasting time.” Her cheeks were flushed. “Off you go, or half the glen will be sitting down to their porridge without any milk.”

  “I’ll do the Light last,” he muttered under his breath. “He can wait for his milk!”

  Alison applied herself to the kitchen and making the breakfast. By the time Neil came back she had carried up Kirsty’s tray and set the table.

  “I’ve had all I want, Neillie,” she said. “Help yourself. Did you deliver my note?”

  “Ay. I left it under the milk bottle.”

  “Did you take Mr. Daviot’s eggs?”

  “No, I clean forgot!”

  It was no use being angry. Neil had done his best. As if to atone for his mistake, he offered to go for the doctor.

  Anything but the byre, Alison thought, tying on one of Kirsty’s rough aprons. Oh, well, never mind!

  She was swilling out when a car turned in at the gate. Thinking it was Neil back with the van, she went on with her self-imposed task, but when she looked up Huntley was there.

  Biting her lip, she thought how often he caught her at a disadvantage.

  “You’re busy,” he remarked. “I thought Kirsty had more than she could cope with when she forgot my eggs and the butter, so—”

  “Kirsty’s ill!” She hadn’t given him time to finish what he had been about to say. “She’s got ’flu and I haven’t been able to see to your butter. You’ll have to wait.”

  He frowned, probably at the tone she had used, and she wondered why she always had to show herself to him in the worst possible light.

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped back to allow her to complete her task. “I had no idea about Kirsty. Have you sent for the doctor?”

  “Neillie’s gone for him. He’ll come in the afternoon, I expect.” She undid the coarse apron and smoothed her hair. “I can’t promise you any butter till tomorrow and even then I wouldn’t be sure. I’m not much use with a churn.”

  He left that unanswered.

  “I didn’t realise you were back from Wick,” he said.

  “How is your mother?”

  “I sent you a note.” She met his eyes for the first time without hostility. “Neil put it under your milk bottle.”

  “It must have blown away,” he said. “Was it important?”

  “Not really. My mother wanted to thank you for the flowers.”

  “I thought she’d like them. She told me some time ago the yellows were her favourite. We grow them at Calders.”

  And now they’ve been left in your deserted garden to care for themselves, she thought, amazed that he had even mentioned Calders.

  “We’re taking down timber along the river,” he said. “Can I call back for the eggs?”

  “If you would, but I can’t promise the butter till tomorrow.” She watched him go, conscious of the bad impression she must have made on him. He must see her as the frustrated, angry artist coping with the chores she hated because she saw it as her duty, because it was what fate had decreed for her, and he was the sort of man who would despise a martyr.

  By the time he returned for the eggs the kitchen was clean and tidy. There was a bright fire burning in the sitting-room and Kirsty’s tray had been carried up. The doctor had been, confirming Alison’s guess that her patient was suffering from influenza, a complaint which a few days in bed would soon cure.

  “Will you come in?” she asked, in an effort to make amends for her tardy behaviour of the morning. “I’ve cleaned the eggs. They’re all ready and—you can have a pound of butter if you care to chance it.”

  “Because Neil made it?” he asked.

  “No, because I did. Neillie helped, of course.”

  He looked at her curiously.

  “One would almost think you liked doing this sort of work,” he remarked.

  “I do, in a way,” she confessed. “It’s—a sort of definite achievement, making butter.”

  “But in no way to be compared with making music.” His tone was sardonic.

  “No.” She met his eyes steadily. “The two are entirely different.” “Are you suggesting one can parcel one’s life out in small quantities?” he asked harshly. “So much of this, so much of that?”

  “Why not?” She turned to the fire. “It’s how life is.”

  “Not invariably.” His mouth was grim. “Some people take what they want. Everything in one parcel.”

  “They’re lucky,” she declared. “I can’t see that one has any choice.”

  “Sometimes not.” He came to stand beside the fire. “It depends on the individual, I suppose. How long is your mother going to be away?”

  “Three weeks—perhaps a month. Then she will probably go on somewhere to convalesce. She won’t be fit to do anything here till the spring.”

  “Which would be too late for you to return to London.”

  She faced him.

  “Yes.”

  “You regret that, of course.”

  “I regret not being able to finish my studies.”

  “You could try again.”

  She shook her head.

  “It wouldn’t be the same. Besides, Craigie Hill may need me for some time to come.”

  “You’re giving up a great deal,” he reminded her.

  “Not any more than my mother deserves.”

  He took the eggs from her.

  “Supposing the offer was renewed?” he suggested. “Supposing the scholarship was amended to give you another year?”

  She bit her lip.

  “I couldn’t accept it,” she said. “I wouldn’t be able to say with any certainty when I could go.”

  “You were fairly ambitious, I gather. Dedicated, I think the word is.”

  “Yes.” She met his steely gaze with a certain amount of challenge in her own. “Why not? It was my life, my whole existence.”

  Abruptly he moved towards the door.

  “I can understand that,” he said. “Music has always meant a great deal in my family. My mother was a brilliant pianist, although she never allowed it to dominate her life. She was a gifted woman who accepted marriage as her primary

  responsibility. Music was a great joy to her, a compensation, in many ways. Calders must have seemed unbelievably remote when she first saw it.” This was only the second time he had mentioned Calders, deserted by his own decree.

  “I remember the concerts she used to give,” Alison mused. “They seemed wonderful to me—all these talented people coming here to our remote glen to sing and play. Then, when we heard about the scholarship, it seemed we hadn’t been forgotten, either. Sometimes I think I’ve let you down,” she added a trifle unsteadily, “not going through with it, but for me there was no alternative.”

  “Another chance may come your way,” he said briefly. “It’s never too late to succeed.”

  When he had gone she thought about the offer he had made, for surely it had been an offer? The renewal of the Isobel Daviot Scholarship to give her one more year in London! Her spirits soared. It would mean so much, the chance to prove herself, after all, to identify herself with the music she loved.

  But even if he remembered to renew his offer, how long would he hold it open? For a month, or a year? She might need all of that time to see her mother and Craigie Hill through this present emergency. Could she hope—really hope—that Huntley would wait long enough?

  She cherished the idea deep in her heart. It would make such a difference to her. The tasks she performed about the house were suddenly lightened. It was no longer a drudgery to rise at dawn to scrub and clean and grade eggs a
nd churn butter before she set out on the long journey to Wick and back.

  The short daylight hours were still blessed with pale sunlight and it gilded everything in her sight. Each trip she made saw her mother further on the long road back to complete recovery. Helen, responding to the expert care she was receiving, had been given the extra stimulus of a contented mind. Robin’s letter from Canada was always beside her, lying on the locker top, and although it had yet to be replaced with a second one she seemed prepared to wait.

  Each time she visited the hospital Alison called in at the cottage on the Milton Road. Jim was rarely at home, but she and Cathie soon became the firmest of friends, despite the seven years’ difference in their respective ages.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Cathie,” she said on one occasion when she was about to leave on her return journey to Craigie Hill. “Or without this spell of amazing weather. Here we are thinking ahead to Christmas and the sun still warm!”

  “We’ve been lucky,” Cathie agreed, glancing quickly at the sky, “but most things come to an end, good and bad. I’ll be surprised if you get back tonight without rain.”

  The sun went down over the moors without any of its accustomed glory. A pale sky merged into the greyness of night with hardly a star showing through, and soon the thin film of cloud had changed into a dark cumulus building up in the west. It hung above the mountain peaks, obscuring their lofty heads, and when the dawn came the sky was as red as blood. The sea and the rocks beneath the promontory were coloured by it and even Sterne looked faintly pink. The anger in the sky could scarcely be misinterpreted.

  Alison set off early with the milk, hoping to finish her round before the storm broke.

  “We’re in for a spell o’ it now,” Neil commented, stacking the milk crates in the van. “We’ll have snow before the day’s out or my name’s no’ Neillie Kinloch! It’ll blow first, and maybe rain, but when the hills are like they were yesterday we’re in for snow. It’s been long in comin’ this year, so it’ll mak’ up for it. We’ve seen the last o’ the fine weather for a while.”

  It was a dismal thought if you had to work in it, Alison decided, yet snow had always delighted her, and if the lochans froze over they could skate. The work at Craigie Hill was easing a little. Kirsty was up and about again and Neil had got into what he called ‘his stride’.