Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It must be terribly dull for you,” said grandmama. “I wish we could ask some young people to tea. There are the Loudon boys – you’d like them, Sarah.”

  “We could ask them if they’ve had chickenpox,” suggested grandpapa.

  “They haven’t,” replied grandmama sadly. “The Dunnes haven’t had it either. I might ask the Raeworths, but——”

  “Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “I’m quite happy here by myself. It’s so different, you see.”

  “Different?”

  “You listen to what I say,” I explained.

  The grans looked at each other and smiled.

  “Well, it’s true,” I told them. “At home nobody listens . . . everybody wants to talk. The only thing I would like to do is to go for a long walk over the hills. Willy and I found a lovely walk; we went up the path by the side of the burn and over Grey Ghyll and home by the old Drove Road. I could take a sandwich in my pocket and——”

  “No,” said grandpapa firmly.

  At first I thought it was a joke but grandmama was shaking her head gravely so I knew he was serious.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Nothing could harm me.”

  “You’re not likely to be attacked by a wolf,” agreed grandpapa.

  “Well, then,” I said. “I’m quite sensible . . . you know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, you’re quite sensible, but even sensible people have been known to trip over a heather-root and twist an ankle – and, if they happened to be alone, they might lie out all night before anybody found them.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I declared. “The heather would make a lovely soft bed.”

  He chuckled. “That’s true enough. Maybe you would sleep quite well but grandmama and I would not.”

  Grandpapa never wasted words, but I knew that I must give up all idea of my expedition.

  One day when we were in the garden grandpapa said something which made such a deep impression upon me that it affected my whole life . . . and even now, many years after, I can still see him sitting on the garden seat with the September sunshine falling through the leaves of the apple-tree and making a sort of halo of his thick white hair. It was a Sunday afternoon. The grans had been to church in the morning but they had left me at home because I was still in quarantine. The sermon had been about “the lilies of the field” and grandpapa had disapproved of it.

  “Lilies don’t have to toil and spin, they’re just beautiful,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” agreed grandpapa, frowning thoughtfully. “But it isn’t enough to be beautiful. I’m a soldier, not a parson, but I read my Bible carefully . . . and, to me, it’s quite obvious that Jesus liked people who were enthusiastic: people who did things, looked ahead, and weren’t easily turned from their purpose. Zaccheus climbed a tree because he wanted to see Jesus; some men brought their sick friend to be healed and let him down through a hole in the roof; the blind man shouted at Jesus – and wouldn’t stop shouting. We’re told of the wise virgins who took plenty of oil for their lamps and of the woman who searched her house for the lost piece of silver . . . and of the man who wanted loaves in the middle of the night and kept on banging at the door. All these people, and many others, got what they wanted. They were rewarded for their enthusiasm, foresight, initiative and perseverance. They were go-getters, Sarah.”

  “Go-getters?”

  “Yes,” said grandpapa, nodding. “Remember this, Sarah: you’ll never get anything worth having unless you go all out to get it.”

  When the quarantine period was over – and I hadn’t developed any spots – the grans took me to a hotel in Edinburgh for two nights; they said I deserved a little fun. We did some shopping and went to a play at the Lyceum Theatre. Then they put me into the train and I travelled to London. It was the first time I had been anywhere or done anything without mother and it had made me feel much older, it had given me confidence in myself.

  Chapter Five

  My visit to Craignethan had been delightful but I was glad to be home. They were all there when I arrived and they all welcomed me and wanted to hear what I had been doing.

  “You must have eaten a lot,” said Lewis. “You aren’t nearly so plain and skinny.”

  Naturally I was charmed at this brotherly compliment.

  “Yes, you’re looking much better,” agreed mother.

  Minnie, too, was pleased to see me and complimented me on my improved appearance. She had got a book from the library about British Columbia with pictures of gorgeous scenery and of huge wooden poles, as high as a house, carved and painted with terrifying figures.

  “They’re totem poles,” explained Minnie. “The book says they’re painted by Red Indians. I’d like fine to see them.”

  “So would I,” agreed Willy, looking at the pictures with interest. “This one is the ugliest; I’ll make a sketch of it.”

  Willy was clever at sketching so he made a diagram of the picture with coloured chalks before he went back to Barstow and, a fortnight later, on Minnie’s birthday he sent her a little model of a totem pole about six inches high. He had carved and painted it in the school workshop.

  Minnie was delighted with her present and showed it to everyone and said it was from her “jo.” Willy had always been Minnie’s favourite. Minnie was so grateful and wrote such a nice letter to Willy that he made her another present for Christmas: it was a little wooden stool, very strong and solid, for her to stand on when she was washing up dishes at the sink – and Minnie used it every day of her life.

  While I had been away Lottie had made friends with the Meldrums. Originally they were Lewis’s friends – Tom Meldrum had been at Bells Hill with him and was now at Barstow – but one day Lewis had taken Lottie over to Riverside and they had asked her to come again as often as she liked.

  Lottie talked a lot about Riverside: about the green-houses and the tennis courts and the boat-house and the punts and about the large music-room which had a parquet floor and beautiful Persian rugs. Mrs. Meldrum was a widow but she liked entertaining so the house was usually full of young people, friends of Madeline and Tom and Ruth. Sometimes they rolled up the rugs in the music-room and danced. Madeline had a radiogram, Tom had a motor-bike, Ruth had a pony and they all had “marvellous clothes.” I heard so much about the Meldrums that I got rather tired of them.

  One Saturday when Lottie was going to lunch at Riverside Mrs. Meldrum rang up and invited me to come with her, and a big car with a chauffeur was sent to fetch us. Riverside was even more magnificent than I had expected: the carpets were thick and soft, the furniture was luxurious and there were enormous pictures on the walls. The whole effect was overpowering. Mrs. Meldrum was large and plump with pale blue eyes; she talked in a gushing sort of way: everything was “too marvellous,” everyone was “absolutely wonderful” or “too sweet for words.”

  She fixed her eyes on me and said, “Lottie is too sweet for words . . . and of course you’re frightfully clever, aren’t you, Sarah?”

  It made me very uncomfortable so I mumbled, “Oh, no, I’m not a bit clever, Mrs. Meldrum.”

  “Oh, you are! I know you are,” she declared.

  It seemed silly to argue with her so I was silent.

  Then she asked me if I didn’t think Madeline was “absolutely beautiful” and of course I had to agree. Madeline was the eldest of the family; she was seventeen, pretty and elegant, but certainly not “beautiful.” She was spoilt by a discontented expression and an off-hand manner. If we had spoken to mother in the way that Madeline spoke to Mrs. Meldrum I don’t know what would have happened.

  Ruth was the same age as Lottie. She was sitting next to me at lunch so I tried to talk to her but she didn’t seem to be interested in anything.

  Madeline said there was a new play in London and she wanted to see it.

  “Oh, what a marvellous idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Meldrum. “We’ll go and stay at Claridge’s and see the play and do some shopping. I haven’t got anything fit to wear.”

&n
bsp; “I want a white fur coat,” said Madeline.

  “I want a new tennis racket,” said Ruth. “I want a new frock for Daphne’s birthday party and I want——”

  “You had better make a list, darling,” said Mrs. Meldrum.

  “Oh heavens!” said Madeline wearily. “Have we got to go to London in a body? I wouldn’t have suggested it if I had known——”

  “Don’t worry!” cried Tom. “I don’t want to go to London with you. I want a canoe. Hodson has a splendid canoe, it’s much better sport than a clumsy old punt.”

  “A canoe would be fun!” exclaimed Ruth.

  “Oh, I shan’t take you in my canoe,” declared Tom. “You’re much too silly. Canoes aren’t meant for mugs. I shan’t take Madeline either; she’d make a fuss if she got splashed.”

  “I wouldn’t come in your canoe if you paid me,” said Madeline loftily. “Anyhow you haven’t got it yet.”

  “I’ll ask Watkins about it,” said Tom.

  “Yes, ask Watkins, darling,” said Mrs. Meldrum. “Watkins is absolutely marvellous; he’s sure to know the best place to get a canoe.” She rose and added, “I’ll go and phone about tickets for the play. We could go next week, couldn’t we?”

  “Oh, you are silly!” exclaimed Madeline. “Next week is the ball in Larchester and we’re having people to stay. You had better leave it to me; you’ll just muddle the whole thing.”

  “Yes, darling,” agreed Mrs. Meldrum meekly. She sat down and Madeline drifted away in her usual elegant manner.

  “She’ll take the stage box,” said Ruth sulkily. “She’ll sit in front like she always does and make eyes at the actors.”

  “Well, of course!” exclaimed Tom. “Madeline goes to a theatre to be looked at. Surely you know that by this time.”

  “She’s absolutely beautiful,” declared Mrs. Meldrum, smiling proudly.

  The afternoon seemed very long. Mrs. Meldrum and Madeline were going to a dance so they went upstairs to rest, Lottie and Tom disappeared together and I was left with Ruth. She was still sulky and disagreeable and at last I gave up trying to talk to her; it was hopeless. We wandered about for a bit and then sat down on a seat and looked at the river.

  “I hate families,” said Ruth after a long silence.

  I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing. It was the only remark she made – except yes and no – the whole afternoon.

  After tea the car was ordered to take us home. Lottie was very silent – I wondered what she was thinking – but presently she heaved a big sigh and said, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair?” I asked.

  “They can have everything they want.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t happy.”

  “Not happy? Whatever do you mean, Sarah?”

  “They aren’t nice to each other.”

  “Tom is nice,” declared Lottie. “Tom is going to take me out on the river in his canoe.” She sighed again and added, “Oh dear, I wish we had a lovely house like the Meldrums and lots of money! It doesn’t seem fair.”

  The Meldrums asked me to lunch again the following Saturday but I told mother I would rather stay at home.

  “Why?” asked mother in surprise.

  “Well . . . I just don’t like them very much, that’s all.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “No, not very much.”

  I could see that mother was waiting for me to explain why I didn’t like the Meldrums but I couldn’t find a sensible reason to give her. It would be silly to say that they were too rich or that they weren’t nice to each other . . .

  “Lottie is very fond of them,” said mother.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Lottie enjoys going to Riverside.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think it’s very——”

  “Perhaps you’re a little bit jealous, Sarah.”

  “Jealous? Why should I be jealous?” I asked in surprise.

  “I just thought – perhaps – you might be,” said mother vaguely.

  I had been going to say that I didn’t think it was very good for Lottie to go to Riverside so often, it was making her discontented with her own home, but I couldn’t say it now because mother would think I was jealous. It was silly, really: I wasn’t the least bit jealous of the Meldrums in spite of all their riches – in fact I felt rather sorry for them, but I couldn’t explain that either.

  “I think you ought to go, Sarah,” said mother after a short silence.

  “Why don’t you go instead of me?” I suggested.

  “Oh, I couldn’t! They haven’t asked me. I couldn’t go without being invited.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I said doubtfully. I wished the Meldrums would ask mother to lunch; I felt certain that she would dislike them (and perhaps she would know the reason) but, strangely enough, they never once invited mother to the house.

  Long afterwards, when I thought of this conversation with mother, I felt rather guilty; perhaps if I had had more courage and had told her what was in my mind, she might have listened and done something about it, but I don’t know . . .

  Lewis had always wanted to be a soldier – it was in his blood – but mother was so upset at the idea of his going to Sandhurst that he gave in and went to Oxford instead. He went to St. Clement’s College to read Law but he spent most of his time playing cricket and he made a great many friends. Fairfield is thirty miles from Oxford and one Friday afternoon Lewis came home to see us, riding a very ancient motor-bike which he had bought for ten pounds from a man who was getting a new one.

  It happened to be Willy’s half-term holiday – he had come from Barstow for the week-end – and he was so interested in the bike that Lewis took him out for a run to show him its paces. They went off together in tremendous spirits with Willy sitting on the pillion.

  Lewis had to go back to Oxford the following morning – he was playing in a cricket match – so we all came out on to the drive to see him off.

  “Do be careful, Lewis!” exclaimed mother. “Don’t go too fast, will you?”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right!” cried Lewis. He jumped on to the bike and tried to start the engine – but without success.

  Lewis tried over and over again; he tried everything he could think of; he tinkered with the machine for nearly half an hour but nothing he could do was any use; eventually he was obliged to give up the struggle and go to Oxford in the bus.

  Lewis was very hot and angry; he said he had been “sold a pup.”

  “Poor old pup, nobody loves you,” said Willy, looking at the dirty old bike very sadly.

  Willy and I had arranged to go up to the woods that afternoon; we had found a young cuckoo in a hedge-sparrow’s nest and we wanted to see what was happening. I looked for Willy everywhere and at last I found him in the coach-house. He had taken “the pup” to pieces and all the bits were lying spread out on newspapers on the floor. The two wheels were propped up against one wall and the framework against the other.

  “Goodness!” I exclaimed in dismay.

  “She only wants cleaning, that’s all,” said Willy, pushing back his hair and leaving a black oily streak on his forehead. “I don’t suppose anyone has taken the trouble to clean her for years. I wish you’d fetch me some old cloths, Sarah. Ask Minnie for some bits of rag.”

  I went and got a bundle of cloths and rags. I was terribly worried because unless Willy could put the bike together again there would be a frightful row. However, now that the bike was all in pieces, it was no good saying anything.

  “You can help,” said Willy. “You can wash the wheels and polish them . . . hand me that spanner, Sarah.”

  Willy worked all the week-end (except on Sunday morning when he had to go to church). When all the little bits had been thoroughly cleaned he began to put them together again and by Monday afternoon the job was finished.

  “Now we shall see some fireworks,” said Willy, standing back and looking at the machine with satisfaction. “Come on, Sarah! I’ll
take you for a spin.”

  I was rather doubtful. Certainly the pup looked a great deal better; it was nice and shiny. . . .

  “Come on,” repeated Willy. He wheeled the bike out of the coach-house and after a few struggles with the pedal the engine started. I jumped on behind Willy and we roared off down the drive.

  Father was standing at the church gate; he looked up in alarm as we whirled past.

  It was thrilling. I clung round Willy’s waist with both arms; the wind whistled in my ears.

  “Are you all right, Sarah?”

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly.

  “Not scared?”

  “No, it’s lovely.”

  “She’s doing thirty-five – not bad for the old pup! I’ll take you along the Larchester road where there’s a downhill stretch. I want to get her up to forty.”

  He got her up to forty on the downhill stretch, then we went round by Brailsford and home to tea.

  Father and mother were both at the gate, waiting for us, so Willy switched off the engine and glided up to them and stopped.

  “Where have you been?” asked father sternly.

  “Oh, just for a spin,” replied Willy.

  “You had no right to take Lewis’s motor-bicycle – and less right to ask Sarah to go with you. That machine isn’t safe.”

  “She’s quite a good machine. Lewis was lucky——”

  “It’s a horrible contraption,” interrupted father. “The sooner Lewis gets rid of it the better. He nearly ruptured himself trying to get it to start on Saturday morning.”

  “If you want an engine to run sweetly you’ve got to look after it properly,” explained Willy.

  “How did you get the thing to start?”

  “Cleaned it, that’s all.”

  I said quickly, “Willy took it all to pieces and cleaned it.”

  “Took it to pieces?” asked father incredulously.

  “She was dirty, clogged up with oil and grit. There was nothing else wrong with her,” said Willy.

  “It was clever of him, wasn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes,” admitted father reluctantly. “Of course I know nothing at all about these machines . . .”