by Mary Stewart
‘Are you going to take it up? I’ll help if you like, or we can make Donald come and carry everything – you don’t exactly look as if you ought to be hiking loads around in this heat, if I may say so. What on earth have you been doing to yourself, you look so thin, and your figure used to be heaven, at least I thought so, which might mean anything, because when I was eleven my ideal was the Angel Gabriel and they’re not supposed to have figures anyway, are they?’
‘Julie! At least you didn’t piffle on at that rate when you were eleven, or if you did, I don’t remember it! Where on earth did you learn?’
Julie laughed. ‘Donald.’
‘That I don’t believe.’
‘Well, he never speaks at all unless it’s necessary, so I have to do enough for two on one person’s sense. Result, half my talk is piffle, whereas Donald’s silence is a hundred per cent solid worth. Or would it be two hundred per cent? I never know.’
‘I see.’
‘And there was you.’
‘I?’
‘Yes. Nobody could piffle quite so well. The stories you used to make up. I can still remember them, and the funny thing is, a lot of them seemed somehow more real than you, or at any rate they seemed the reallest part of you.’
‘Perhaps they were.’
She gave me a swift look as we went into the house, and squeezed my arm. ‘When you look like that you break my heart.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘You look unhappy, that’s why. Whenever you’re not actually smiling. It’s just a look you have. It’s not like you . . . I mean, you weren’t like that before.’
‘I meant, I don’t see why you should worry over the way I feel.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Why should you care what happened to me? I lighted out regardless, didn’t I? And now I come back, like a ghost to trouble sleep. Why should you care?’
The grey-green eyes were open and candid as a child’s. ‘Because I love you, of course,’ said Julie, quite simply.
The passage was dim after the glare of the sun. I was glad of this. In a moment I said, lightly: ‘Better than the Angel Gabriel?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, he stopped being top pop, years ago. Much better.’
In a way, Julie’s homecoming was as exacting as my own.
Mrs Bates was, inevitably, lying in wait in the kitchen: ‘And very nice it is to see you, Julie, and very smart you’re looking, quite London, I’m sure. A real shame I call it, the way they make you work at the BBC – not a chance to come up and see your poor Granda, not to mention others as I could name what would have liked a sight of you any time this past year. But there it is, birds leave the nest, which you might say is only natural, and them that is left has only to lump it, as the saying goes . . . And that was your young man that went through with Miss Dermott? “Not official?” And what does that mean, may I ask? In my day, if we were courting, we knew we was courting, and believe me, we knew just where we was. Now don’t you bother, Miss Annabel, love. Cora’s taking the men’s tea up, which you may be sure ain’t no bother for her, seeing as Willie Latch is along helping this afternoon. Go on in, then. I’ll bring the trolley as soon as the tea’s mashed, if you’ll take the cakestand . . .’
Then there was Con, who came down unexpectedly from the hayfield, ostensibly impatient to welcome Julie, but curious, I knew, to see who had driven her down.
It was amusing to watch the meeting between him and Donald. We were quietly settled, waiting for Mrs Bates and the tea trolley, when Con walked in. He had presumably conformed by washing his hands, but he was still in his working clothes – old breeches, and a white shirt, short sleeved and open at the neck. He brought with him, into the rather charmingly old-fashioned room, the smell of sunshine and hay, and – it must be confessed – a faint tang of horses and outdoor, sunbaked sweat. He looked magnificent.
He greeted Donald with none of the curiosity that I knew he was feeling. If he had been wondering about Julie’s new escort as a potential threat to his own position, the worry, I could see, was dispelled as soon as he entered the room, and saw the unobtrusive figure sitting quietly in the old-fashioned chintz-covered chair by the fireplace. I could also see, quite well, that he was pleased – as Donald rose to greet him – to find himself the taller of the two by at least three inches. The contrast between the two men was certainly remarkable, and I saw an odd expression in Julie’s eyes as she watched them. Lisa’s face, for once, was much more transparent: one almost expected to hear the proud, contented clucking with which the mother-hen regards the swan that she has just personally hatched. The only person in the room who seemed unconscious of Con’s overwhelming physical splendour was Donald. He greeted the other man serenely, and then turned back to resume his conversation with me.
Grandfather came in then, followed immediately by Mrs Bates with the tea. The old man was using a stick, which I hadn’t seen him do before, and I thought he looked more finely drawn than usual, with a waxy tinge to the skin.
‘Grandfather, it’s lovely to see you!’ Julie, as she rose to greet him, gave him a fond, anxious look. ‘How are you?’
‘Hm. You’ve controlled your anxiety remarkably well, haven’t you? How long is it since you were here? Twelve months?’
‘Only ten,’ said Julie. ‘Grandfather, this is Donald Seton. He’s a London friend of mine who drove me up, such luck, and he’s going to be up here all summer, working at West Woodburn.’
‘How d’ye do? Good of you to bring the child. Glad you could stay to tea. Working at West Woodburn, eh? What sort of work?’
As Donald answered, I noticed that Con, ostensibly talking to Julie, was listening carefully. Mrs Bates, lingering beside Lisa, hadn’t taken her eyes off Donald.
‘Thank you, Mrs Bates,’ said Lisa, pouring tea. ‘That’s everything, I think . . . Annabel, I wonder if you’d help hand the cups?’
‘Let me, please,’ said Donald quickly, getting to his feet. Con slanted a lazy look up at him, and stayed where he was.
Lisa – with great restraint – poured tea for Julie and Grandfather before she attended to Con, but when she did come to Con’s cup, I noticed that she not only put sugar in, but even stirred it, before giving it to Donald to hand to him. Donald carried it across with no change of expression, and Con took it without even looking away from Julie, who was telling some story or other which involved a lot of laughter.
Mrs Bates had made no move to go, but busied herself rather ostentatiously, handing scones. The little black eyes had never left Donald.
‘London, eh?’ This came as soon as he left his chair, and was detached, so to speak, from Grandfather’s orbit. ‘So you’ve come up north for the summer, from what I hear?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what d’you think of the North?’ This in the tone of a champion throwing down a rather well-worn glove. ‘I suppose you Londoners think we’ve not even got electric light in these parts yet?’
‘Haven’t you?’ said Donald, startled into a vague glance at the ceiling.
I said quickly: ‘Mrs Bates regards all Londoners as ignorant southerners who think the Arctic Circle begins at Leeds, or something.’
‘One wonders,’ put in Julie from the sofa, ‘if they mayn’t be right, sometimes. Not this year, it’s been heaven everywhere.’
‘Even here?’ said Grandfather, rather drily.
I saw a glance pass, like a spark across points, between Con and Lisa.
I said quickly: ‘Betsy, dear, Mr Seton isn’t a southerner, really; he’s from Scotland.’
‘Oh?’ She appeared only slightly mollified. ‘I’ve never been up in them parts. But you live in London, like?’
‘Yes, I’ve got rooms there. But I usually spend the summer somewhere out on a – well, in the country. This year I’m at West Woodburn.’
‘For the whole summer?’ I hoped the calculating glance that Mrs Bates shot at Julie wasn’t as obvious to him as it was to me. But she underlined it. ‘How lo
ng are you staying, Julie?’
‘Mm?’ Julie had been laughing at some remark of Con’s. ‘Who, me? As long as I can. I’ve got three weeks.’
‘Mrs Bates,’ said Lisa, ‘there’s the telephone, I think. Do you mind? . . . I’m sorry, Mr Seton, but she’s been a member of the family for so long, and of course she’s known Julie since she was very small . . . I think she puts all Julie’s friends into the same age-group.’
‘And that,’ said Julie cheerfully, ‘stays at about thirteen plus. Donald doesn’t mind, do you, darling?’
‘Not in the least.’ Mr Seton, who had, during the cross-examination, been handing sandwiches and scones round with unruffled good humour, now sat down, and took one himself. Somehow, I noticed, the stand of sandwiches and cakes had finished up in a position mid-way between his chair and mine, and within easy reach of both. No mean strategist, I thought, watching him finish his sandwich, and quietly take another. They were very good; I had made them myself.
‘Now,’ said Grandfather, who, being a Winslow male, obviously thought it was time he was back in the centre of the stage, ‘about this Roman camp at West Woodburn . . .’
‘Fort, actually,’ said Donald.
‘Fort, then. Habitancium, isn’t that the Roman name for it?’
‘Habitancum.’ Donald took another sandwich in an absent sort of way, while managing to keep a keenly interested gaze fixed on his questioner. ‘That’s the name on the various inscriptions that have been uncovered. There are no other references, and the place is named solely from the inscriptions, so, in fact,’ that sudden, charming smile, ‘your guess is as good as mine, sir.’
‘Oh. Ah. Well, what I want to know is this—’
But Mrs Bates, laden with more scones, and big with news, re-entered the room briskly.
‘The way things get around in these parts is like magic, it is that. Here’s Julie only been at home five minutes before her young man’s ringing her up on the phone. He’s waiting.’ She slapped the plate of scones down on the trolley, and stared pointedly at Julie.
The latter looked blank for a moment, then I saw the faintest tinge of pink slide up under her skin. ‘My – young man?’
‘Aye,’ said Mrs Bates a little sourly. ‘Young Bill Fenwick from Nether Shields. Saw you pass, he says, when they was working up near the road.’
‘Young Fenwick?’ said Grandfather. ‘Nether Shields? What’s this? What’s this?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Julie spoke airily, setting down her cup. ‘Did he say it was for me?’
‘He did, and well you know it. Never talked about anyone else since last time you were here, and if you ask me—’
‘Oh, Mrs Bates, please!’ Julie, scarlet now, almost ran out of the drawing room. Mrs Bates gave a ferocious nod that was aimed somewhere between Grandfather and Donald. ‘He’s a nice lad, Bill Fenwick is, but he’s not for the likes of her, and that’s the truth and no lie!’
‘Mrs Bates, you really mustn’t—’ began Lisa.
‘I speak as I find,’ said that lady tartly.
‘Hm,’ said Grandfather. ‘Pity you find such a lot. That’ll do, now, Betsy. Go away.’
‘I’m going. Enjoy your teas, now, I made those scones meself. You’ll not get the likes of them in London,’ with a nod at Donald, ‘nor in Scotland, neither, let me tell you. Now, did I see that cat come in or did I not?’
‘Cat?’ said Lisa. ‘Tommy? Oh, no, surely not, he’s never allowed in here.’
‘I thought I seed him run past when I opened the door.’
‘Nonsense, Betsy, you’re imagining things.’ Grandfather was poking about testily under the sofa with his stick. ‘There’s no cat in here. Don’t make excuses, now, just go away, do. The scones are excellent. Perhaps you’ll get Julie to bring the hot water in, when she’s finished her telephone call?’
‘All right,’ said Mrs Bates, unoffended. ‘There’s nobody can say I can’t take a hint as well as anyone.’ But, pausing at the door, she fired her last shot. ‘Mr Forrest, too, did I tell you? He’s back already. Didn’t expect him till Friday, but he’s flown. Maybe he’ll be on the phone soon.’ And, with a chuckle, she disappeared.
There was a pause.
‘Ah, well,’ said Con, reaching out a lazy hand, ‘the scones are worth it.’
‘Hm,’ said Grandfather, ‘she’s all right. Trust Betsy with my last halfpenny, and that’s a thing you can’t say of many, nowadays. Now, Seton, where were we?’
‘Habitancum,’ said Con, ‘just about to start digging.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, what are you going to find? Tell me that? If there’s anything worth finding round here, I wish you digging Johnnies would find it at Whitescar. No likelihood of that, I suppose?’
I saw a sudden look of surprise flicker over Donald’s face, to be followed by what looked like rather furtive embarrassment. Grandfather, drinking tea, hadn’t noticed, but Con had. I saw his eyes narrow momentarily in a speculative look. Then I saw what was hidden from anyone else in the room. Donald’s hand, with a portion of ham sandwich, had been hanging down over the arm of his chair while he talked. The skirts of his armchair almost touched the ground. From under the edge of this crept a stealthy, black and white paw, which once again patted the edge of the ham sandwich.
‘There’s nothing marked hereabouts on any existing map,’ said Donald, now serenely ignoring this phenomenon, ‘but that’s not to say there was nothing here, of course. If you start turning up Roman coins with the plough, sir, I hope you’ll send straight for me.’ As he spoke, he had returned the sandwich to the plate, and then his hand went, oh, so idly, over the arm of the chair, holding a substantial portion broken off. The paw flashed out and took it, not too gently. Tommy, it appeared, had had to learn to snatch what bits he got.
‘And how long are you to be here?’
‘Possibly until August, on this particular job.’
‘I doubt,’ said Con with a grin, ‘if we’ll be doing much ploughing before you go, then.’
‘No?’ said Donald, adding, apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I’m very ignorant. Your – er, Mrs Bates was perhaps not so far out in her judgement of Londoners.’
‘Well,’ said Grandfather, ‘if you can tell wheat and barley apart, which I’ve no doubt you can, then you’ll be one up on me and Connor. I wouldn’t know a Roman inscription from a whisky advertisement, and neither would he.’
Con’s protest, and my ‘Are you sure?’ came simultaneously, and everyone laughed. Into the laughter came Julie, so blandly unconcerned, and so fussily careful of the hot-water-jug she was carrying, that the attention of everyone in the room switched straight to her with an almost audible click. It was all Con could do, I knew, not to ask her outright what Bill Fenwick had had to say.
‘Julie?’ Old Mr Winslow had no such inhibitions. ‘What did the boy want?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Julie airily, ‘just how was I and how long was I here for, and – and all that.’
‘Hm. Well, now, let’s have a look at you, child. Come and sit by me. Now, about this job of yours . . .’
Conversation began to flow again, Con and Lisa both listening with some interest to Julie’s account of her first year’s work at Broadcasting House. Beside me, the skirts of Donald’s chair began to shake in a frustrated fashion. I said gently: ‘Won’t you have another sandwich, Mr Seton? These are crab. They – er, go down rather well.’
I saw the glimmer in his eyes as he took one. Half a minute later I saw the paw field a piece, very smartly, and, in a matter of three quarters of a second, come out for more. Tommy, flown with good living, was getting reckless.
‘You’re not eating anything,’ Lisa said to me. ‘Have another sandwich. There’s one left.’
Even as she turned to look, the paw shot out, and the last of the crab sandwiches vanished, whole, from the plate on the bottom tier of the trolley.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Donald, blandly, to me. ‘I took it myself. Have a macaroon.’
&
nbsp; 10
O wherefore should I tell my grief,
Since lax I canna find?
I’m stown frae a’ my kin and friends,
And my love I left behind.
Ballad: Baby Livingston.
Julie and I went out together that evening. Lisa’s eyes followed us to the door, but she said nothing. Donald, not to be moved from his decision, had driven off to West Woodburn soon after tea. Grandfather, whom the heat was tiring, I thought, more than he would admit, had gone early to bed. Con had not come in again. No doubt he would come back at dusk for a late supper. The sound of the tractor wound on and on through the soft evening into the dusk.
Though it would have seemed the natural pilgrimage to take her to see the mare, I had had enough of the lane. We went the other way, through the garden towards the wicket-gate and the river path that led towards West Lodge. In the half-light the rank borders looked and smelt heavy with flowers. The swifts were out, and flying high. Their screaming was thin and ecstatic, and exciting, like all the sounds that one feels one is not meant to hear; the singing of the grey seal and the squeak of a bat and the moaning of shearwaters under the ground at night on the wild sea’s edge.
Now that we were alone together there still seemed curiously little to say. She had told the truth when she said that the major things of life had no need to be talked over. I supposed that for her the return of the idolised cousin from the dead was one of these. Never by word or look had she betrayed any consciousness that my advent might make the least difference to her future. It might not even have occurred to her . . . but it soon would; it must. If it didn’t occur to her, it might occur to Donald.
We had been filling up the eight years’ gap – I with completely truthful reminiscences of my life in Canada, and Julie with a lively and (it is to be hoped) scandalous account of the year she had spent in the Drama Department at Broadcasting House.
‘ . . . No, honestly, Annabel, it’s gospel truth!’