Mamie sighed. Jock was a dear but sometimes he didn’t understand things.
‘Why are you worrying?’ urged Jock.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ replied Mamie, smoothing the cover on the bed as she spoke. ‘I suppose I’m worrying about Harriet. Her letters are rather too gay, if you know what I mean, but as you say, she’s sure to enjoy America. Is there anything else you can suggest for James?’
‘You’ve thought of everything,’ Jock told her. ‘He’s coming tomorrow, isn’t he? I must remember to tell Willy Dunne to take the car and meet him at Drumburly Station,’ and saying so Jock took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and solemnly tied a knot in the corner of it.
Everything was just the same, thought James as he opened the big front door and walked into Mureth House: the wide hall with its faded blue carpet, the long dark-oak table with the huge gong (which was used not only to herald meals but also to summon Aunt Mamie from the garden when somebody called or wanted to speak to her on the telephone); the stairs swept up with the same lovely curve. Everything was just exactly the same. It was five years since James had been at Mureth and in those five years he had been half-way round the world. He had sweated in the steamy jungles of Malaya; he had hunted bandits, had suffered and fought and watched men die. James thought he had left childish things behind him, but now, here, at Mureth, the childish things returned and rushed in upon him with a flood of memories. James felt like a small boy again.
Aunt Mamie was not a day older… in fact she seemed younger to James. He had thought her ‘ quite old’, his mother’s contemporary, a grown-up person and therefore a different sort of being from himself. Now she seemed almost his own age. He had caught up on her, as it were.
‘Darling James!’ cried Mamie, kissing him. ‘How big you are! I shouldn’t have known you. Caroline said in her letter that you were simply enormous, but I didn’t believe it. I mean, of course, I believed it in a way, but not in my bones. I expected to see the same James.’
‘I am the same,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I’m the same inside.’ But it wasn’t really true.
He followed her into the drawing-room where tea was laid on the same round table with the little place mats. There was scones, honey and an enormous fruit cake, the kind that Uncle Jock liked; there was the same willow-pattern china, and the same big silver teapot with its comfortable round belly, reflecting the room. The room was exactly as James remembered it, slightly shabby but extremely comfortable… the cretonne covers, the pictures of long-dead Johnstone ancestors on the walls. Aunt Mamie’s piano stood in its old place beneath the round mirror in its gilt frame, and Uncle Jock’s chair stood by the fire. James had always thought it a giant’s chair, eminently suitable for the benevolent giant to whom it belonged. He was pleased to see that it did not seem to have shrunk.
‘Sit there,’ said Mamie, pushing him into the chair. ‘Sit there and tell me everything. How did the wedding go off?’
‘Oh yes, the wedding,’ said James. ‘It wasn’t a big affair, you know. It went off all right.’ He hesitated and then went on in a determined sort of voice, ‘Mother looked lovely. Her dress was blue and she had a blue hat. I can’t – I mean, it’s difficult to tell you much about it.’
Mamie nodded. ‘But it’s a good thing, you know.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed quickly. ‘And I like Robert awfully. It’s just that it was such a – such a surprise. I suppose I was a fool not to see it coming, but,’
‘But you thought he was going to marry Harriet.’
James was amazed. How did she know? He had never told a soul. He had never intended to tell a soul.
‘I suppose poor Harriet was in love with him, too,’ added Mamie.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed James. ‘Well, I must say – but – but,’
‘Of course you feel it,’ continued Mamie. ‘It wouldn’t be natural if you didn’t feel it, but if he’s nice as you say, it’s a very good thing for Caroline. Someday you’ll get married yourself.’
‘No,’ said James quickly. ‘No, never. I mean you couldn’t ask a girl to live miles away in the country, on a farm.’
‘A girl might like it,’ suggested Mamie.
‘She wouldn’t be happy,’ said James.
Mamie smiled. ‘I’m happy,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m as happy as the day is long. How do you know she wouldn’t be happy, James? Have you asked her?’
James laughed in a slightly embarrassed manner. ‘You’re a sort of witch, Aunt Mamie,’ he declared.
‘It wasn’t very difficult to guess.’
‘Her name is Rhoda,’ said James, who felt a sudden urge to tell Mamie everything. ‘Rhoda Ware. I wish you could see her, she’s so beautiful, so lovely, so alive. I can’t imagine anyone more beautiful. Her hair is absolutely pure gold – and she’s gold all through. She’s studying painting in London. I don’t mean as a hobby but as a profession. She’s really good, you know. I went to supper with her one night and she showed me some of her pictures. They were wonderful — quite breath taking, really – and of course she wants to go on painting. You can understand it, can’t you? If I were good at anything I should want to go on doing it all my life, so I can’t blame Rhoda. That’s how it is, you see.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Mamie.
‘I shall never marry,’ continued James in a low voice. ‘I mean once you’ve seen somebody like Rhoda, well, nobody else is any good.’
Mamie was silent. Several arguments came into her head but she realised that they were silly, so she did not advance them. It was obvious that James had proposed to Rhoda and been refused. What an idiot the girl must be, thought Mamie. How blind! James was such a dear; he was so kind and considerate – as well as being extremely attractive – he would make an admirable husband. Mamie decided that if she had not been married to Jock and twenty years too old she would have married James herself. Poor James! He had lost his mother and his love at one blow. No wonder he looked thin and pale.
‘Have another scone,’ said Mamie. ‘Take lots of butter with it, and honey. It’s all home grown, you know. Jock likes to be self-supporting. We can’t really manage it, of course, because tea and coffee and sugar wouldn’t grow here. Tobacco grows here beautifully, but I won’t tell you about it because Jock will tell you himself.’
She took out her work-basket and began to mend an enormous hole in one of Jock’s enormous socks, and as she worked she continued to talk. Her talk was slightly incoherent, but James found it soothing. He ate large quantities of scones and butter and listened to her.
‘I wish I could have gone to Caroline’s wedding,’ said Mamie. ‘I remember her first wedding very well. I must have been about twelve.’ She counted on her fingers and said, ‘No, I was eleven. Jean and I were bridesmaids. We had white satin frocks and little pearl caps. Harriet was much too young to officiate. Poor Caroline didn’t have a say in anything; Mother arranged it all, she even chose the bridegroom. Arnold gave Caroline the most beautiful presents. He was rich, but oh, dear, he was dull. I know I shouldn’t say that about your father, James, but he really was. I think that was the reason Jean and I chose our own way.’
James laughed. He said, ‘Go on. I like to hear about far-off things. Tell me about you and Uncle Jock.’
‘I met Jock at the blacksmith’s,’ continued Mamie, smiling. ‘Of course I’d seen him before at shows and otter-hunting and things, so I knew who he was, but I had never spoken to him properly. He was getting a horse shod and I was getting a pair of fire-dogs. There they are,’ said Mamie, pointing to them. ‘I wouldn’t part with them for anything.’
‘And I suppose that horse-shoe is the one over the mantelpiece in Uncle Jock’s study’
‘Yes,’ said Mamie, blushing like a girl. ‘Yes, it is. You wouldn’t think Jock could be so silly, would you? We talked for quite a long time that day, because the blacksmith was busy, and after that we met several times by accident… and several times not by accident.’
‘Naughty!’
exclaimed James.
‘Yes, dreadfully naughty,’ agreed Mamie. ‘But we had to. I knew Mother wouldn’t have let me if she knew. One afternoon we met at Drumburly at the Shaw Arms and had tea together: it was a wet afternoon and Mrs. Simpson put on a fire in her own private parlour and gave us tea there, all by ourselves. It was so cosy and comfortable and we were very happy. Jock didn’t propose properly; he just said, “Wouldn’t it be grand if we could always be together like this?” and I said, “Yes.” When he told Father he wanted to marry me there was a dreadful row and it all came out about our secret meetings, as Father called them. I can’t see that there was anything very wrong about arranging to meet Jock and having tea with him, but Father and Mother thought it was terrible of me, and they thought I ought to do better for myself – as if I could possibly have got anybody better than Jock! They made every sort of objection. They said I was too young (though I was older than Caroline was when she was married), and they said the County wouldn’t call!’ Mamie threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, James, how funny it sounds now.’
‘Did it sound funny then?’ James wanted to know.
‘Not really. It just sounded not a bit important.’
‘What happened?’ asked James with interest.
‘The next thing that happened was Elmer appeared on the scene. He was staying with the Shaw’s at Drum-burly Tower and we met him at the Hunt Ball. He had come over from America on business, just for a month, and the moment he saw Jean he decided that he would marry her and take her back with him. I remember he said to me he had fallen for Jean in a big way. He certainly was very much in love with her – and she with him. Father and Mother didn’t want them to get married but they had no chance against Elmer. He just walked through them, kindly but firmly. When Jock saw how it was done he took a firm line and we were married on the same day. Sometimes, when I look back, I feel rather sorry for Father and Mother,’ said Mamie thoughtfully.
‘They still had Harriet,’ James pointed out.
‘Yes, and Harriet was the apple of their eyes. Harriet could do no wrong, she was perfect. Then Harriet went to stay with a friend in London and met somebody who was on the stage, and the next thing they heard was that Harriet had decided to go on the stage herself. They were terribly angry but nothing they could say or do had the slightest effect… so, after a bit, they came round and forgave her. I’m afraid they were lonely, poor dears. It seemed rather bad luck to have had four daughters and not to have one left at home – and none of their daughters was much good to them. Caroline never could leave Arnold – he was so awfully selfish – and Jean was in America and Harriet was simply wrapped up in her theatrical career.’
‘But you were here, quite near them!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mamie tepidly. ‘Yes, but they weren’t – they weren’t very…’ She paused. She was busy trying to find the exact shade of brown for the sock she was darning.
‘They weren’t very what?’ asked James.
‘Very proud of me,’ said Mamie. ‘There was nothing to be proud of, was there? They had nothing in common with Jock. I don’t mean there was a feud, but they just weren’t interested in Jock’s kind of things, and of course I had no children.’
James was silent for a moment and then he said lightly, ‘And last, but not least, you weren’t on calling terms with the County.’
‘Oh, but I was,’ said Mamie, smiling. ‘That was the funny bit. I didn’t care a hoot whether they called or not but they all did’ She paused again and then added, ‘I seem to have been talking an awful lot. You’ve got a very talkative aunt, haven’t you?’
‘You don’t seem like an aunt,’ said James. ‘If you don’t mind I shall just call you Mamie.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Mamie.
‘You seem just the same age as me.’
‘That’s because I’m stupid,’ she told him gravely. James laughed and laughed, and Mamie had to laugh too.
Chapter Four
James slipped a torch into his pocket and let himself out of the front door. Supper was over in Mureth House and James had offered to go up to the shepherd’s cottage with a message. He was glad to have a walk after his long day in the train, and it was a beautiful evening, clear and bright with a red glow in the west where the sun had disappeared. James had forgotten how beautiful Mureth was, how peaceful. He had forgotten quite a lot about Mureth, but the actual lie of the land was familiar to him; it had a homey sort of feeling.
Looking back at his talk with Aunt Mamie he felt surprised that he had told her so much. She had not questioned him but somehow it had all come out. The fact was one was apt to underrate Mamie’s intelligence.
You thought she was a bit vague and then suddenly you found she understood too much – or at least far more than you intended. But he was glad he had told her; it was a relief to tell somebody and she was a good person to confide in because she didn’t make silly suggestions as to what you should do or shouldn’t do, she just listened. He felt less unhappy now that he had told somebody about it.
James went up through the orchard and began to climb the stony track which led to the shepherd’s cottage. The burn ran down beside the track, leaping and swirling and chuckling merrily. Mureth was lovely. He was going to like his time here. He would work hard and learn all he could and then he would be able to stand on his own feet and rent a farm. It would be a good life, full of worthwhile work. If only he could have Rhoda too! But Rhoda would never marry, she was absolutely wrapped up in her painting. Even if he decided to live in London she wouldn’t marry him. She had said so.
‘There’s no room for marriage in my life,’ she had said. It seemed a waste. She was such a marvellous person – so beautiful with her golden hair and her clear, frank, blue eyes. You felt, somehow, that Rhoda ought to have children, golden-haired children, beautiful and free and happy like herself… but it was no use thinking about Rhoda. Think of something else.
James paused on the wooden bridge which crossed the burn and leant on the railing. The burn leapt and prattled and raced away beneath his feet. Darkness was falling, but the water still seemed full of light, almost as if there were light in the water and not just the reflection of the sky. It will pass, thought James. People don’t go on being unhappy for ever. Soon I shall be able to see a gold head without feeling as if someone had stuck a dagger into my heart… soon I shall be able to think of Mother without feeling as if she were dead. Selfish hound, said James to himself. Mother will be happy with Robert. He's decent. I like him awfully. Why on earth do I feel as if I were an orphan child? He laughed, but without much merriment, and walked on.
The shepherd's cottage was in a little hollow and, as James approached, he saw a light in the square window, a red glow shining through red curtains. He went up to the door and knocked, and the door was opened almost immediately by a small man with a weather-beaten face.
‘I’m James Dering, Mr. Johnstone's nephew,’ explained James. ‘Mr. Johnstone would like to see you early tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Reid, nodding. ‘Come in, Mr. Dering.’
James had intended to give the message and come away, but he liked the look of the man so he accepted the invitation. The room was very cosy. An oil lamp stood upon the table and a peat fire glowed in the grate. There was brown linoleum on the floor and a multi-coloured rag-rug lay in front of the fire. There was a grandfather's clock in the corner and two large oak chairs with high backs and cushioned seats stood on either side of the fireplace.
James found himself sitting on one of the chairs. ‘You're very comfortable here,’ he said.
Daniel Reid nodded. ‘I've never been so comfortable in my life. I like comfort when I can get it. Maybe you’d take a cup of coffee, Mr. Dering. I was just going to take a cup myself.’
A brown jug stood in the grate. Daniel lifted it and produced two thick white cups from the cupboard.
‘Look here,’ said James as he accepted the cup. ‘You didn’t learn to make coffee l
ike this in Scotland.’
Daniel smiled. ‘It's not a Scottish drink,’ he agreed. ‘Folks here can't abide the stuff, it’s tea all the time. Mind you, I like tea, but I’ve learned to like coffee too, if it’s well made; I like it in thick cups, the way they have it in France.’
‘You’ve been in France?’ asked James.
Daniel Reid had been in a good many places and was quite willing to talk about his travels. He was ready to listen, too, and encouraged his guest to talk about Malaya. Some of the stories James told were pretty grim, but he realised there was no need to spare Daniel the grisly details of the campaign against the terrorists. Daniel could take it.
‘Gosh,’ said Daniel at last. ‘You’ve seen some queer sights, Mr. James. You’ve been through some pretty nasty experiences.’
‘I don’t talk about them to everybody,’ said James, with a little smile. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t think about them much. It’s apt to give me nightmares.’
‘I know,’ agreed Daniel. He, too, had suffered from nightmares in his time.
James had had time to look round. There was a bookcase in the corner, a well-filled bookcase, and a violin lay upon the top of it.
‘I play the fiddle a bit,’ said Daniel who had noticed his guest’s interest. ‘It’s good company when I’m alone.’
‘You’ve got some nice furniture.’
‘It’s my mother’s. Alexander wasn’t wanting it so I bought it in. Alexander likes a suite – a whole room of furniture all the same that you buy in a store – but this seems more home-like to me. I remember Father and Mother sitting in these chairs, and Mother polishing the old clock and making the rug. There’s not a thing in the house but puts me in mind of Mother.’
‘Isn’t it rather sad?’ asked James, who felt that to him it would be intolerable to have Caroline’s desk and Caroline’s chair and all her other little treasures but no Caroline.
Daniel looked thoughtful. ‘I know fine what you mean,’ he said. ‘But your mother’s a young woman and my mother was old. It’s a natural thing for old folks to die. She’d had a good life and she wouldn’t have wanted to live on and get so that she couldn’t do things. It says in the Book, “The days of our years are threescore and ten and if, by reason of strength, they be fourscore years; yet is their strength labour and sorrow, for it is soon cut off and we fly away.” That’s very true, Mr. James.’
Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2) Page 3