James nodded. ‘You think things are all arranged for the best.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. Things are not arranged for us – not by my way of thinking.’
‘You mean we make our own lives, success or failure?’
‘My brother, Alexander, thinks I’m a failure,’ said Daniel, with a little smile. ‘He’s a success, I’ll admit that, but all the same, I wouldn’t exchange with him. There’s two sides to life, work and play, and his are separate – office and home – but mine are mixed. I wanted to see the world and I’ve seen a good bit of it; I’ve seen more than most folk. I’ve enjoyed working my way along; it’s what I like. I’m a shepherd by trade but I’ve never stuck up my nose at any sort of job. I’ve been a steward on a liner, I’ve served in a shop, I’ve worked on a railway, I’ve dug, and driven a car. I’ve fed my mind, travelling and seeing things, and all the time I’ve worked to feed my body.’
James understood. He said, ‘You’re a success because you’ve done what you meant to do. You’re a success by your own standard and it’s your own standard that matters.’
‘That’s my feeling about it,’ admitted Daniel. ‘Of course I know other people think differently. Lots of folk think your life is arranged and sent to you by God, especially troubles. They’re not so sure when it’s good things that come, but troubles come to them done up in a paper parcel with their name on the label’.
‘My sister Leda is like that,’ said James, smiling.
‘Lots of folk are. Do you know this, Mr. James? When Alexander’s wee girl died one of the Elders of the Kirk came round to visit Alexander, and he said, “These things are sent to try our faith, Mr. Reid.” That’s what he said. Did you ever hear the like? He believed God had sent suffering and death to that innocent bairn as a kind of experiment, to try Alexander. That’s not my idea of God. I’d think poorly of a human being who would do a thing like that.’
‘Yes,’ agreed James thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard people say troubles are sent to try our faith – I suppose they’re thinking of Job – but when you put it like that I see what an absurd idea it is.’
They were silent for a few moments.
‘Would you care to see over the house?’ asked Daniel. ‘I’ve got settled now. It’s an awful nice wee house.’ James saw that Daniel was anxious to display his new abode and the arrangement of it, so he rose at once and said he would like to see it.
‘I’ll show you the kitchen first,’ said Daniel. ‘You can see all over and maybe you would tell Mrs. Johnstone if you think I’ve got it nice. She was worried at me not having a wife to keep it clean.’
The tiny kitchen was bright and shining; the row of aluminium pans glittered like silver on the shelf above the sink. Outside the back door was a shed with a motor bicycle in it: rather an ancient bike, but clean and serviceable.
‘I’m putting up a shelf here for medicines,’ declared Daniel. ‘Sheep medicines and such like. It’s a handy wee place, this.’
James agreed. When he had admired all these arrangements sufficiently James was conducted up the steep, narrow stair to the bedrooms. In the larger room, which was quite a good size, there was a four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt of gay colours; there was a solid mahogany dressing-table with brushes and combs and other toilet necessaries, and a photograph of an elderly woman whose features resembled Daniel’s.
‘Your mother?’ asked James.
‘Aye, that’s Mother. You’re thinking I’m like her, Mr. James… And yet Mother was a good-looking woman when she was young!’ He chuckled delightedly.
It was difficult for James to comment upon this, for nobody could have said with truth that Daniel Reid had any pretensions to good looks. He was definitely ugly (with his wide mouth, his big nose and his bushy, brown eyebrows), but his expression was so benevolent and humorous that when you had spoken to him for a few minutes you forgot his ugliness.
Fortunately Daniel did not expect any comment. ‘It’s a pity, mind you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Father was as nice looking as you please, but Alexander was the only one of us that took after him.’
Opposite the fireplace stood a huge mahogany chest of drawers, as tall as its owner. The deep drawers were so beautifully fitted that they ran in and out as smoothly as if they had been set on rollers.
‘You don’t get work like that in modern stuff,’ said Daniel as he demonstrated this fact with pride.
The smaller bedroom was unfurnished except for an iron bed and a mat on the floor, but it was as clean as the rest of the house and nothing could have been cleaner.
James had almost come to the end of his adjectives of praise and admiration; almost, but not quite. ‘Everything shipshape,’ said James as they came down the stairs.
‘That’s it,’ agreed Daniel. ‘If you have a place for everything (so that you can lay your hand on it in the dark) it saves a deal of trouble, and that’s one of the reasons I like to live by myself. Women are just a bother.’ James laughed.
‘I’m not against women, mind you,’ declared Daniel. ‘If I could have got the one I wanted I’d have taken her. But second-best was no good to me.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said James rather sadly. Daniel glanced at him with interest but did not pursue the subject. He took a large china dog off the mantelpiece and offered his guest a fill of tobacco. It was strong rank stuff and James was thankful to be able to say he had not brought his pipe.
‘But that’s an awfully nice piece of china,’ said James, taking the dog in his hands and looking at it admiringly.
‘It’s old,’ Daniel told him. ‘I couldn’t just say how old it is. You open it by giving its head a wee twist, see?’ James saw.
‘Mother kept the housekeeping money in yon dog,’ continued Daniel, with a smile. ‘I can see her now, taking it down off the chimney-piece to pay the butcher.’ It was getting late and James took leave of his host and went home, but not before he had received and accepted an invitation to come again soon.
Chapter Five
James wanted to start work at once (he had come to Mureth to learn farming so the sooner he started the better), but his uncle and aunt had other views on the subject.
‘You need a holiday,’ Mamie said. ‘Once you start work Jock will keep you at it.’
‘I’m a slave-driver,’ smiled Jock. ‘You’d better have your holiday before I get my clutches on you.’
‘But it's wasting time,’ objected James. ‘I’ve got to make the most of it, while I’m here. It may take me months to learn’
‘Months!’ exclaimed Jock. ‘It’ll take you years to learn farming. I’ve been farming all my life and I’m still learning.’
‘Uncle Jock! But I can’t,’
‘Never mind him, James,’ said Mamie quickly. ‘He’s teasing you. There’s no need to worry. If you like farming you’ll soon learn, but it’s no good rushing at it.’ She looked at Jock as she spoke.
‘That’s it,’ said Jock, nodding. ‘You’ll not go far wrong if you do what Mamie says. Take your gun and go up the hill – we could do with a few rabbits – or take a rod and get us a basket of fish. Look about and get the feel of the place and talk to the men; you’ll not be wasting your time.’
Mureth was a pleasant place in which to spend a holiday – not that this was a complete holiday of course. James looked upon it as a period of preparation for work and acted accordingly. He took his gun and Uncle Jock’s spaniel and walked over the hills. It was as good a way as any of getting into training. He went into the byre and watched the milking and talked to the men. Look about and get the feel of the place. Yes, it was good advice.
James liked kitchens. He soon formed a habit of dropping into the Mureth kitchen and chatting to Lizzie Smith. He knew Lizzie of course (she had been here for years), but he had not spoken to her much on his previous visits. When he had come to Mureth with his mother and sisters he was a visitor and no more, but now he was here by himself and for an indefinite period, so it was important to be o
n friendly terms with Lizzie. He had always got on well with his mother’s cook, who rejoiced in the name of Comfort Podbury, and he had found it useful as well as pleasant to have a friend and ally in the kitchen. Lizzie and Comfort were as different as two women could be. Lizzie was small and thin, a wisp of a woman with a practical outlook upon life. Comfort was fat and simple and extremely romantic. Lizzie was humourless (occasionally she said things and amused James a good deal, but she said them quite unconsciously). She rarely smiled; she had never been known to laugh. Comfort was garrulous, she loved fun and laughed immoderately at the smallest and most feeble jest. Still, in spite of all these differences there was something alike about them. They were sisters under their skin.
James had often teased Comfort and she had enjoyed it. ‘Oh, go on, Mr. James, you are orful!’ she had exclaimed. Lizzie was not averse to a little gentle badinage.
‘Och, away!’ Lizzie would say. She would say it in a scornful manner, with a toss of her head; she would say it with impatience or with feigned impatience; she would say it incredulously; sometimes she would say it bridling. ‘Och, away!’ On Lizzie’s lips it was capable of conveying a dozen different moods and emotions. James was so intrigued with the expression that he practised in it in front of the mirror, whilst shaving, and discovered that even he, born south of the Border and only half a Scot, could imbue the simple phrase with a variety of meanings.
He did not see much of Lizzie’s children, for they were at school all day and, if by any chance they happened to be in the kitchen when James looked in, Lizzie would drive them forth as if they had no business to be there, almost as if she were ashamed of them.
‘How are they getting on at school?’ asked James.
‘Och, well enough.’
‘Duggie is thirteen, isn’t he? I suppose his real name is Douglas.’
‘It’s Duggie. Duggie Fairbanks Smith.’
‘Oh,’ said James. ‘Then Greta’s name is Greta Garbo?’
‘Uh-hu,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Greta Garbo Smith, her name is.’ She said it defiantly as if she expected James to doubt her word or perhaps to object to her choice of names for her offspring.
There were three cottages by the steading and two on the hill, Daniel Reid’s cottage and another, higher up, for the under shepherd. The three near the steading were slightly larger than the others and had the benefit of electric light from the house. Willy Dunne lived in one of them with his wife. The Bells lived next door: Willy Bell, his wife and baby and his wife’s sister, Daisy, who helped in the dairy. Daisy was young and pretty; she was usually at loggerheads with Mrs. Dunne who hated her like poison. The two Willy’s worked on the farm, of course, and as they shared the same Christian name everybody always called them Willy-bell and Willy-dunne, as if it were all one word. Even Mrs. Bell had been heard to refer to her spouse as Willy-bell; but Mrs. Dunne was the exception to the rule and called her Willy ‘Mr. Dunne’ in a respectful manner.
The third cottage was full to overflowing: it was tenanted by Joseph Couper, his wife, Jean, their three children and old Mr. Couper, Joseph’s father. Old Mr. Couper had been a ploughman at Mureth but was now too old for work; he sat in an arm-chair by the window and watched all that went on, or, if it were fine, his chair was moved into the porch and he sat there basking in the sun.
One morning James was going up to the hill for a couple of rabbits and stopped at the cottages to speak to Mr. Couper.
‘You don’t remember me, Mr. Couper,’ said James.
‘Noo, let’s see,’ said Mr. Couper. He put on his glasses and looked at James.
‘I’m James Dering,’ said James. ‘My mother is Mrs. Johnstone’s sister. We used to come to Mureth when we were children.’
‘Och, aye, ye’re Jeames. I mind noo. Guid sakes, ye’ve grown! Ye were a wee laddie the last time ye were here. Ye must have been eating an awfu’ lot o’ parritch,’ declared Mr. Couper gravely.
James realised this was a joke, so he laughed.
‘Oatmeal is guid for weans,’ continued Mr. Couper. ‘It’s guid for pigs, too.’ He paused and glanced at James’s gun. ‘Ye’ll be after rabbits, Jeames.’
‘Yes, my aunt wants some.’
‘I’ll tell ye whaur ye’ll get rabbits. Noo, listen, ye’ll gang up the burrn tae the wee bridge and bear left doon the track tae the sand pit. There’s aye plenty o’ rabbits in the sand pit. I’ve seen me getting hauf a dizzen in yon sand pit. They’re guid eating, mind you.’
‘I’ll bring you a rabbit, Mr. Couper.’
‘Aye, you bring us a rabbit. That’ll be fine. I’ve no sae many teeth, Jeames, and I canna eat meat, but I can eat rabbits. Ye’ll get plenty in the sand pit. I’m auld, ye ken. I’m ninety years auld,’ added Mr. Couper proudly.
‘Are you really?’
‘I’ve seen Queen Victoria. There’s no many folks can say that. There’s naebody in Mureth but me that’s seen Queen Victoria. You never seen her, Jeames.’
‘No, I’m not old enough.’
‘I’ve seen her,’ declared Mr. Couper. ‘It was in Aberdeen. She was a wee leddy, mind you, and she was wearing a bunnet wi’ strings tied beneath her chin but for all that she was a queen.’
‘She looked like a queen?’ asked James with interest.
‘She looked like a queen,’ nodded Mr. Couper. ‘And there’s nae ither body in Mureth that’s seen her but me.’
Mrs. Couper came out of the cottage and greeted James. ‘It’s nice you’re back, Mr. James,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll be staying the summer here?’
James had been asked the same question several times – how long was he staying – and he found it difficult to answer. Fortunately he did not have to answer it.
‘I was telling Jeames I’d seen Queen Victoria,’ announced Mr. Couper. ‘I was telling Jeames’
‘Ye’re an awful auld blether,’ said his daughter-in-law affectionately.
James found the sand pit quite easily; he approached it with care, crawling up the side of the hill where the brambles grew thickest. He was not out for sport; he was pot-hunting, so he would shoot his rabbits sitting if he could. Mamie wanted two or more and he had promised one to old Mr. Couper; perhaps he had been a bit rash.
When he reached the top of the slope he raised his head and looked over the edge of the sand pit; there were three rabbits in view. One of them was lopping about near its hole, but the other two were sitting together on a sloping bank of sand. They were enjoying the sunshine. Poor brutes, they would not enjoy it long! James felt a trifle compunctious but he steeled his heart and took aim carefully. It was a very easy shot – nobody could have missed those unsuspecting rabbits – and James did not miss. He went down and collected the two limp bodies: they were both stone dead.
‘That means rabbit pie for dinner tomorrow, Mr. James!’ The speaker was Daniel Reid. He was standing on the edge of the sand pit with his collie beside him.
‘Hallo, Daniel!’ cried James. ‘I’ve got two, but I’ve got to get another.’
‘You’ll need to wait a bit. They’re all scared, but they’ll soon forget. They’re foolish creatures.’
James went back to his former position and Daniel sat down beside him. The collie lay at his feet panting. It was a bitch, black and white, with a sharp-pointed muzzle and pricked ears.
‘We’ve been up the hill, Gyp and me,’ said Daniel. ‘There’s a pool up there where the sheep come to drink; it’s near the old quarry.’
‘You know Mureth well, of course.’
Daniel nodded. ‘It’s queer how well you remember places you knew when you were a laddie. You go away across the world; you see a thousand different places; you never think of the old places for thirty years – it’s getting on for forty years since I was here, Mr. James – but somewhere at the back of your head there’s a wee corner’.
‘A corner full of Mureth,’ suggested James.
‘That’s it. I’ve taken Mureth out of the corner and dusted it.’
There was a li
ttle silence. James put his hand on the collie’s silky coat. ‘What a nice creature!’
‘Aye, she’s grand. We understand each other, Gyp and me. She’s more sense than many a human being, yon beast.’
‘Daniel,’ said James, stroking the dog. ‘How long will it take me to learn enough to be of use on a farm?’
‘That depends,’ said Daniel cautiously. ‘Maybe you’re thinking of renting a farm, Mr. James.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘You’d need a grieve,’ Daniel told him.
James sighed. He said, ‘A good grieve would need a big salary, wouldn’t he? I don’t think I could afford that. I suppose it would be years before I could stand on my own feet?’
‘It would take a while to learn,’ agreed Daniel.
‘How long?’
Daniel could not answer that question. Nobody seemed able to answer it, thought James, and yet it was quite a reasonable question. In any other profession you knew exactly how long it would take before you could stand on your own feet and begin to earn money. James had money of his own, left to him by his father, but not enough to support him for an indefinite period. Perhaps he had made a mistake in deciding to be a farmer. Perhaps he ought to give it up and try for a settled job – but he did not want to do that.
‘I’d leave it,’ said Daniel. ‘Things will work out all right. Mr. Johnstone would never have asked you to come to Mureth without he had some plan for you.’
‘But, Daniel.’
‘Wheesht, there’s your rabbit, Mr. James.’
A rabbit had emerged from a hole at the other side of the sand pit. It looked round timidly.
‘Wait now,’ Daniel whispered. ‘Wait a wee. It’s a long shot, Mr. James. If you wound the brute it’ll whisk down its hole and you’ll not see it again.’
Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2) Page 4