Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘In London? You don’t like London, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m really a country person.’

  She did not look like a country person. Even James, who knew very little about women’s clothes, had a feeling that Holly’s green frock was a town rather than a country garment and her shoes had been made to walk upon London pavements rather than in country lanes. He took her hand to help her down the uneven steps.

  ‘I like the country best,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m going to be a farmer, but it isn’t everybody’s choice.’

  ‘Oh, I love the country,’ she declared. ‘It’s so peaceful and beautiful, but I shall have to live in London because Mummy likes it. Mummy has a flat, and I wouldn’t be able to make enough money to be on my own.’

  ‘Nice for her,’ said James. ‘And for you, too, of course.’ He thought of his own mother as he spoke. If things had been different he and Caroline might have arranged to set up house together – and how pleasant that would have been!

  Holly evidently did not share his views. ‘Such a bore,’ she said. ‘Older people are so narrow-minded, aren’t they?’

  Chapter Eight

  It was exactly one o’clock when James and Holly entered the drawing-room. Lady Shaw shook hands with James and introduced him to the rest of the party, which consisted of Sir Andrew, Miss McGill and Mr. Fairburn. Sir Andrew was tall, thin and grey, Miss McGill was short and dark and Mr. Fairburn was elderly with a great deal of very white hair and a red face.

  ‘Lunch is ready,’ said Lady Shaw. ‘We’ll go straight in, shall we?’ And she swept her guests into the dining room and arranged them at the table.

  James found himself sitting at Lady Shaw’s left hand with Miss McGill on his other side. There was a vacant seat between him and Miss McGill but no mention was made of it. Mr. Fairburn sat opposite James with Holly Douglas upon his right, next to Sir Andrew. Holly looked across the table and smiled at James with lifted brows as much as to say she was sorry they were seated so far apart. James was sorry too: it would have been easier to talk to Holly than his hostess.

  ‘Did you ride or walk?’ asked her ladyship, whose conversation was usually made up of question and answer.

  ‘Both,’ replied James. ‘The bicycle has faulty brakes.’

  ‘Very unsafe,’ declared Lady Shaw. ‘You should take it straight to the blacksmith and get them put right before an accident happens. Don’t go to MacDonald. Aitken is much better.’

  Sir Andrew seemed to be on a diet for he refused soup, waving it away as if it were poison. He also refused casserole of pigeon.

  ‘Bring me a poached egg,’ said Andrew with the air of a martyr.

  ‘You can take pigeon, Andrew,’ said Lady Shaw.

  ‘Not in brown gravy,’ replied Sir Andrew firmly. ‘Brown gravy is not what it used to be. It should be coloured with fried onions, but nowadays they use stuff called browning which is bought in a bottle at the grocer’s and contains preservative.’

  James hid a smile. It looked as if Lady Shaw did not have things all her own way at home.

  ‘Everybody uses browning,’ Holly said. ‘If you go to a hotel.’

  ‘I never go to a hotel,’ declared Sir Andrew.

  ‘You live up the valley, don’t you?’ said Mr. Fairburn to James. ‘I wonder if you’ve met a friend of mine, he lives…’

  ‘If you mean old Brown he’s dead,’ said Sir Andrew, butting into the conversation. ‘Quite time, too, if you ask me. He let the place go to rack and ruin. It was a nice place in my father’s time.’

  ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Fairburn in regretful tones. ‘He was an exceedingly good chess player.’

  ‘Chess!’ said Sir Andrew scornfully. ‘Chess doesn’t take you far. He had a bee in his bonnet about Highland cattle but that didn’t take him far either. Tassieknowe was sold to a London man, a fellow called Heddle. There are all sorts of rumours about him.’

  ‘I wonder, now,’ said Mr. Fairburn thoughtfully. ‘That wouldn't be the director of Amalgamated Quisters, would it? No, it couldn’t be. He’s rolling in money, what would he want with a sheep farm?’

  ‘This man’s rolling in money,’ put in Lady Shaw. ‘People say he’s pulling down the old house and building a new one.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mr. Fairburn. ‘Old Brown thought no end of the old house.’

  ‘It’s a pity he didn’t take better care of it,’ barked Sir Andrew. ‘Other people take care of their property. I spend hundreds on the Tower simply to keep it from falling down.’

  James glanced across at Holly, who was smiling. ‘There’s a rhyme about the old Tower, isn’t there, Uncle Andrew?’ asked Holly.

  Sir Andrew looked displeased. ‘Perfect nonsense,’ he declared. ‘Nobody believes these things nowadays. I keep the Tower wind and water-tight because it would be an eyesore if it crumbled to ruins and because it would take an army of workmen years to demolish it. The Tower is a white elephant,’ added its owner peevishly.

  ‘A very beautiful and interesting white elephant, sir,’ said James.

  Sir Andrew snorted. ‘Can’t afford white elephants with income tax at its present penal level. We’re all on the road to ruin; Heaven knows where it’s going to end.’ He stuck a monocle in his left eye and looked across the table at Mr. Fairburn. ‘How is your arthritis, Fairburn?’ he inquired.

  Mr. Fairburn seemed reluctant to discuss his arthritis. ‘Much the same,’ he murmured.

  ‘You should give up wine,’ Sir Andrew told him. ‘Wine and meat are absolute poison to anybody with arthritis.’

  ‘I don’t get enough of either to harm a fly,’ said Mr. Fairburn bitterly.

  ‘Arthritis is a disease affecting the joints,’ continued Sir Andrew. ‘Many people think it is a form of rheumatism, but in reality it is quite a different complaint.’

  ‘There’s a new cure for it,’ put in James. ‘In America they’ve discovered a new drug called Cortisone and…’

  Sir Andrew did not listen. He merely raised his voice, which was extremely strident, and continued to describe the disease to Mr. Fairburn and to describe it in detail, pointing out that the knuckles of Mr. Fairburn’s left hand were swollen and distorted and assuring him that very soon he would find the trouble spreading to other parts of his body.

  It was during this dissertation, which the unfortunate Mr. Fairburn bore with visible annoyance and impatience, that James felt a movement beside him and a small fair girl slipped unobtrusively into the vacant seat.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the gong, Eleanor?’ asked Lady Shaw.

  ‘No, I was reading.’

  Sir Andrew had now finished telling Mr. Fairburn all about arthritis; he turned his attention to his daughter. ‘You were reading,’ he said. ‘It may surprise you to know that other people besides yourself can read, but other people stop reading and come to table at the proper hour of meals. Other people brush their hair and wash their hands for meals. I am speaking of civilised people of course.’

  He paused but nobody spoke.

  ‘If you spent your time more profitably I would find it easier to overlook your unpunctuality,’ continued Sir Andrew, changing his tone from sarcasm to complaint. ‘If you would read history or biography and endeavour to improve yourself instead of filling your head with romantic nonsense.’

  Eleanor did not reply. Her eyes were fixed upon the plate of pigeon and potatoes which had appeared before her and which she now began to eat with avidity.

  Sir Andrew’s eye fell upon James. ‘You were in Burma,’ he said. ‘Somebody told me you were in Burma.’

  ‘Malay, sir,’ replied James. ‘But not during the Jap Invasion. I only got out there after.’

  ‘Interesting place,’ declared Sir Andrew. ‘I was in Singapore for a week in 1925. The Malays are of Mongolic origin; some people are of the opinion that they are of Polynesian origin. The Malays are mild and patient, fond of fishing and of agriculture.’

/>   ‘The ones I met weren’t like that,’ said James.

  ‘Their language is soft and harmonious,’ continued Sir Andrew, taking no notice of the interruption. ‘They are very artistic and excel in working silver. A large part of the peninsula is covered with thick forest and there are a great many rivers, few of which are of use commercially.’

  ‘When I was there,’ began James.

  ‘It struck me as being remarkably civilised,’ continued Sir Andrew. ‘The development of the Federated States is one of the outstanding achievements of British rule. Roads, railways, hospitals and schools are all up-to-date and there are large and well-managed irrigation works to supply the flourishing rice-fields.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother, James,’ said Lady Shaw. ‘I suppose she will live in London now.’

  ‘ No,’ replied James. ‘They’re going to stay on at Vittoria Cottage. Mother likes the country and so does Mr. Shepperton.’

  ‘What does Mr. Shepperton do?’

  ‘ Nothing – I mean, he hasn’t any business. He went through a very bad time in the war, so he isn't fit to do much at present.’

  ‘Lucky fellow!’ exclaimed Sir Andrew. ‘Hanging up his hat in Caroline’s hall, eh?’

  James did not reply: he was angry and embarrassed.

  ‘Wish I had nothing to do,’ continued Sir Andrew. ‘I have far too much to do and the Government won’t give me enough petrol to do it. Does your mother get enough petrol?’

  ‘She hasn’t a car,’ said James shortly.

  ‘No car! How on earth does she get about without a car?’

  ‘What are your sisters doing?’ asked Lady Shaw.

  ‘Leda has got a job as assistant matron in a school. Bobbie will go on living with Mother, of course.’

  ‘Pretty girl, Leda,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘She came over one day when she was staying at Mureth; but she hasn’t much life about her. I like a girl to be bright and cheerful. Leda will never get a husband if she mopes about with a long face.’

  It was true of course. James had thought the same thing himself, but it is a very different matter to think things about your sister and to hear her discussed unsympathetically by a total stranger. James was furious. He decided that Sir Andrew was intolerable. It was all James could do to prevent himself from telling Sir Andrew exactly what he thought of him.

  ‘Don’t listen,’ said a soft voice in his left ear.

  James was so surprised that he looked round, but Eleanor was eating industriously (obviously trying to catch up with the rest of the party); her head was bent over her plate. All he could see was the side of her head, soft, straight hair – like floss silk – which had fallen forward and was hiding her face. Had she spoken or not? Could it have been his imagination?

  Sir Andrew was talking about Ireland now. Miss McGill was Irish, so it should have interested her a lot to hear all about Ireland. Sir Andrew had spent some weeks fishing in Donegal so he was able to give her a full description of Ireland and the Irish people. Unfortunately Miss McGill was not as appreciative as she should have been: she tried several times to interrupt the flow of information which was being poured into her left ear, but Sir Andrew merely raised his voice and continued. His voice was so powerful that James felt quite safe to speak to Eleanor.

  ‘Did you say, “Don’t listen?”’ he inquired without looking round.

  ‘It’s the only way, sometimes,’ she replied. ‘And the louder it is the easier it is not to listen. Like the radio, you know. If you have it on too loud you can’t hear a word; it’s just a noise.’

  ‘What are you saying, Eleanor?’ asked her mother.

  ‘I was just saying you shouldn’t have the radio on too loud if you want to hear it properly.’

  Sir Andrew had stopped talking for the moment so everybody heard Eleanor’s reply and looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Quite true, of course,’ said Sir Andrew sarcastically. ‘But hardly relevant to the subject under discussion. I wonder what Mr. Dering thinks of such a very penetrating remark.’

  ‘I agree with Eleanor,’ said James gravely. ‘If you have it on too loud it’s just a noise.’

  Eleanor spluttered. It was not a very ladylike performance because her mouth was full of food, but James was delighted with it for it showed she had a sense of humour and was not absolutely and completely browbeaten. He wondered how she had managed to prevent herself from becoming browbeaten. One week of Sir Andrew would have sapped all the spirit out of James.

  ‘Have you finished your pudding, Eleanor?’ asked Lady Shaw. ‘If so you can go back to the nursery. You don’t like coffee, do you?’

  ‘ I think I’d like coffee today,’ said Eleanor. ‘I mean,’

  ‘Not today, dear. We’ll have coffee in the drawing room,’ said Lady Shaw. She smiled at James, and added, ‘I know Holly wants to talk to you about Malaya.’

  The talk about Malaya was not as bad as James had expected; in fact it consisted of a few small details about the country which Sir Andrew had omitted to mention. Holly was not really very interested in Malaya, and soon turned the conversation to more amusing topics.

  James and Holly sat on the window-seat in the big drawing-room and chatted. Time flew quickly and, when Lady Shaw approached and inquired whether Holly was coming with her to Dumfries, James looked at his watch and discovered it was three o’clock. He leapt to his feet and said he must go.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Holly.

  ‘If you’re coming with me,’ began Lady Shaw.

  ‘Of course I must go. I had no idea! I mean it has been so – so interesting.’

  ‘You must come again,’ said Lady Shaw.

  Holly had to prepare herself for the expedition to Dumfries, so James took leave then and there, and went off to find his bicycle. It had been an odd sort of lunch-party. Parts of it James had enjoyed and parts of it had been almost unbearable. It was over now and he need not come again. He did not want to come again… at least… not really. Not to lunch, thought James.

  The door of the garage was open and a small, slim figure in a white frock was seated upon the running-board of Sir Andrew’s Daimler.

  ‘Hallo, Eleanor!’ exclaimed James in surprise.

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’ve been an awful long time, but I knew you couldn’t go away without your bike.’

  ‘It isn’t my bike,’ said James hastily. ‘I wouldn’t own it for anything. It belongs to Willy Dunne. He’s the chauffeur and mechanic at Mureth – drives the tractor and all that.’

  ‘He ought to take more care of his bike. It’s frightful. There’s a slow puncture in the front tyre, but I pumped it up and I think it will get you home all right.’

  ‘How kind of you, Eleanor!’

  ‘I liked doing it,’ she said.

  James hesitated with his hands on the handlebars of the bike. The little figure looked droopy and dejected. ‘What do you do all day long?’ he asked.

  ‘I do lessons in the morning with Miss Clarke. She comes from Drumburly.’

  ‘What else?’ James wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing much – except reading of course. I wish I were older,’ said Eleanor, with a sigh. ‘If I were older perhaps I could go out with' Mother sometimes like Holly does.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ agreed James. He noticed a book lying on the running-board of the car. ‘What sort of books do you like?’ he inquired.

  Eleanor picked up the book and showed it to him. It was a copy of Shelley’s poems.

  ‘Doing your prep.?’ asked James.

  ‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Eleanor in surprise. ‘Poetry isn’t lessons.’

  ‘It was lessons when I was at school.’

  ‘Was it? I just do sums and French and things like that. Dull things,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘You ought to go to school,’ declared James roundly. ‘You’d find lessons much more interesting and you’d have lots of friends.’

  She looked thoughtful. ‘But perhaps I wouldn’t have so much time
for reading. I shouldn’t like that. I’ve just been reading a lovely, lovely poem,’ said Eleanor, turning over the leaves of the book. ‘It’s about a girl called Emilia – but sometimes he calls her Emily – and he wants her to fly away with him to a perfectly beautiful island where they can be happy together and not be bothered with other people.’

  James noticed that she handled the book as if she loved it, supporting the back of it with her hand. He noticed, too, that her hands were beautiful, very small and white and soft. As she leant over the book her silky hair fell forward, as it had done at lunch, hiding her face. It was not gold – like Rhoda’s hair – it was so fair as to be almost silver, and perfectly straight.

  ‘Read the poem,’ said James.

  ‘Oh, it’s long,’ she told him. ‘Pages and pages. I’ll read tiny bits of it if you like – if you aren’t in a hurry.’

  James was not in a hurry. He leant upon the handlebars and listened.

  ‘It is an isle ’twixt Heaven, Air, Earth and Sea,

  Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity; …

  The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm

  To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm

  Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,

  From which its fields and woods ever renew

  Their green and golden immortality…

  And all the place is peopled with sweet airs;

  The light clear element which the isle wears

  Is heavy with the scent of lemon flowers,

  Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,

  And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep;

  And from the moss, violets and jonquils peep,

  We two will rise and sit and walk together

  Under the roof of blue Ionian weather

  And wander in the meadows, or ascend

  The mossy mountains where the blue heavens bend

  With lightest winds to touch their paramour

  Or linger where the pebble-paven shore

  Under the quick faint kisses of the sea

  Trembles and sparkles as in ecstasy…

  The light childish voice read on; for once Eleanor had started, she found it difficult to stop. James did not want her to stop. It was extraordinarily intriguing to hear the poem of passionate love fall from the innocent lips of Eleanor. What did she know of ‘Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again’? What did she know of ‘burning souls’, of ‘one passion in twin hearts’? Obviously nothing. The words fell from her lips sweetly but coolly like dew.