‘Thank you awfully,’ said James when she had finished.
‘It is lovely, isn’t it?’ she said dreamily. ‘I wish I had been Emily. Do you think she was a real person?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said James. He tried to remember which of Shelley’s friends the poem had been addressed to, but it was so long since he had been at school that he had forgotten… and, anyhow, it was better that Eleanor should not know too much about Shelley’s affairs.
‘Do you read other books besides poetry?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. Waverley and Redgauntlet, and lots of others. I love “The Lay of the Last Minstrel” because it’s all about this part of the country – and “Marmion”. I adore “Marmion”, don’t you?’
James made a sound of assent. He couldn’t remember anything about Marmion, except a sort of little picture, faint and vague, of a knight escaping from a fortress and the portcullis falling behind him and shaving off the plume in his helmet.
‘Ivanhoe,’ continued Eleanor. ‘I was finishing Ivanhoe before lunch, and I just had to finish it and see what happened. That’s why I didn’t hear the gong, you see.’
‘Yes,’ agreed James. He hesitated. He had a feeling that it was not very good for Eleanor to spend her whole life reading Shelley’s poetry and the romances of Sir Walter Scott (not her whole life, thought James uncomfortably), yet apparently there was nothing else for her to do. ‘Haven’t you any friends?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you go out to parties, sometimes?’
‘There aren’t any parties.’
‘We’re going to have a party,’ James told her. ‘There’s going to be a dance in the barn at Mureth. You must come.’
‘Oh, James! Would you ask me? I’m not too young or anything?’
‘Of course I shall ask you. I’m asking you now,’ declared James, smiling at her. ‘But you shall have a proper invitation as well. Goodbye, Eleanor.’
‘When will you come again?’ asked Eleanor, anxiously.
James did not know when he would be coming again.
He paused with his foot on the pedal. ‘I’ll see you at the dance, anyhow,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you before.’
‘Goodbye James,’ said Eleanor in a sad little voice.
Chapter Nine
The evenings at Mureth were very peaceful. Jock and James would read and Mamie would sew. Sometimes Jock would say, ‘We might have some music, Mamie,’ and Mamie would smile and sit down at the piano. Sometimes Mamie played without being asked, or at least without being asked in words.
Quite often, James noticed, Jock and Mamie communicated their ideas to one another without words. They were so near each other, so perfect for one another, they were two halves of a complete whole. It was a good thing to see, but it made James’s heart ache. How lovely it would be to have somebody like that, thought James; to have somebody who cared frightfully if you had a headache or happened to cut your finger, somebody who shared everything with you, who knew your faults and weaknesses and went on loving you more and more!
Mamie’s music was unlike any music James had ever heard. She sat down and her fingers strayed over the keys of her piano as if she were thinking and her thoughts came out in melody. All sorts of songs and tunes were mingled in her playing, and she went on from one to another without a pause. She was catholic in her choice, old songs and new songs, melodies from Oklahoma, from Gilbert and Sullivan operas or from Schubert; she would play ‘Old Man River’ and ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song,’ and from these she would stray into ‘Annie Laurie’, ‘Hear My Song, Violetta’, ‘Linden Lea’, or the ‘Green Hills of Somerset’. You recognised something and it was gone before you could put a name to it. Sometimes Jock would sing the bits he knew in a pleasant bass voice, sometimes he would ask for ‘Oft in the Stilly Night’ or ‘I Hear You Calling Me’, or some other old favourite, but more often he was content to listen and dream.
One evening Mamie suggested a game of cribbage and Jock agreed with alacrity. He fetched a green-baize board, two packs of cards and a long strip of cherry-wood with holes in it and pegs. Jock had made the marker himself and polished it.
‘Cribbage?’ said James as he watched the preparations. ‘I thought cribbage was the sort of game played by maiden aunts; old ladies with little shawls over their shoulders, with mittens on their hands and footstools under their feet. There ought to be a parrot in a cage and a pussy on the mat in front of the fire.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Jock, smiling. ‘Cribbage is an excellent game. The best game going for two people. Some people say piquet is better but give me cribbage. We must teach you to play cribbage, James. Then you can play it on winter evenings with your wife.’
‘I shan’t have a wife – ever.’
‘Of course you’ll have a wife. All farmers have wives,’ began Jock in a teasing voice, and then suddenly he stopped. James felt certain Mamie had stopped him though he had seen no look pass between them.
‘Do you ever play chess, Uncle Jock?’ asked James.
‘I used to play,’ replied Jock. ‘There was an old chap at Tassieknowe who was mad on chess, far too good for me, but he hadn’t many people to play with so we used to play together sometimes.’
‘They were talking about him when I had lunch with the Shaw’s,’ said James. ‘They said the place had been bought by a very rich man from London. Is that true?’
‘It’s true enough,’ nodded Jock. ‘There have been all sorts of queer rumours about the man and I was hearing the true story today, and as Tassieknowe is our nearest neighbour, no more than four miles up the valley from here, its fortunes concern us pretty closely.’ He went on to explain that Tassieknowe was a very old house, built upon the site of a Roman fort. Old Mr. Brown had been interested in archaeology and always said that the fort had been named after Tacitus, the great Roman General. Other experts disagreed with him about this and the subject was argued and discussed with a considerable amount of acrimony. When Mr. Brown died Jock had decided to buy the farm; for the hirsel of Tassieknowe marched with Mureth and Jock wanted to expand in that direction. The hills of Tassieknowe were even higher than the Mureth hills and the two farms could be run together. He had expected to be able to buy the place cheaply on account of its dilapidated condition, but a London agent had appeared unexpectedly at the auction and had bought it for a client, a certain Mr. Heddle. The sum paid for the place – which was little more than a ruin – was quite preposterous and out of all proportion to its value. It was said afterwards that the agent had been instructed to buy Tassieknowe regardless of cost.
The whole thing had been a nine-days’ wonder in the district: Who and what was Mr. Heddle? Why should a London business man want a tumble-down farmhouse in a remote Scottish valley? All sorts of rumours were afloat. Mr. Heddle was putting in a grieve to run the farm and intended to use it for weekends and holidays; Mr. Heddle was giving up business and was coming to live at Tassieknowe and farm it himself; he was married and his wife was delicate; he was a bachelor and would live alone; he was old and wanted a quiet life; he was young and sociable and would fill the house with his London friends. As regards the house itself, some people declared that Mr. Heddle intended to pull it down and rebuild it, others said he was going to excavate the ruins of the Roman fort.
The rumours had died down and gradually, from all these contradictory reports, the truth had emerged. Mr. Heddle was the director of a big combine and an extremely wealthy man; he was neither very young nor very old – probably about forty-five, said those who had seen him – he was a widower and his sister was coming to live with him at Tassieknowe. There was no question of pulling down the old house, but the renovations he was making were extremely thorough and, instead of employing local labour, an army of workers had been imported from Liverpool to carry out the repairs and alterations. Nobody knew how Mr. Heddle had obtained permission for this and there was a certain amount of bitterness engendered in the district by the fact that he was able to do so. Many landowners up and down the valley had
been struggling for years to obtain licences to rebuild barns and byres, to put bathrooms into their cottages and to make other convenient alterations to their property but had found their way strewn with obstacles and their projects hampered with yards of red tape. Some of them, by dint of dogged perseverance, had managed to achieve the most urgent of repairs, but apparently this Mr. Heddle – whoever he was – had achieved miracles.
‘ It seems very odd,’ said James, who had listened to the account with interest.
‘ It is very odd,’ agreed Jock. ‘ I'm sorry about it, really, for I’d rather have had a more comfortable sort of neighbour. Mr. Heddle is not likely to take much interest in his farm, but we’ll just need to make the best of it and be as neighbourly as we can.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to call,’ said Mamie doubtfully. ‘I always feel so silly calling on strange people – I always have the feeling they don’t want me – and I shall feel even worse with the Heddles, because I shan’t know what to talk to them about.’
‘Och, wait and see,’ said Jock. ‘They may be quite ordinary sort of folk like ourselves. I wouldn’t worry, Mamie.’
Jock took up the cards as he spoke and the game of cribbage, which had been delayed by the discussion, proceeded peacefully.
James watched them for a bit but he felt restless. He decided to walk up to Well Cottage and see Daniel Reid. He had been to see Daniel once or twice since their first meeting for he had a feeling that Jock and Mamie liked to be alone sometimes in the evenings. They were very kind to him and never made him feel unwanted, but all the same. He took Daniel books to read and he made Daniel play his fiddle. Daniel was alone too, but not lonely. James thought he might learn from Daniel how to be alone and yet not lonely, how to be self-sufficient. One must not become selfish of course (Daniel was not selfish), but it would be a useful lesson to learn how to find happiness inside oneself.
The last time James had walked up to the cottage he had found it all shut up, empty and silent, but tonight he was lucky.
Daniel was sitting at a table studying a book about the anatomy of sheep. He rose when James appeared and welcomed him warmly.
‘Come away in, Mr. James,’ said Daniel. ‘I was wondering if you’d come tonight.’
‘I came two nights ago, but you were out,’ James told him.
‘M’phm. I’m sorry about that. I was on the hill.’
‘You were on the hill!’
‘Just that. Maybe you’ll have heard Mr. Johnstone mention that we’ve lost some sheep? I’m a wee bit worried about it.’
James was aware that this was an understatement. Daniel looked worried to death. ‘Perhaps there’s a hole in the dyke,’ suggested James.
‘There’s not,’ replied Daniel. ‘I’ve been round every dyke on the hill. I’ve been over to Crossraggle and I’ve been over to Tassieknowe. No, they’ve not gone over the dyke.’
‘Couldn’t they have fallen into a hole or a bog, Daniel?’
‘It’s not often that happens. You’ll maybe lose a crone or two that way – they’re old and not so snippy on their legs – but it’s hoggs that have gone. That means last year’s lambs, Mr. James.’
‘What could have happened to them?’
‘That’s what I’ve got to find out, and I’ll find out no matter how long it takes me. There’s nobody going to lift my sheep and get away with it!’
‘You mean they’ve been stolen!’
‘Just that,’ nodded Daniel. ‘There’s no other way of it that I can see. Listen Mr. James. Isn’t there plenty of folk that would give good money for a nice giget of mutton and ask no questions about where it came from? Isn’t there, now?’
‘Yes, but,’
‘I’ve no proof, mind you. It’s proof I’m wanting,’ declared Daniel with vehemence, pounding the table with his closed fist. ‘It’s proof I must have, Mr. James. I’ve been out the last few nights on the hill but I’ve had no luck so far.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A car,’ replied Daniel. ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot and this is what I thought: They couldn’t lift sheep without they had a car and maybe a trailer, and they couldn’t lift sheep on the road for there’s always the fear of a lorry coming along when it’s not wanted. What they need is a nice quiet place where they can take a car and not be disturbed.’
‘Sherlock Holmes!’ smiled James.
‘I like yon other fellow better,’ Daniel said. ‘The wee Belgian fellow that uses his brain and thinks things out first and then proves he’s right. That’s what I’m trying to do – in fact I’ve done a bit already.’
‘What have you done?’
Daniel hesitated for a moment. ‘Well, Mr. James,’ he said. ‘If you’re really wanting to know – but mind this, I’m not wanting other folks to get wind of it. The whole thing will get spoiled if it’s talked about. Now, listen. About two miles up the valley there’s a turning off the road; it’s an old cart-track leading up to the quarry. Alexander, Jed and me used to have picnics in the old quarry when we were lads.’
‘So you know it well.’
‘Every stone of it,’ nodded Daniel.
‘That’s the quarry where the pool is – where the sheep come down to drink?’
‘That’s it, Mr. James. The pool is maybe a hundred yards from the quarry, no more. Well, it seems to me that if I was wanting to lift a sheep from Mureth that would be the place I’d choose, so I went and had a look and I found tyre marks. A big car had gone up to the quarry and turned, and I’m pretty certain there was a trailer to it. Now what would it be doing there?’
‘The people were having a picnic,’ suggested James. Daniel looked taken aback. ‘A picnic!’ he exclaimed.
‘I was only teasing you,’ said James, smiling. ‘I think you’ve worked it out admirably – Poirot couldn’t have done it better – and I agree it’s fishy. We’ll go up to the quarry together.’
‘Together!’
‘Of course. You don’t suppose I’m going to be left out of the fun.’
‘But, Mr. James,’
‘When do we start, Daniel?’
‘If I go myself I can slip away quietly and,’
‘Now listen, Daniel, just get this into your head. I’m coming with you. We’re going together. Got that?’
‘Mr. James, I’m not wanting folks to know.’
‘I won’t tell anybody. I often come in when my uncle and aunt have gone to bed. They leave the door unlocked, in fact quite often the door is never locked at all.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’
‘Daniel, if you don’t promise faithfully to take me with you I’ll – I’ll – I’ll tell Mrs. Dunne the whole thing.’
Daniel smiled. ‘It’s threats, is it? You’ll send round the Town Crier. Very well, Mr. James. I’ll tell you when I’m going. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to have you with me if it comes to the bit.’
James wanted to know more about the expedition, when it was likely to take place and various other details, but Daniel was uncommunicative. ‘It’ll not be for a wee while,’ Daniel declared. ‘I’m keeping my eyes open.’ The subject was shelved meantime. Daniel got out his fiddle and played ‘Loch Lomond’ and ‘Auld Robin Gary’ and ‘The Nut-brown Maiden’ and various Hill Billy songs which he had picked up when he was ranching in the wild and woolly west. He did not play like Mamie, rambling on from one tune to another; he played each tune separately. James listened and smoked – but not Daniel’s tobacco – and presently he went home to bed.
Chapter Ten
Mamie decided to make a fruitcake. She had plenty of eggs and butter from the farm and she had received a parcel that morning from her sister Jean in America, so all the ingredients were ready to her hand. Mamie’s cakes were a feature of tea at Mureth; Jock liked them better than anything and now there was James – who liked them too – so although they were large and solid, they did not last long.
Lizzie was in the kitchen, ironing; she suggested that she should put away h
er ironing and help, but Mamie preferred to have the place to herself.
‘Why don’t you go out?’ said Mamie.
‘Where should I go?’ asked Lizzie dubiously.
‘To the cottages,’ suggested Mamie. ‘Go and see Mrs. Couper or Mrs. Bell. You haven’t been there for ages, have you?’
Lizzie considered the matter. ‘I might,’ she agreed. ‘There’s that new young man that Daisy’s walking out with. Mrs. Bell could tell me the latest about that.’
‘What is he like?’ asked Mamie.
‘He’s a nice enough fellow if it wasn’t for his squint,’ said Lizzie thoughtfully ‘I couldn’t fancy a man with a squint, but there’s no accounting for tastes. I said that to Daisy and she said it made him more interesting; but if you ask me, I think it’s his motorbike Daisy’s interested in and not the man at all.’
‘I hope you didn’t say that to Daisy.’
‘I did, then. Why not? She didn’t need to mind.’
‘Did she mind?’
‘Not her,’ replied Lizzie cheerfully. By this time Lizzie was quite pleased to go and was taking off her apron which was all the preparation necessary for her expedition.
Mamie took out the flour bin and as she did so she marvelled. How curious these people were! How different from herself! Daisy did not mind outspoken remarks about the appearance of her latest young man nor the suggestion that she was encouraging him for the sake of his motor bike, but she fiercely resented other remarks or actions which seemed perfectly harmless. For instance, only the other day Mamie had bought some strong cotton aprons for use in the dairy and had offered two of them to Daisy, thinking that they would keep her dresses from getting soiled and would save her the expense of buying aprons for herself. They were particularly nice aprons – so Mamie thought – but Daisy thought otherwise, and instead of being grateful for the gift, had received it as a moral insult. Maybe Mrs. Johnstone thought she was dirty, declared Daisy with flashing eyes. If she wanted new aprons she could buy them herself – nice print ones, not ugly coarse things like that. She had been so ‘affronted’ that it had taken all the eloquence and tact at Mamie's command to prevent her from giving notice on the spot. Perhaps an extremely clever psychologist might know what you could say and what you could not say to the Daisy’s of this world; Mamie had wrestled with the problem for nearly twenty years and was no nearer a solution.
Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2) Page 7