Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  When Mamie made a cake she always made two, one for Jock and herself and the other for Lizzie and her children. Sometimes Mamie worried about Lizzie’s children. She felt responsible for the two young, fatherless creatures growing up in Mureth House. She felt she ought to know them better, to know what they were thinking and doing, but the fact was she scarcely ever saw them. Lizzie conspired to keep her children hidden from view and the children seemed unwilling to be seen or spoken to. They were shy – or sulky – they fled at Mamie’s approach. If she asked for them they were produced, of course, but what use was that? If she tried to talk to them the conversation was made up of questions and answers – slow reluctant answers which got one no further towards an understanding of their mentality. Jock was of the opinion that Lizzie’s children were ‘ not all there,’ but for once Jock was wrong. They were ‘well above the average,’ said the headmaster of Drumburly School.

  It would not have mattered so much if Lizzie had been different herself – if Lizzie had been an intelligent woman Mamie could have left the matter in her hands – but Lizzie was a curious creature, rather foolish and completely devoid of humour and worst of all, in Mamie’s opinion, her whole life was ruled by superstitions, by the struggle against unseen powers which she placated in strange ways. Lizzie never used salt without throwing a pinch in the fire; she never crossed the burn without muttering some strange rhyme; she never walked under a ladder; her whole day was poisoned if she happened to see a black cat. She would gaze into her empty teacup, trying to read her fate in the disposal of the leaves, and she always made a curious pattern in white chalk upon her newly-scrubbed doorstep.

  There were many more spells and superstitions which Lizzie believed in and which tormented her and took all the pleasure out of life.

  Jock was interested in Lizzie’s curious beliefs and especially interested in the pattern of whorls and circles which decorated the back doorstep and would have decorated the front doorstep also, if Mamie had not been firm about it. Jock asked Lizzie where she had learnt the pattern and what it meant, but Lizzie could not – or would not – answer either of these questions. She had always known the pattern. It was a nice pattern. The step looked queer without it, said Lizzie with a secret sort of look.

  Afterwards Jock told Mamie what the pattern meant.

  ‘It’s a pagan spell,’ said Jock. ‘It really is very interesting. Of course Lizzie has always known it; her mother knew it and her grandmother and their grandmothers and great-grandmothers. The first woman who made that pattern upon the doorstep made it to keep evil spirits from crossing the threshold of her cottage and turning the milk sour or laying a spell on her baby or doing some other mischief to her family.’

  Mamie was amazed and incredulous, but Jock assured her that it was absolutely true.

  ‘But, Jock, we ought to stop it,’ exclaimed Mamie, who was by no means in favour of having a pagan spell upon the back doorstep of Mureth House.

  ‘Och, leave her alone,’ said Jock, smiling. ‘If she never does anything worse she’ll do no harm.’

  So the spell was woven every morning by Lizzie kneeling upon her knees.

  All very well, thought Mamie, as she measured out the ingredients of her cake. All very well for Lizzie, it doesn’t matter so much for her, but what sort of rubbish is she teaching the children, and how am I to help it if I can’t get near them and speak to them? If only they would accept me as a friend… but they think of me as an enemy. I know they do.

  It is curious how quite often when one happens to be thinking of a person that person will appear. Mamie was beating her cake and thinking about Duggie and Greta when the door opened and Greta sidled in. She would have sidled out again when she saw Mamie, but Mamie called to her.

  ‘Come in, Greta,’ said Mamie. ‘Come in and shut the door.’

  Greta entered reluctantly. She was a small, thin child with a sallow complexion and lank, black hair – not an attractive looking child and even less attractive by reason of her expression, which was sulky and somewhat furtive. Mamie had known Greta all her life, she had been present when Greta was born, but she had no more idea of what Greta was really like, inside, than the man in the moon.

  ‘What do you like doing best?’ asked Mamie, pausing in her activities and looking at Greta earnestly.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Greta, gazing at the floor.

  ‘Nothing?’ exclaimed Mamie in surprise. ‘You like doing nothing?’

  Greta did not reply.

  ‘You like helping Mother, don’t you?’ suggested Mamie.

  ‘No,’ said Greta, after a short pause.

  ‘Do you like reading stories?’

  ‘No,’ replied Greta.

  ‘Playing games?’

  Greta shook her head.

  ‘Perhaps you like dolls,’ said Mamie with dogged perseverance.

  Greta hesitated. She opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it. There was a short silence, a slightly uncomfortable silence, but it was something not to have received a direct negative and Mamie was hopeful.

  ‘I used to like dolls too,’ said Mamie cheerfully. ‘I had a black doll called Tops and I loved her dearly. She was so nice and soft – I took her to bed with me every night. Other people thought she was rather ugly but I thought her absolutely perfect.’

  Greta was showing a little interest now. She did not speak – that would have been too much to expect – but she gazed up at Mamie with her dark beady eyes. She looks foreign, thought Mamie suddenly. She looks like an Italian child. Why didn’t I notice that before? Who on earth was her father, I wonder?

  ‘Topsy went everywhere with me,’ continued Mamie. ‘I had other dolls, of course, but I didn’t like them half as much. I used to talk to Topsy and tell her everything. I used to sit and cuddle her.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Greta.

  ‘You’d like a doll?’

  Greta nodded.

  ‘You shall have one,’ said Mamie joyfully. ‘You shall have a doll exactly like Topsy.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ asked Greta, struggling to dissemble her pleasure at this news.

  ‘Tomorrow or the next day. I shall have to make her, you see. You can’t buy dolls like Topsy in the shops. They’re very special.’

  Greta actually smiled.

  ‘What will you call her?’ asked Mamie.

  ‘Topsy,’ replied Greta without the slightest hesitation.

  ‘Good,’ nodded Mamie. ‘That’s a lot easier for me because I shall know exactly how to make her, and Topsy is the very best name for a black doll. There’s a story about a little girl called Topsy who had no father or mother.’

  Greta was leaning on the table now. ‘I’ll be Topsy’s mother,’ Greta said.

  There was no music that evening in Mureth drawing room and no cribbage either. Mamie had ransacked her ‘piece-bag’ and was hard at work. She had found an old black woollen stocking which was exactly what she needed for Topsy’s skin; she had found a piece of black astrakhan which had once been part of a collar on a driving-coat and would do admirably for Topsy’s hair. Topsy’s eyes would be black boot-buttons, her mouth could be embroidered with scarlet thread, her body stuffed with rags and an odd piece of scarlet flannel would make her a nice warm dress.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Jock wanted to know.

  Mamie explained.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ said Jock. ‘It’s clever, too. I’ll help you, shall I, Mamie? I could cut up the rags into small pieces, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, do help!’ exclaimed Mamie. ‘Perhaps if you help we could have it ready by tomorrow. Come and tell me where you think I should put her mouth.’

  Jock laid aside his paper and settled himself beside Mamie on the sofa with the scissors and the rags.

  ‘You see,’ said Mamie earnestly. ‘It would be better if I could embroider her mouth before we stuff her, but then it’s difficult to know exactly where.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Jock.

  James obser
ved them. They were intent upon their task, discussing gravely where exactly Topsy’s mouth should be placed and how large it should be. Perhaps it was slightly comical, but James did not feel inclined to smile. How good they were – and how unconscious of their goodness! If only there were more people in the world like Uncle Jock and Mamie, then the world would be all right.

  James rose and went upstairs to his room. He was not needed and he had some letters to write.

  Chapter Eleven

  The holiday that James had been granted was still in progress, but in spite of this there was plenty to do. He helped Jock to fill in forms of one kind or another; he took messages across the river to Mr. Mackenzie who was managing Boscath Farm, and sometimes he bicycled into Drumburly and did Mamie’s shopping. On one of these occasions he met Holly Douglas and they had coffee together at the Shaw Arms, sitting in the old-fashioned lounge and talking and laughing cheerfully.

  Holly was friendly and James decided that he liked her a lot. He talked about all he was doing and all he hoped to do, and Holly listened with flattering attention.

  ‘You really like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, and I seem to be getting on all right with everybody – except Mr. Mackenzie. He’s Uncle Jock’s manager at Boscath Farm, you know.’

  Holly had not known, but now that she knew she inquired further into the matter and James was glad to tell her. He did not intend to bother Uncle Jock with his difficulties in getting on with Mr. Mackenzie, but Holly was different. It was perfectly safe to tell Holly how unpleasant and obstructive the man had been.

  ‘He’s jealous of you,’ said Holly thoughtfully. ‘He’s a farmer and has had to make his own way, and then you come along and walk into a good position straight off. That’s his point of view. I don’t say it’s the right point of view, but I’m sure it’s the explanation.’

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ agreed James. ‘But I’m not in a good position. I haven’t any position at all.’

  ‘You give him orders.’

  ‘Not orders – messages,’ objected James. ‘I do what Uncle Jock tells me, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I understand that,’ declared Holly, smiling. ‘But does he? Some people are awfully silly, aren’t they?’

  ‘Frightfully silly,’ nodded James.

  They finished their coffee and agreed to meet again. James wanted Holly to come over to Mureth: he would take her to see the river; and Holly promised to come when she could manage it. She hated bicycling, but perhaps she might persuade Aunt Adela to lend her the little car… Oh, yes, she would manage it somehow.

  On Sunday Jock, Mamie and James drove over to Drumburly Kirk. James had hoped to see Holly at the kirk, but none of the Drumburly Tower party were there so he was a little disappointed. Plenty of other people were there, of course, and after the service they chatted to one another in the kirk yard. It was like Sundays at home, thought James, for at Ashbridge the same thing happened. The congregation lingered in the church-yard after the service and talked, inquiring for absent friends and making plans for future meetings. The two ceremonies were different but the social gatherings were alike, which showed that beneath superficial differences human nature was much the same.

  Mamie introduced James to Cathie Duncan and her brother Henry, who was at present serving in the army but was destined to farm Crossraggle, whose boundaries marched with Mureth. The young Duncan’s were pleasant and friendly, and James was chatting to them happily when Mrs. Duncan bore down upon them with a beaming smile and began to gush, ‘James must come over to Crossraggle; he must come any day that suited him, to any meal he liked. When would he come? Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?’

  The young Duncan’s looked embarrassed and distressed and James had a feeling they did not want him.

  ‘Not this week, I’m afraid,’ said James, with a charming smile. ‘Perhaps next week if you will leave it open.’

  Mrs. Duncan was only too delighted to leave it open. James must ring up when he had a free afternoon. ‘Any time,’ said Mrs. Duncan. ‘Any time you like. Cathie and I will be delighted to see you, won’t we, Cathie?’

  ‘I shall probably be out,’ murmured Cathie, turning away.

  Curiously enough, James liked Cathie a good deal better for this extremely rude remark.

  ‘If you’re out I shall come and look for you,’ said James to her retreating back. ‘I’m rather good at hide-and-seek.’

  She turned and smiled; the incident was closed, but as he climbed into the Mureth car James could not help chuckling. If Mrs. Duncan had been aware of his uncertain future she would not have been so effusive in her offers of hospitality; she would not have been so anxious to offer him her daughter upon a silver plate.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Mamie as they drove home. ‘I mean I’m never very sure if it’s right to talk to people after the service.’

  ‘Surely there could be no harm,’ began James, but Mamie was looking at Jock; it was Jock’s verdict she wanted.

  ‘No harm at all,’ nodded Jock. ‘A man’s got two duties, one to God and the other to his neighbour, and a nice friendly crack is a neighbourly affair.’

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Mamie in relief.

  ‘A nice friendly crack,’ repeated Jock. ‘But mind you there are limits. Ferguson asked me if I’d any cross-bred ewes for sale. I told him he could ring me up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But, Uncle Jock,’

  ‘Och, I dare say there was no harm in the question,’ allowed Jock. ‘I might have said yes to the man, but would that have ended the matter? He would have asked how much I wanted for them – and maybe Duncan would have chimed in – and before the thing was finished the kirkyard would have been like a market. With the scarcity of petrol there’s a temptation to talk business after kirk, but it’s a temptation that ought to be resisted.’

  At first James had thought his uncle ridiculously narrow-minded and old-fashioned, but now he saw there was a good deal of truth in what Jock said. Many farmers drove in to Drumburly Kirk on Sundays and if they once started business transactions in the kirk yard there was no knowing where the matter would end. This view struck home all the more forcibly because the portion of Scripture to which they had listened that morning was the story of Christ driving out the money-changers from the Temple and overturning their tables. It was a story that appealed to James tremendously for it showed Christ was not always meek and gentle, as depicted in stained-glass windows. He could be strong and courageous when He chose. The fact that Christ was capable of rage seemed to make Him more real and understandable to James.

  Mamie was wondering whether it had been all right to give Mrs. Ferguson that recipe for a chocolate cake, but after a little thought she decided that it was perfectly all right, for Jock had said one should be neighbourly… and of course she had got nothing in return for the recipe, except gratitude, so one could not possibly call it a business transaction.

  Jock, one regrets to say, was wondering if Mr. Ferguson would ring up to-morrow morning and, if so, what price he would give for the ewes. They were fine, healthy ewes and unless Ferguson was willing to give a good price for them he could get his ewes elsewhere.

  With so much thought going on it should surprise nobody to hear that the drive home to Mureth was accomplished in silence.

  One golden, sunny day succeeded another and when haymaking began James was to be seen in the field with the men, helping to load the carts. But there was not much hay at Mureth; soon it was safely gathered into the barn, and, this having been completed, Mamie suggested that James should have a day on the river and catch some fish. James was by no means averse to the idea; he looked out Jock’s rod and tackle, borrowed Jock’s waders and got Lizzie to make up a packet of sandwiches for him.

  James had completed his arrangements and was just starting out when he saw his uncle riding up the path. He was aware that Jock had been over to Boscath.

  An old ford crossed the river just above Mufeth House and this was the us
ual means of communication between the two farms. In summer it was a convenient means of communication, for the ford had a gravel bottom and the water was never more than two feet deep. Carts could cross quite easily and Jock could ride through on his horse, but in winter, or when the river was in spate, it was a very different story. Then the ford became impassable. The nearest bridge was at Drumburly, so, if the ford could not be used, the two farms were separated by ten miles of road. Jock often regretted that he had not built a bridge, when building a bridge had been a less costly performance; even a foot-bridge would have solved his problem. Two farms separated by a temperamental river was a serious problem indeed, and the shortage of petrol added considerably to his difficulties.

  Today, however, there had been no trouble. The river was low. Jock had been over to Boscath and had a talk with Mackenzie and come back. He stopped his horse and looked down at James.

  ‘You seem to have fallen out with Mackenzie,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ replied James. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Uncle Jock. He never liked me much. I think he thought I was snooping – and on Saturday I had rather a…’

  ‘Snooping!’ exclaimed Jock. ‘If Mackenzie had nothing to hide he didn’t need to care, did he? What do you think of Boscath?’

  ‘It isn’t as tidy as Mureth, but perhaps…’