‘Perhaps tidiness doesn’t matter, eh?’
‘I like things tidy,’ said James.
‘So do I and it does matter. Take Denmark, for instance,’ said Jock, dismounting from his horse so that he could speak to James more comfortably. ‘The Danes are good farmers; they haven’t a great deal of land, but they make the most of it. I went over there one summer and had a look round. Their efficiency is amazing. Their farms are models of neatness, no broken implements lying around, cluttering up the place, their fields are neat, too. No weeds, no hedges.’
‘No hedges!’ echoed James in surprise.
‘A hedge takes up six feet of good land, and good land is valuable. They tether their cows with long ropes and lead them home for the milking. You might see a man walking along the road with eight of ten cows behind him. They’ve exterminated every rabbit in the country. How’s that for efficiency?’
‘It certainly sounds —’
‘I don’t go so far as that,’ declared Jock in a thoughtful voice. ‘I like hedges, they’re pretty; but I keep them well trimmed and the ditches properly drained. I like my cattle to have liberty to stray about the field – and I like rabbit-pie – but all the same, I learnt a lot from the Danes.’ He paused and added, ‘It would do Mackenzie good to go for a visit to Denmark.’
‘Uncle Jock,’ said James. ‘I think, perhaps, I’d better tell you how I fell foul of Mr. Mackenzie.’
‘It might be as well,’ agreed Jock dryly. ‘I’ve had Mackenzie’s version of it, so now I’ll have yours.’
‘Yes,’ said James rather uncomfortably. ‘It was on Saturday. I went over with a message, you’ll remember, and when I got there he was out and the men were knocking off work. There was still some hay left out and a couple of hours’ overtime work would have cleared the field. I didn’t like the look of the weather much, and I knew the glass was falling; we’d got all the Mureth hay in on Friday of course.’
‘The hay was dry?’ inquired Jock.
‘Beautifully dry. Gosh, I was fed up! When I saw the men knocking off I felt I wanted to go and gather in that hay with my own hands.’
‘Did you speak to the men?’
James nodded. ‘As a matter of fact I did. I said I’d help if they’d stay on and do overtime, but they wouldn’t. Apparently they had done that before in much the same circumstances and Mr. Mackenzie had refused to pay them overtime because he hadn’t sanctioned it. So that was that. I was mooching about, wondering what I could do, when Mr. Mackenzie arrived back in his car so I said something to him about it, and perhaps I wasn’t as tactful as I should have been. He was as sick as mud,’ said James frankly.
‘He was, was he?’
‘Yes, he muttered something about “amateur farmers” and went into the house. I’m sorry about it. I mean, I know I shouldn’t have interfered, but it seemed all wrong.’
‘Of course it was wrong!’ cried Jock furiously. ‘The man went out in his car and left the hay lying on the ground! It was like a surgeon leaving his patient on the operating table and going out to have a drink. A man who can do that is no use. He hasn’t the right mentality to be a farmer.’
‘It was Saturday,’ said James who was beginning to feel a little sorry for Mackenzie.
‘Saturday! What’s that got to do with it? Rain is just as wet on Saturday as any other day. By heaven, I’ll have that man out of Boscath before he’s much older!’
James would have liked to hear Mr. Mackenzie’s version of the affair but this did not seem the right moment to ask for it. He hesitated, and then said, ‘Is there anything you would like me to do this morning, Uncle Jock?’
Jock smiled; his anger was short lived and in any case he was not angry with James. ‘It looks to me as if you intended to catch some fish,’ said Jock. ‘Away with you, James! There’s nothing I like better than a trout fried in oatmeal for my breakfast.’
Chapter Twelve
James was no stranger to the river. Uncle Jock had taught him to fish when he was quite a small boy, and every time he had come to Mureth on a visit he had fished. There were salmon in the river, but James had come out after the wily trout.
He had seen many rivers but never one that he liked better than this. It was a small river, as rivers go, neither very wide nor very deep. Perhaps its charm lay in its varied character. Here you had high rocks from which the water cascaded into deep pools, leaping from ledge to ledge in glassy waves. There you had shallow stretches where the water splashed and rippled over its bed of stones. Big black boulders did their best to block its passage but the water slid between them or curled round them and ran on. Farther down, nearer Drumburly, the speed of the river lessened and it dawdled along between grassy banks, mirroring trees and willows in its quiet surface. It was deeper here, as still waters often are, and its bed was of silted mud, deposited through thousands of years, so it was less interesting to fish and more dangerous to wading fishermen.
James had no intention of going down to the slow-flowing reaches. There were plenty of good places for trout within a mile of Mureth House. He made up a cast and knotted it to the line. Rod in hand, he wandered down to a pool he knew of, where the river made a bend.
There was a nice westerly breeze: James had it behind him as he cast across the pool, but for all that his cast was exceedingly bad. The line fell with a splash in the water; the gut was hopelessly tangled. James had not fished for years and his hand had lost its cunning. He drew in his line, cursing himself for not having practised a bit on the lawn before coming down to the river; at this rate he would frighten every fish in the pool! After a few casts, however, he began to get into it; the line flew out smoothly, the flies landed upon the rippling surface of the pool as sweetly as a kiss… Gosh, it was fascinating! He drew the flies slowly across the pool and cast again. Nothing rose. There was no sign that any trout existed – or ever had existed – in the pool.
James tried there for a while and then wandered on. He fished another pool where a hill burn came tumbling into the river. There was usually a trout here, but today there was no trout, or, if there were, he was not tempted by James’s flies.
James did not mind. He was enjoying himself. Even if he caught no fish – even if he saw no fish – it was worthwhile. He revelled in the sunshine, the gentle breeze, the bright ripple of the water; he lifted his eyes and saw the white clouds moving slowly across the blue sky. He felt soothed, rested, refreshed.
The river was so lovely, so perfectly beautiful… he wondered what Rhoda would think of it. He had told Rhoda about the river but no amount of telling could convey its charm. If only he could show it to her! Perhaps she would paint it. James did not know a great deal about pictures but he felt pretty certain that the river was ‘paintable’. That was the word. Rhoda had painted the Roman Well at Ashbridge but had refused to paint a picture of some trees on Cock Hill above Vittoria Cottage. ‘ Not paintable,’ Rhoda had said.
James still thought of Rhoda, though perhaps not quite so constantly as before. She was as far out of reach as the moon, and how foolish it was to keep to crying for the moon! Rhoda had refused him definitely; she had told him she was very fond of him but she had made it quite clear that her painting came first. She could not be his wife and continue as a professional painter. James had accepted that – he accepted it with the vague idea that perhaps she might change. Later on, when he was settled, he would write and ask her again – or perhaps go to London and ask her – but since coming to Mureth he had realised that farming could not be quickly learnt; it would be ages before he could embark upon a farm of his own. He was not settled, nor likely to be settled for years, so he had nothing to offer any girl. This being so, he had written a pleasant, friendly letter to Rhoda, telling her some of the amusing things that had happened, and he had received a pleasant, friendly letter in reply.
Having fished assiduously all morning without a single rise, James decided to knock off for lunch. He climbed the bank, took off his waders and sat down with his back ag
ainst an enormous stone. Lizzie had made a tempting assortment of sandwiches and James was extremely hungry. It was not until he was halfway through his lunch that he realised he had chosen the old Stone Circle for his picnic ground. Uncle Jock had shown it to him and told him about it when he was here before.
The circle had been here in the days of Moses, when the Children of Israel were wandering in the wilderness on their way to the Promised Land. It was a place of worship, like Stonehenge. It was an open air temple where men gathered to worship the sun, to hail its rising above the rounded hills, and make sacrifices of blood and fire. James had not been interested in it when he was a boy and had had a vague sort of feeling that Uncle Jock was a bit too keen about the Stone Circle, but, now that he was older, James understood. Odd, thought James, here am I leaning against a stone which was erected by a sun-worshipper something like three thousand years ago. I wonder what those Stone Circle men looked like, I wonder what sort of lives they led, what sort of things they did and thought. It must have been a terrific job collecting the stones and setting them up without cranes or tractors or anything.
James started upon his last sandwich, which he discovered was full of dates. Dates, thought James, that’s queer. Uncle Jock said that if you stood in the middle of the Circle at sunrise on the first day of summer you could see the sun come up through a gap in the hills, so the Circle was not only a temple of the sun, it was also a calendar to tell the seasons of the year. They must have been intelligent fellows to have worked it all out.
When he had finished his lunch James wandered round looking at the stones and marvelling at their size. Half the Circle had vanished, for the river had changed its course and washed some of the stones away, but twenty-two remained, big clumsy stones set firmly in the soil. Somebody had planted a ring of thorn trees round them, perhaps as a gesture of respect; the trees were old and gnarled but they were covered with green leaves. It was a peaceful place, but it had not always been peaceful. Long, long ago it had been the scene of wild excitement, of fanaticism and religious fervour – and who could tell what sort of blood sacrifices had been offered upon the sacrificial stone!
It was now time to make a move. James decided to fish up the river to Mureth. He had little hope of catching anything, for obviously this was one of those days when the trout were not taking. It seemed a perfect day for fishing, but it was not. All the same, there might be one trout willing to be caught, and James was extremely anxious to catch one so that Uncle Jock might have his favourite breakfast. James put a butcher on as his tail fly and began to fish.
His second cast rose a trout, but unfortunately James was so surprised that he failed to strike at the right moment and it disappeared. Almost immediately another trout came at him and this time he struck too soon. He fished on, but more carefully, and presently hooked and landed an extremely nice fish, probably about a pound. There were trout rising all over the pools and James had an hour’s first-class fishing; he caught five good fish and lost three others (much larger of course) through being too excited.
When James got home he was wet through, so he changed his clothes, washed and went down to tea. It annoyed him considerably to hear voices coming from the drawing room, for he had expected to find Mamie alone and had been looking forward eagerly to telling her about his adventures. He paused with his hand upon the doorknob. He was in no mood to make polite conversation, but he wanted his tea. Oh, well, said James to himself, and with that he opened the door and went in.
‘There you are, James!’ exclaimed Mamie in tones of relief. ‘We thought you were lost. Here’s Holly!’
‘I came over with a message from Aunt Adela,’ said Holly, smiling at James. ‘Mrs. Johnstone asked me to stay to tea.’
‘Good,’ said James cheerfully. He was glad the visitor was Holly, for she was friendly and easy to talk to. There was no need to make polite conversation for her benefit.
‘Come and tell us all about it,’ Mamie said.
‘How many did you catch?’ asked Holly.
James sat down and accepted a cup of tea. ‘It was lovely,’ he declared. ‘It was perfectly marvellous. I’ve decided fishing is the best form of sport in the whole world! There’s nothing to touch it.’
‘I know. It’s frightfully exciting,’ Holly agreed.
‘You’re keen on fishing?’
‘Oh, yes, rather. Of course I don’t get much of it, you know.’
Thus encouraged, James began to talk. He found himself talking a good deal, talking and eating, drinking large quantities of hot, sweet tea. He found himself telling the story of the big trout that got away and telling it amusingly, telling it against himself. It was fun to make Holly laugh.
Mamie had withdrawn into herself (it was a habit of hers to withdraw into herself when other people were talking), so that it almost seemed as if she were not present, or as if she were present only to pour out tea and see that her companions were doing justice to the scones and honey and the chocolate cake. After a little James noticed her withdrawal and tried to include her in the conversation, but Mamie would not be drawn.
The subject of the conversation had now changed from fishing to mutual friends. Holly had stayed at Oxford and, whilst staying there, had been taken by her hosts to a bathing party at an enormous house called Bendersleigh Manor.
‘The Bright’s!’ exclaimed James.
‘Yes, do you know them?’
James had never met the Bright’s but he had heard of them, of course. Rhoda’s brother, Derek Ware, had married Valerie Bright.
‘What is she like?’ inquired James.
‘Rather marvellous in a Bright way,’ replied Holly mischievously. ‘Big and Bright and Beautiful – that’s Valerie.’
‘Doesn’t Mr. Bright make toothpaste?’ asked Mamie suddenly.
‘Gallons of it,’ nodded Holly.
‘Yards of it, you mean,’ said James. ‘Toothpaste is always measured by length. You’re told to put half an inch on your brush – surely you know that, Holly.’
They laughed.
‘Tell us about the bathing party,’ urged James.
Holly was only too willing to oblige; she gave a most amusing (if slightly malicious) account of the bathing party at ‘Toothpaste Palace’. Everything had been done regardless of expense. Even the bath-towels, with which the guests had been provided, were larger and fluffier than ordinary bath-towels. The party had been ornamented by a galaxy of film stars, male and female, not stars of the first magnitude, but sufficiently glamorous, who lay about the terrace in elegant attitudes and showed little inclination to take to the water.
Having finished with the bathing party, Holly proceeded to discuss a play which she had seen in London, a play called Eve’s Dilemma with Harriet Fane in the leading part.
‘It was an idiotic play,’ said Holly. ‘It was an absolute flop.’
‘Harriet Fane is my aunt,’ said James, laughing. ‘Better to warn you before you say any more.’
‘But she’s wonderful!’ cried Holly. ‘Surely you didn’t think I meant she was a flop? The play wasn’t worthy of her, that’s all. Harriet Fane is a gorgeous person; I admire her more than I can say. But how does it happen that she’s your aunt?’
‘Because she’s my sister,’ said Mamie.
‘Harriet Fane is really Harriet Armstrong,’ explained James.
They talked some more about Harriet and then Holly rose to go. ‘It’s been lovely,’ she declared. ‘I may come again, mayn’t I?’
Mamie said she might, but she did not say it with much enthusiasm. She was incapable of gush.
‘What about the dance?’ asked James significantly.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mamie. ‘We’re having a little dance. I’m afraid it’s just a dance in the barn for the farm people, but if you would like to come’
‘Of course I should love to come!’
‘We have it every year,’ explained Mamie. ‘We have it when the big barn is nearly empty, before the harvest. Jock and I always go, o
f course, but I’m afraid you might find it rather – I mean, it’s really for the farm people, so,’
‘I’d love to come,’ repeated Holly. ‘Honestly, I should adore it.’
‘And Eleanor must come,’ said James.
‘Eleanor!’ exclaimed Holly in amazement.
Mamie was surprised too. ‘But, James,’ she began.
‘We must ask Eleanor,’ said James firmly. ‘You could write a note to Lady Shaw, couldn’t you? If you wrote it now, Holly could take it back with her. That would be a good plan, wouldn’t it?’
Neither Mamie nor Holly agreed with James. Holly had no desire to be burdened with the task of looking after her young cousin at the dance, and Mamie was averse to writing the letter of invitation because she was certain that Lady Shaw would refuse to let the child come, but James was adamant. He opened Mamie’s desk and placed a chair for her. ‘It won’t take long,’ he said.
Mamie sat down somewhat reluctantly and wrote to Lady Shaw, explaining about the dance and saying that they would be very glad if the young people, including Eleanor, could come over to Mureth on Tuesday and join the party.
Chapter Thirteen
It was cribbage that evening after dinner. Jock and Mamie played as usual and James sat and watched them. He discovered quite suddenly that he loved them dearly. He had always been very fond of them of course, but in the last few weeks he had begun to understand them, and with understanding had come love.
‘Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six and a pair makes eight and a double run of three is fourteen and one for his nob is fifteen… that puts me out, Jock,’ announced Mamie.
‘Good for you!’ said Jock.
They gathered up the cards but did not start another game. James saw a look pass between them.
‘We wondered,’ said Mamie. ‘We wondered whether you had been here long enough to make up your mind whether,’
‘Whether or not you want to take up farming?’ said Jock, finishing the sentence for her.
Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2) Page 9