Music in the Hills (Drumberley Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  There was a stir amongst the audience, but nobody spoke.

  ‘M’h’m,’ nodded Mrs. Couper. ‘It was a wee snap, but Lizzie’s sure it was her.’

  ‘Did you not go and look at it yourself?’ inquired Mrs. Bell and Daisy in one breath.

  ‘It’s not there, now.’

  ‘Not there!’

  ‘He must have put it away,’ explained Mrs. Couper. ‘He had it there when he first came – Lizzie saw it when she was dusting – and then, about two, three weeks ago, she saw it was gone.’

  ‘That was just about the time he started in with Miss Douglas!’ exclaimed Daisy.

  ‘Maybe she’s come a bit late,’ commented Mrs. Dunne, with her usual amiable smile.

  ‘Och, women!’ said Willy Bell in disgust. ‘The photo might have got broken, mightn’t it?’

  The group began to melt, for it was a busy time of day; it melted all the more rapidly when Mrs. Couper pointed to a slim figure coming up the path towards the steading, and said, ‘That’s her!’ And thus it was that when Rhoda reached the little row of cottages there was not a creature to be seen.

  Rhoda had come out for a walk before supper: she had come to look at Mureth Farm, at the barns and byres and cottages. James had told her a great deal about Mureth, but descriptions, however glowing, rarely do justice to their subject and Rhoda found Mureth more beautiful than she had dreamed. Those old stone barns – what a gorgeous colour they were! And the whitewashed cottages with their shining windows and neat little front gardens full of bright flowers! The view down the valley was wide and free; the winding river, the rounded, rolling hills. The air sparkled so that it was a positive joy to breathe… and over the whole place there was a stillness, a peaceful sort of feeling; it was like the feeling one has when the words of a benediction have been uttered and have died away.

  Rhoda wandered about. She had been given complete freedom by her hostess. ‘Go wherever you like,’ Mamie had said. ‘Come back when you feel inclined. We can have supper any time, so don’t hurry.’ She had been given the freedom of Mureth and she made the most of it. She took out her notebook and made a few sketches, lightning sketches of this and that.

  Presently, Rhoda noticed a woman come out of one of the cottages and look round, but the woman took no interest in Rhoda, none whatever. How queer, thought Rhoda. In a little place like this, so isolated and cut off from the outside world, one would imagine a stranger might cause some interest to the inhabitants! Rhoda had expected some of the farm workers to speak to her, perhaps to ask who she was and what she wanted, but obviously Mureth was not interested in strange young women.

  There were few evenings when a fire was not welcome at Mureth House. Mureth stood high and even in summer the nights were cool. On this particular evening a particularly fine fire of logs burnt in the drawing-room grate. Mamie had seen to it herself, for she had a rooted conviction that English people are tender plants, and she was determined that her guest should be as comfortable as possible and should find Mureth perfect in every respect.

  The window was un-curtained but the light was fading, so an electric lamp stood beside the piano. Mamie was playing. When she raised her eyes and looked towards the fire she could see the back of Jock’s big chair and one long, slender leg, clad in a silk stocking, stretched out sideways. The only other evidence of her guest’s presence in the room was a thin, blue spiral of smoke, rising in the still air.

  Mamie loved music as Rhoda loved painting: she could play for hours, losing herself completely in the melody which flowed from beneath her fingers. When she played for Jock she played tunes that she knew he liked, but tonight she was playing for herself and had chosen the composer whose music spoke to her heart and satisfied her best. It was Edward Grieg. Perhaps the reason for her love of Grieg was the fact that his music had been written amongst the hills, because it seemed to express the moods of nature. It was wild like the storms of winter and brilliant like the clear spring sunshine, it ran sweetly like the burns and its elfin merriment was like the laughter of kelpies.

  The music was in full flood when suddenly Mamie remembered her guest, perhaps she was boring her guest! Her fingers faltered and there was silence in the room.

  ‘Go on,’ said a sleepy voice. ‘I’m not musical, worse luck, but that seems to me a very pleasant noise.’

  ‘You’re not musical?’

  ‘Not really. Unless I like it very much I prefer silence.’

  ‘Perhaps that means you are musical,’ said Mamie, doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t always like the things I ought to like, you see. I liked that because it made pictures for me… which isn’t the right reason for liking it.’

  ‘It’s quite a good reason’

  ‘But not the best.’

  Mamie considered the point. ‘What sort of pictures?’ she asked.

  ‘Hills and clouds,’ said Rhoda dreamily. ‘Rivers, waterfalls and little gnomes dancing in the moonlight…’

  ‘That’s what it means,’ Mamie told her. ‘Grieg’s music is all pictures. He was a Norwegian but descended from Scots ancestors, and I like to think he owes something to his Scots descent. It’s just my own idea, of course, but somehow his music seems to fit Mureth as if he knew this part of the world and loved it.’

  There was a little silence, and then Rhoda said, ‘There are no great Scottish composers, are there?’

  ‘Some of the songs are beautiful.’

  ‘Sing,’ said Rhoda. ‘I’m sure you sing, you’ve got a lovely speaking voice, but don’t sing ‘Annie Laurie’. It’s a heavenly song but it ought to be sung by a man. It always sounds so ridiculous to hear a woman declaring that for bonnie Annie Laurie she would lay her doon and dee. You know, Mamie,’ continued Rhoda, who had already asked and received permission to address her hostess in this familiar way, ‘you know I think there’s only one thing that sounds sillier than a woman singing a man’s song.’

  ‘A man singing a woman’s song! Oh, dear!’ exclaimed Mamie, beginning to laugh. ‘Oh, Rhoda! Oh, goodness!’

  ‘Out with it!’ demanded Rhoda. ‘Tell me all and tell it quickly.’

  ‘It was a terrible thing, really,’ said Mamie, trying to control herself. ‘We had a young minister at Drumburly while Mr. Sim was away for his holiday and Jock said we must have him to dinner. He was dreadfully shy, and neither Jock nor I are good at polite conversation, so after dinner we suggested music. He had a really beautiful voice, a light tenor and very well trained, but when he stood up and sang ‘My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair,’’

  ‘He didn’t!’ cried Rhoda.

  ‘I disgraced myself!’ said Mamie, dissolving into helpless mirth.

  Rhoda chuckled delightedly. ‘It’s almost too good to be true.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Mamie, wiping her eyes. ‘The sad part is it’s such a lovely song and I used to sing it often, Jock likes it, but now I can’t sing it at all.’

  When they had finished laughing Mamie came over to the fire and heaped on more logs. ‘This fire burns better with a little coal,’ said Mamie. ‘But unfortunately we can’t get coal now, because, since it was nationalised, all the coal has turned into black stones. The cellar is full of them. Jock says he’s going to make a rockery when he can find the time.’

  ‘I think I shall like Jock,’ said Rhoda thoughtfully.

  Mamie smiled. She felt pretty certain that Jock would like Rhoda; nobody could say Rhoda wore a disguise. ‘But I hope I’m not talking about him too much,’ said Mamie in sudden alarm.

  ‘Why shouldn’t you talk about Jock? I expect I shall talk about James if…’ She paused.

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If he gives me the right to talk about him,’ said Rhoda uncertainly.

  There was a little silence.

  ‘Supposing he’s changed his mind,’ said Rhoda. ‘I mean you said in your letter… I mean there’s Holly. It's a silly name, isn’t it? I’ve been wondering ever since I got your letter what Holly is like.’r />
  ‘She’s very pretty,’ replied Mamie truthfully. ‘She’s tall and slim, with dark hair’

  ‘Are they just friends or… or?’

  ‘I expect he’s kissed her,’ said Mamie in an absent-minded sort of tone, as if it did not matter much one way or the other. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure… at the dance, you know. I saw them go out together. It was such a lovely night and the moon was shining. Holly is the sort of girl men kiss.’

  ‘Oh, she is, is she?’ said Rhoda, struggling to be calm.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Mamie.

  Rhoda knew exactly what Mamie meant. ‘She’s got oomph, has she?’ said Rhoda a trifle bitterly. ‘She’s got what it takes. James has kissed her, in the moonlight I suppose, and probably more than once.’

  ‘You can’t blame him,’ Mamie pointed out in tones of cold reason. ‘He’s quite free, isn’t he?’

  ‘Quite free,’ agreed Rhoda. ‘Oh, goodness, what a fool I’ve been!’

  ‘But it will be all right now,’ said Mamie comfortingly; for, having got Rhoda into this condition and made certain that she really and truly wanted to marry James, Mamie felt that a little comfort was indicated. ‘It will be all right now you’re here. If you’re quite certain you want James.’

  ‘Do you think I would do?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘For James,’ explained Rhoda. ‘You know what it entails being a farmer’s wife and I should hate to take on anything I couldn’t manage. James intends to be a farmer and when he’s finished learning about it he’ll want a farm of his own.’

  So she didn’t know, thought Mamie, looking at her. ‘That’s what he wants, isn’t it?’ asked Rhoda.

  ‘He has decided quite definitely to be a farmer,’ said Mamie, choosing her words with care.

  ‘Could I learn to be a farmer’s wife?’

  ‘I think you could do anything you really want to.’

  ‘You mean anybody could?’

  ‘No, I mean you could.’

  Rhoda had a feeling this was true. ‘You’d help me, wouldn’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Of course I would!’ cried Mamie. ‘I’d do anything. Jock will help James and I’ll help you – not that you’ll need much help. There’s nothing in it at all. I mean, if it was difficult I couldn’t do it and I seem to manage all right, so you see there’s nothing whatever to worry about. No, I’m not worrying about that.’

  ‘You are worrying about something?’ asked Rhoda.

  ‘Will your father mind?’ inquired Mamie. ‘Will he be disappointed if you give up your painting?’

  ‘Mind! He’ll be delighted. Dad thinks my painting is just a hobby. He’s very old fashioned; he thinks marriage is the proper career for a woman and he’s terribly fond of James. James’s mother will be pleased too. Everybody will be pleased,’ declared Rhoda unenthusiastically. ‘Everybody will think it “most suitable”. That will be one of the hardest things to bear.’

  These sentiments were so unexpected and so different from Mamie’s own that she could scarcely believe her ears. She thought of her own struggles to marry Jock and how she had wept and prayed in secret before she had been able to marry him in the teeth of her parents’ opposition and open displeasure.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ asked Rhoda in surprise, for Mamie had understood everything else quite easily. ‘Don’t you understand, Mamie? If James hadn’t a brass farthing and everybody was dead against him I should go ahead like a steam engine – nothing on earth would keep me from marrying James.’

  ‘But as it is?’

  ‘Oh, well, you can’t have everything absolutely perfect,’ said Rhoda, smiling at Mamie’s troubled face. ‘Not in this world, you know. So, if James will give me a second chance, I’ll marry him in spite of everybody’s approval.’

  Chapter Thirty

  The following morning was Saturday, of course. Mamie had some shopping to do in Drumburly and she was delighted when her guest asked permission to accompany her. She did the honours with pride, pointing out Drumburly Tower and retailing its history, pointing out the old Town Hall with its statue of Robert the Bruce.

  Rhoda was suitably impressed with the beauty of the country and of the little grey town; she did not say much but what she said was exactly right and her hostess was increasingly pleased with her.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll be some time,’ said Mamie as they parked the car. ‘You won’t be bored, will you.’

  ‘I’m never bored,’ replied Rhoda, smiling. ‘Or at least never bored by myself. Sometimes people bore me, but not often. I’ll stray about and do a few sketches, so don’t hurry.’

  Rhoda strayed about Drumburly and found a good deal to interest and amuse her. The place looked foreign to Rhoda’s eyes and this surprised her, for she had not crossed the sea. The people looked foreign too, and, from chance remarks which fell upon her ears as she wandered up the High Street, they seemed to be talking a foreign language.

  The bridge was lovely: she transferred its graceful arches to her notebook in a few firm strokes and indicated a couple of old men who were leaning upon the parapet gazing down into the flowing water. While she was thus engaged she was accosted by a third old man, who was anxious to give her a great deal of information about the subject of her sketch. Rhoda was quite ready to listen; she listened intently but she could not understand a word he said. He tried again, several times, but it was no use. When it became evident that their efforts to communicate with one another were hopeless they smiled and parted: he with the sorrowful conviction that the bonny young lady was ‘wanting’, she with a strong feeling that if she was going to be domiciled in this part of the world something must be done. I suppose I could learn it, thought Rhoda. Mamie said I could do anything if I really wanted to… and so musing she walked back to the Shaw Arms where she was due to meet Mamie for a mid-morning cup of coffee.

  Curiously enough Mamie had seen nobody she knew in Drumburly, so she was unable to talk about her guest and broadcast the news of her arrival, but of course there was Mrs. Simpson at the Shaw Arms. No sooner had Mamie and Rhoda sat down at a small table in the lounge and ordered coffee than Mrs. Simpson appeared in person, with beaming smiles, and whisked them away to her private parlour to have their ‘elevenses’ with her.

  They chatted of various matters. Rhoda was informed that it was here, in this very room, that Mamie had received an offer of marriage from Jock and accepted it. This made the parlour even more interesting, which was saying a good deal, for it was interesting in itself, being of an unusual shape, and full of fine old furniture.

  Mrs. Simpson invited Rhoda to look out of the window, so Rhoda knelt upon the broad window-seat and leant over. The river ran below, washing the thick stone walls of the ancient house; beyond the river was rolling country and trees and hills. There were always hills, thought Rhoda; whether you were looking at a barn or a bridge or a piece of undulating land your eye came to rest upon a lovely sweep of hills against the blue wash of the sky. If she left here and never came back, which was a possibility she was bound to face, she would always remember Drumburly and Mureth set in this casket of hills.

  It was now time to go home, so they said goodbye to Mrs. Simpson and went to get the car. Mamie was even more delighted with Rhoda than before; she had been quite perfect with Mrs. Simpson, neither too reserved nor too familiar, but just her natural self. It was obvious that Rhoda did not suffer from the foolish shyness which was the bane of Mamie’s existence; she could ‘talk to people’ like Jock.

  After lunch Rhoda went out by herself; she wanted to see the river of which she had heard so much. James loved everything about Mureth, but he loved the river best and Rhoda was prepared to love it too.

  It was pleasant to feel free. Sometimes when you stayed with people they insisted upon entertaining you, filling every moment of your day so that you felt ‘cribbed, cabined and confined’, so that you felt bound to reciprocate and be more appreciative of everything than was natural. At Mureth you could do as you like
d. You could go out or stay in, you could talk or be silent without constraint. Mamie was a companion after Rhoda’s own heart. She’s exactly my age, thought Rhoda, as she wandered down the river bank, pausing to sketch a tree or to catch, with a few firm strokes of her pencil, the curve of clear water round a jagged piece of rock.

  Mamie and Rhoda had intended to have more music that evening but they found too much to say. It was amazing how much they had to say to one another for their lives had been so different. Mamie’s life had been quiet and sheltered, Rhoda’s had been gay, but the fact was they were interested in one another, and they were both completely sincere. Rhoda chattered freely about the Art School and about the strange people she had met, but she did not monopolise the conversation by any means; she was ready to listen as well as talk and she encouraged her hostess to describe the local people. She heard all about the extraordinary party at Tassieknowe and about James’s adventures upon the hill chasing the ‘sheep-lifters’.

  ‘Did you have a nice walk this afternoon?’ Mamie wanted to know.

  ‘Lovely,’ nodded Rhoda. ‘What are those stones for, Mamie? There’s a big half-circle of stones in a meadow near the river. They look important, somehow, but I can’t see any reason for them being there.’

  ‘That’s the Stone Circle. It was made by Sun-worshippers.’

  ‘Sun-worshippers!’ exclaimed Rhoda. ‘But how marvellous, a sort of Stonehenge on your own doorstep! Tell me about it.’

  ‘Jock could tell you much better than I can,’ said Mamie, who felt unable to explain the peculiarities of the circle herself.

  ‘Are people here interested in it?’ Rhoda asked.

  ‘Some of them are. They call it the Stanes. Old Mrs. Cooper’s mother used to talk about going to kirk as ‘going to the Stanes’, and Jock says it was because that was the old name for a place of worship and it was handed down from parent to child from the days of the Stone Circles.’