Rhoda took the point. She had received more flowery compliments but few that had pleased her better.
“I used to draw pictures,” added Duggie. He spoke regretfully for the sight of Mrs. James drawing and her evident pleasure in the work had roused nostalgic longings in his bosom.
“Did you?” said Rhoda smiling. “Why did you stop?”
He could not find an answer to that. It was too complicated.
“I tell you what,” said Rhoda. “I’ve got some things to do but you can sit here and draw a picture if you like.” She gave him a large block of drawing paper and the charcoal pencil and went away to put on the potatoes for dinner.
There were several things to be done and it was some time before Rhoda went back to the studio but Duggie was still there working away industriously; sheets of paper covered with half-completed drawings were strewn upon the floor.
He looked up as she came in. “I can’t do it,” he said in exasperation. “I know fine how I want it but it’ll not come right”
Rhoda took up the block, she was prepared to be encouraging and indulgent but the words died upon her lips. She gazed at the drawing in amazement. Duggie had been sitting opposite the open door of the studio which led onto the top landing and that was what he had drawn, or had tried to draw: the open door, the banister of the stairs and a shaft of sunlight shining through the skylight. It was an extraordinary subject to choose and miles beyond his powers, the perspective was wrong and (Duggie being unused to charcoal) the whole thing was a mess but Rhoda knew there was something out of the ordinary here, she recognised it instantly.
“Look!” she exclaimed, taking up the charcoal pencil. “Look! Use your eyes. You don’t see it like that.” She put in a few swift strokes as she spoke.
“That’s it!” he cried eagerly, snatching the charcoal pencil from her hand. “That’s what I meant — here — look — it’s like this. The sunshine makes a shadow on the floor.”
Rhoda began to laugh for she was excited and amused, and Duggie laughed too. The laughter changed his face completely and filled it with light. It was suddenly the face of a young boy, impish and pucklike.
“Take another sheet,” said Rhoda. “Now look, Duggie. Look first and then draw. Here’s the doorway. You drew it straight because you knew it was straight; you didn’t look at it properly.”
He saw what she meant at once and taking the pencil began to draw again: the open door, the banister beyond. The thing took shape before her eyes, it was quite startling.
“Who taught you to draw?” she asked.
“Nobody. The man at school gave us oranges. Who wants to draw oranges!”
“But you have to learn.”
“Not with him,” said Duggie scornfully. “You said look. He never said look. He was angry when I wouldn’t do it his way. He’d never learn me to draw in a hundred years.” He paused and raised his eyes to Rhoda’s face … and his eyes reminded Rhoda of a spaniel who had been her dear companion when she was twelve years old. Yes, Bengie had looked at her just like that when he had wanted another biscuit.
“All right,” said Rhoda with a sigh. “I’ll teach you if you really want to learn and if you promise to work hard and do what I tell you, but I’m not going to waste my time on you unless you’re really keen.”
He nodded gravely.
“You can come twice a week when you bring the bread,” said Rhoda. She smiled and added, “If you come with dirty hands you’ll be thrown out.”
“I’ll wash them,” Duggie said.
10
NOW THAT Rhoda had begun to paint she found it easy to continue, in fact she would have found it difficult to stop. She took her sketch book and went out and about the farm; there were plenty of subjects to keep her busy: men in action, shawing turnips or loading carts or ploughing; horses straining at their work or standing patiently awaiting the word of command; cows in the byre turning their big stupid heads and gazing reflectively. All these things and many more were grist to Rhoda’s mill.
The shearing was over of course but one morning Rhoda found Roy in the stack-yard seated upon a low bench with a sheep held firmly between his knees. He was divesting it of its fleece in an expert manner. Roy looked up and smiled as she approached for “Mrs. James” was popular with her husband’s employees. At first they had thought her stuck-up (principally on account of her speech which sounded affected to their unaccustomed ears), but very soon they had discovered their mistake. There was no nonsense about Mrs. James, she had no airs and graces.
“I thought they’d all been clipped!” exclaimed Rhoda in surprise.
“There’s usually a few that gets left over,” replied Roy seriously. “It’s usually the old ones, too. This is an old ewe — a crone we’d call her. I saw two of them on the hill this morning and brought them in. Some folks think sheep are stupid beasts but I’m not so sure.”
“How do you mean?”
“Och, I just mean they might not be wanting their coats off,” said Roy with a sly grin.
“You mean they hid from you!” enquired Rhoda incredulously.
Roy shook his head doubtfully, he was not prepared to answer such a straightforward question in the affirmative, besides he was busy. The fleece was coming off nicely, half of it was already separated from its owner and fell back like the open flap of an overcoat; the inside was beautifully clean and white and soft, the outside shaggy and matted. Roy’s shears flashed in the sunshine, one of his strong bare arms was folded tightly round the sheep’s neck so that it was helpless in his grasp.
It is always a joy to see skilled hands at work, and Roy was an expert. He neither hastened nor hesitated but went ahead with practised confidence. To Rhoda the sight was beautiful, not only for its own sake but for its traditional associations. Clipping is an age-old skill, in some ways like the skill of the blacksmith, surviving into modern times from the dim misty past.
“Do you mind if I make a sketch of you?” asked Rhoda.
“Of me?” asked Roy in surprise. “You’re not wanting to draw me in my oldest clothes?”
“Just as you are,” she replied, smiling at the idea of Roy in his Sunday best, an idea which obviously was in Roy’s mind as a suitable subject for her pencil. “You must go on with your work as if nothing was happening, it won’t take many minutes.”
Fortunately there was another ewe waiting to be clipped so Rhoda had time to get a hasty impression of the scene before Roy’s task was finished and, perhaps because the scene had stirred her imagination, she managed to catch the inner significance of the picture before her eyes and to invest it with fire and movement. The young strong man with his head slightly inclined, intent upon his task, and the helpless sheep firmly imprisoned between his knees. Behind was the open door of the barn indicated with a few firm strokes of the pencil.
“Gosh, that’s real good!” exclaimed Roy, looking at it in astonishment. “I suppose it would take a good few years to learn to draw like that.”
Rhoda admitted that it had taken a number of years and went home to dinner feeling quite satisfied with her morning’s work. She had had a feeling that marriage would interfere with her art, for art was an avocation which demanded a singleness of purpose, but she had discovered that on the contrary marriage had given her a new confidence.
Rhoda was her own most severe critic (sometimes she was satisfied with her work and at other times not) and it was fortunate that she was able to judge her own work for no other critic was available. James, Mamie and Flockie all took a tremendous interest in Rhoda’s pictures but an interest which was entirely free from discrimination. They admired everything whole-heartedly and admired everything for all the wrong reasons; so, if by any chance they admired one thing more extravagantly than another, its creator was immediately assailed by a conviction that it must be bad. For instance, when Rhoda showed Mamie the study of a tree (of which she herself was rather proud) Mamie exclaimed, “Oh, Rhoda, how lovely! Anybody would know it was the old elm down by the river. I don’t know
how you can get it to look so like!” and Rhoda had to resist a sudden impulse to hit Mamie on the head (dear Mamie, it was a terribly wicked impulse!) because of course Mamie should have appreciated the composition of the study and commended the quality of the paint and admired the effect of the afternoon sunlight falling through the foliage and making pools of gorgeous colour on the ground.
One afternoon Rhoda settled herself upon her doorstep with easel and palette and paints and began to paint the view which lay before her — the sweeping line of hills, the winding river, the little patches of wood and faded heather. Rhoda was not particularly interested in landscape but this picture was a labour of love. It was intended for her father’s birthday and would go to him with the title “View from Boscath Doorstep.” She and James had invited Admiral Ware to come to them for Christmas, they realised it would be very lonely for him all alone at Ashbridge but Admiral Ware seemed a little unwilling to come. He liked his home, he enjoyed shooting and he was in a deep rut. The view from Boscath doorstep was a bait.
Rhoda could see the ford from where she was sitting and presently she noticed somebody crossing, wading through the water with bare legs, and skirts kilted above the knee. Mamie often visited Boscath in this manner but this was not Mamie. The figure disappeared for a few minutes behind a hillock and then reappeared, coming up the path towards the house. It was a slender girl with dark hair, clad in well-worn tweeds. She had resumed her shoes and stockings and was walking with a firm light step.
“Hullo!” cried Rhoda in a friendly manner and laying down her brush she rose to meet her visitor.
“But you’re busy,” said the girl as they shook hands. “I won’t bother you. It’s frightfully annoying to be interrupted. I just came to call. I’m Doctor Forrester’s sister.”
“I’m very pleased to see you, Doctor Forrester’s sister,” said Rhoda smiling.
The girl smiled in return. She had a charming smile which lighted up her face like sunshine. She had lovely teeth and hazel eyes, flecked with brown. Not exactly pretty, thought Rhoda, but definitely attractive.
“But that’s what I am,” declared the girl. “Everybody in Drumburly calls me ‘Doctor Forrester’s sister.’ I have no identity of my own at all.”
Rhoda nodded thoughtfully. “I’m James Dering Johnstone’s wife or, sometimes, Mamie Johnstone’s niece by marriage. How long does it take to establish an identity of one’s own?”
“It won’t take you long,” replied the girl with conviction. Rhoda was too lovely, too alive, too full of personality to remain a nonentity.
They went into the sitting room together and almost immediately Flockie appeared with tea for, although it was not yet four o’clock, country hospitality demanded that visitors should be fed.
Rhoda was a social creature, she was fond of her fellow human beings and every time she met somebody new she expected him — or her — to be a delightful surprise. Of course she was sometimes disappointed but not as often as one might imagine. People were apt to be at their best with her. This girl, arriving unexpectedly out of the blue, was going to be one of the delightful surprises. Rhoda felt sure of it.
“And you,” said Rhoda, continuing the conversation which she found interesting in more ways than one. “You won’t remain Doctor Forrester’s sister for ever, will you?”
“We’ve been here for five months and there isn’t a creature in the place who calls me Nan.”
“I shall call you Nan,” declared Rhoda. “It suits you down to the ground, but as a matter of fact I didn’t mean that, exactly, I meant that someday —”
“Oh, I shall never marry,” Nan said. She hesitated for a moment and then added, “It sounds silly, I know, but there was somebody — we weren’t really engaged, but — and then he just — just changed his mind. So you see!”
Rhoda saw. She was surprised, because Nan was a dear. Nan was not startlingly attractive at first glance but definitely attractive at second glance and Rhoda felt pretty certain that she would become more and more engaging as one grew to know her better. Rhoda would not have been astonished if no man had looked twice at Nan, but here was a man who, apparently, had looked at Nan quite often and then gone away.
“It’s amazing,” said Rhoda frankly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied her visitor. “It’s over, anyhow. It just means that I shall go on being ‘Doctor Forrester’s sister’ as long as Adam needs me. I keep house for him, you know.”
“The man must be a perfect fool!” Rhoda exclaimed. She did not mean Adam Forrester of course, fortunately his sister realised that.
Nan smiled, rather sadly, and replied, “No, he isn’t a fool. He’s terribly clever. But don’t let’s talk about it any more.”
In one stride they had crossed the boundary of acquaintanceship and become friends. It was Rhoda’s way to cut out unnecessary formalities but this rapprochement had been accomplished more rapidly than usual; perhaps a trifle too rapidly to be absolutely safe. Rhoda knew she had received a confidence which was given to few, one which in calmer minutes might be regretted. It would be a pity if Nan, looking back upon the conversation, felt uncomfortable about it. The only thing to do was to give largely in return.
Having decided upon this course, Rhoda proceeded upon it forthwith and before they had finished tea and done justice to Flockie’s baking they knew a good deal about one another. Nan heard how Rhoda had very nearly lost James by her own stupidity; how she had refused him because of her painting and then regretted it and how Mamie had written warning her that if she wanted to marry James she had better do something about it quickly because he was being pursued up hill and down dale by another girl.
“Who?” enquired Nan, her eyes wide with horror.
“Holly Douglas,” replied Rhoda. “Perhaps you know her. She’s Lady Steele’s niece. She’s very pretty and terribly attractive. I don’t like her, of course,” declared Rhoda frankly. “Apart from James and everything, Holly isn’t the sort of person I like, but I can see how absolutely staggering she is. James says he never intended to marry Holly but I don’t quite believe him. I think he was swithering a bit, poor darling.”
“I’ve seen her. She isn’t nearly as beautiful as you.”
Rhoda was pleased. She had no use at all for compliments as such, but this was no compliment, it was a statement of absolute conviction. Who could fail to be pleased?
Nan was interested in houses for she and her brother had bought a little house in Drumburly and had spent a good deal of time and trouble and rather more money than they could afford upon its embellishment, so when Rhoda asked if she would like to see over the house she accepted with alacrity. They went into every room and Nan admired everything intelligently, she was able to give her hostess advice upon several knotty problems. The studio was the last room to be displayed. Nan walked in and looked round. Her eye fell upon a charcoal drawing which was standing upon an easel.
“Duggie!” exclaimed Nan in astonishment.
“Yes, do you know Duggie?”
“It’s wonderful,” declared Nan, gazing at it. “Yes, I know Duggie; but this! You’ve found something that I didn’t know Duggie had. I mean,” said Nan, struggling to express herself. “I mean — Oh, I can’t explain!”
“Try to explain,” said Rhoda, perching herself upon the table and looking at her new friend with a good deal of interest.
“I’ve seen Duggie at school,” Nan told her.
“At school?”
“Yes. You see Adam and I are rather short of money so I’ve got a part-time job at Drumburly School. I teach some of the smaller children and I’ve been helping with the Christmas concert. The children are going to act some scenes from The Merchant of Venice — perhaps you knew. Duggie is to be Shylock and I’ve been coaching him a bit and making a long black gown for him to wear and trying to make some sort of wig.”
“So you’re the lady, are you?”
“The lady?”
“Duggie told me,” explained Rhoda. “Yo
u aren’t ‘Doctor Forrester’s sister’ to him. You’re ‘the lady that’s making my wig.’ Nice for you, isn’t it? But this isn’t getting us any nearer the mystery.”
“It is, really,” Nan told her. “The Duggie I know is quite different from your Duggie. He’s a problem child. Apparently his mother has no control over him, he runs wild and does what he likes and only attends school when he feels inclined.”
“Nan!”
“Oh I’m exaggerating a little,” admitted Nan smiling. “But it’s no exaggeration to say that Duggie — at school — is a headache. Nobody understands him. He has ability but he doesn’t use it and nothing will make him use it. Duggie’s school-face is blank or else sulky — or sometimes vague. Wait!” cried Nan eagerly. “Wait, it’s coming. You’ve found Duggie’s soul.”
“What am I to do with it?” said Rhoda, half-laughing.
“That’s your look-out,” returned Nan.
Rhoda had laughed a little at Nan’s assertion but she did not forget it and after Nan had gone she went and looked at her charcoal drawing of Duggie and wondered about him. Nobody understood him at school and it was pretty certain that he was not understood by his family. If Rhoda were the only person who understood him (who had found his soul as Nan had put it), she was burdened with a responsibility. It was a trifle alarming. It was alarming because Duggie was worth understanding, because he had outstanding potentialities for good — or for evil. She had promised to teach Duggie how to draw, but drawing was not everything. Could she accept the burden of teaching him how to live?
It had been agreed that Duggie was to come twice a week for his drawing-lessons but gradually he got into the way of coming more often, of coming whenever he could. Sometimes the studio was empty but that did not matter, Flockie had instructions to let him in and not to bother about him. The studio was a refuge to Duggie; when he opened the door and went in he felt a surge of happiness and peace. He liked the smell of paint; he liked the mess — which was not really a mess at all but a sort of ordered chaos.
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 7