Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  As a rule Lizzie did not like snow, it was messy stuff, people brought it into her kitchen on their boots and it melted. The children could not go to school so they were under her feet all day, they went out and got wet and dirty and she had to dry their clothes, but on this occasion the snow was her friend, for when it thawed and the road to Drumburly was opened Doctor Forrester would go away. Every morning when Lizzie awoke the first thing she did was to look out and see whether the snow were still there, and every morning the snow was there, white and shining in the sunshine.

  Mamie’s feelings were exactly the opposite; as a rule she liked the snow and it amused her to be snowed up and cut off from the outside world. Her store-cupboard was full; there was milk and butter and eggs on the farm; Mureth could have withstood a siege of several months’ duration quite comfortably, but on this occasion the snow was her enemy for it had severed all communications with Boscath. It was not the river this time, the river was low and easily fordable, for the springs higher up the valley were frozen, but on the other side of the ford there was an enormous drift, a miniature mountain. And Boscath had no telephone so it was completely isolated; there was no way of getting in touch with Boscath. What were they doing, Mamie wondered as she gazed in the direction of Boscath (the chimneys of which alone were visible above the drifts of snow). Were they all right? Had they enough food? Every morning when Mamie awoke the first thing she did was to look out of her window and see whether her prayers had been answered and a thaw had set in … and every morning she was disappointed to find that it had not. There lay the snow, great drifts of it, white and shining in the sunshine.

  31

  MAMIE NEED not have been anxious about Boscath for Boscath was perfectly safe and happy, perfectly capable of looking after itself, and Flockie was well prepared. The great freeze-up did not disturb Flockie’s equilibrium. It was God’s weather so Flockie neither worried nor grumbled. Of course she had taken care that it did not catch her out. As she tore off the leaf from her daily calendar and as usual studied the text with reverent attention she was a little surprised to read the words: “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.” How queer! thought Flockie, as she sliced the rashers from the side of bacon which she had cured when the pig had been killed, and fished for eggs in the crock of water-glass and dug into the well-filled bin of oatmeal. It really was very queer … but then she remembered that Palestine was a hot country (you could tell that from the sort of clothes they wore) so of course they never got snowed up.

  It was a new experience for Rhoda to be snowed up and Rhoda enjoyed new experiences. The landscape was completely changed by the snow, even the contours were different. There were no walls to be seen, no hedges nor ditches; it was as if some giant with a puckish sense of humour had taken his tablecloth and laid it lightly over the whole countryside … and what a gorgeous tablecloth it was! How it gleamed and glittered in the dazzling sunshine! Rhoda took her painting materials and went out to make a picture; it was too cold to sit for long of course but she could not resist the lure. She had intended her picture to be a study in Chinese white and sepia but she found that would not do; there were all the colours of the rainbow latent in the giant’s tablecloth. Rhoda splashed about happily for about an hour and then went home with frozen fingers. She propped her canvas on the mantelpiece in the sitting room and looked at it critically. It was impressionistic — much more so than any of her other pictures — and it certainly looked a bit strange, and exceedingly colourful, but all the same Rhoda liked it.

  When James came in he saw it at once, of course; nobody could have failed to see it. “Oh!” exclaimed James.

  “The snow,” explained Rhoda.

  “Awfully good,” declared James with admirable loyalty. “I mean it’s marvellous. I mean your eyes must be quite different from mine if you see that. Snow looks white to me.”

  “You don’t look at it, that’s all.”

  “My eyes are different,” said James with conviction.

  Flockie’s reaction was surprising; instead of being shocked or horrified she was entranced by the picture. “So gay,” said Flockie. “So cheery. Much nicer than white. I once saw a wee snowflake under a microscope — Mr. Brown showed it to me — and it was all colours of the rainbow. Mind you,” said Flockie putting her head on one side and regarding it admiringly. “It would make an awful nice calendar.”

  Rhoda was aware that this was high praise indeed and was suitably impressed.

  There was only one aspect of the great freeze-up that worried Rhoda: what were the poor sheep doing in the midst of all that snow? She was feeding the birds with crumbs and fat, but apparently nothing could be done for the sheep.

  “What could we do?” said James. “You don’t suggest that Roy and I should take them a basket of crumbs?”

  “They’ll all die,” declared Rhoda. “I know they will. How can they possibly survive? Look at the hills!”

  “They won’t die,” said James reassuringly. “Roy says they’ll weather it unless it lasts too long and I remember Dan told me the same thing. They’re hardy mountain sheep. The snow covers them and keeps them warm and the heat of their bodies makes airholes so that they can breathe. Each sheep is living in a sort of Eskimo igloo — at least we hope so. We can’t do anything to help them, that’s certain.”

  No letters and no papers arrived at Boscath; the only link with the outside world was Rhoda’s portable wireless. She and James — and Flockie of course — listened to the news twice daily and discovered that the world was still there beyond the snow-covered hills. Things seemed to be going on much as usual; politicians were making speeches, committees were making reports. They learnt without surprise that many parts of the country were snow-bound, that trains were delayed and communications were upset and football matches had been cancelled … and the Automobile Association warned its members to beware of icy roads. They learnt from the reports of the Meteorological Office that the anti-cyclonic conditions were likely to continue unless they were interrupted by a change. It was all very interesting indeed.

  “But it doesn’t seem real, somehow,” said Rhoda as she switched it off.

  “I know,” agreed James.

  There was very little to be done on the farm except to feed and milk the cows, so Rhoda saw more of James than she had seen since their honeymoon. James found an old toboggan stowed away in the rafters of the barn. It was a particularly large one with iron-shod runners curving up in front. James spent some time mending it and when it was ready he and Rhoda took it up the hill behind the house and had a lot of fun. They came in to dinner warm and happy, their faces glowing with the swift rush through the cold air. Flockie, who had watched them from the window with indulgent smiles, had a good solid meal awaiting them. James offered to take Flockie on the toboggan but Flockie refused; that sort of thing was not in her line.

  “I wonder what Mureth is doing,” remarked Rhoda as they went to bed.

  “We’ll find out,” replied James. “I thought I’d put the men on to digging a path to the ford; I could give them a hand and it wouldn’t take us long. If the road from Drumburly to Mureth has been cleared we could at least get our letters.”

  The weather remained dry and frosty with a cloudless sky. There was no sign of a thaw. James and his two men armed themselves with shovels and attacked the drift which was blocking the path to the ford and Rhoda went to watch them. The drift was deep and, as they cut into it, the sides of the cutting were well above their heads so that it was difficult to throw out the snow. Occasionally Rhoda took a turn to give one of them a rest and found the work less arduous than she had expected for the snow was light and powdery. They knocked off at half past twelve for dinner but at two o’clock when James and Rhoda went back to the cutting they found Wanlock finishing the job.

  “I thought I’d just get it done,” said Wanlock looking up and smiling. “I thought maybe if you were not wanting me this afternoon I�
�d go over to Mureth myself.”

  “Of course,” agreed James with a knowing look at Rhoda.

  “It’s a neat job, mind you,” added Wanlock surveying the work with satisfaction.

  It was a very neat job. They had driven the cutting straight through the drift; it was three feet wide, the sides were perpendicular and in some places ten or twelve feet high. It was like a narrow corridor with white walls and the sky made a blue roof overhead. Coming out of the corridor they looked across the river and saw Mureth and the snow-covered hills beyond. The river was low and as they had put on their rubber boots there was no difficulty in crossing the ford. James and Rhoda crossed it hand in hand and went up the path to the house.

  “We’ll go in quietly,” said James with a grin. “They’ll be in the drawing room having their coffee. We’ll creep in and give them a surprise.”

  But unfortunately the plan miscarried. Jock, emerging from his library with a sheaf of forms in his hand and his spectacles balanced precariously upon the tip of his nose, saw the front door opening in a curiously furtive manner and immediately flung it open.

  “Gosh!” cried Jock in surprise and delight. “Gosh, it’s you! Where have you sprung from?” and before they could reply to this somewhat unnecessary question he started bellowing for Mamie at the top of his voice.

  Although Mureth had suffered only three days of complete isolation, it seemed a good deal more and the visitors were welcomed as if they had come from the North Pole.

  “My poor darlings!” cried Mamie. “You must be frozen! How did you get through? Come and warm yourselves at the fire and I’ll get some fresh coffee for you. Goodness, how lovely to see you! I’ve been thinking about you and wondering how you were getting on.”

  There was a lot to tell. Mamie had to tell the story of Adam’s arrival at Mureth in the middle of the night, of how he had found the door unlocked and stumbled into the hall and fainted.

  “The door’s never going to be locked again as long as I’m alive,” said Jock gravely.

  “As long as any of us are alive,” added Mamie. Then she went on to tell about poor Miss Heddle’s sudden illness (for somehow the story of Adam’s adventures was coming out back to front) and Rhoda interrupted to say Miss Heddle was like the Red Queen and James chipped in to say, “Great snakes, so Mr. Brown did come back! I said he ought to,” and then it was Mamie’s turn again. Rhoda had a lot to tell too; she told them about Flockie and how wonderfully she had prepared for the snow, and Mamie asked if they were short of any household commodity and was informed that Boscath had everything it required. James told about the toboggan and Mamie said she had loved tobogganing when she was a child and she would come over to Boscath tomorrow morning (if she were invited of course) and take part in winter sports. Then Rhoda said, “What about Nan? She’s all alone, I suppose?” and Mamie said, yes, but she was well and happy so no anxiety need be felt on her account. Then James chipped in and told them about Wanlock finishing the cutting instead of having his dinner and they all said, “Daisy, of course!” and Mamie said she hoped he was really nice because Daisy was such a nice girl, and James assured her that Wanlock was not a bad fellow at all and would probably make quite a good husband. It was all a bit of a muddle as conversation so often is when everybody tries to talk at once. Only Jock did not contribute to the babble; he sat back in his big chair and smoked his pipe and listened with indulgent smiles. Here were the three people he loved best in the world enjoying themselves and having a good time.

  Of course the visitors had to go up and see the invalid and they found him very comfortable and peaceful, lying in James’s bed and gazing out of the window at the white hills which were now glowing pink with the reflection of the sunset. They talked to him, but not for long because his temperature was apt to go up in the evening, and then they said good-bye and went home.

  Jock and Mamie walked down to the ford with them to speed them on their way.

  “Come tomorrow, Mamie,” said Rhoda. “Don’t forget, will you? And bring Duggie; I expect he would enjoy tobogganing.” She put her hand through James’s arm and they crossed the ford together and disappeared into the cutting on the other side.

  “Well?” said Jock, in a questioning tone of voice, smiling at Mamie as he spoke. “They’re all right, aren’t they? No need to worry about that marriage, is there, Mamie?”

  “They’re almost as happy as we are,” Mamie agreed. She slipped her hand through her husband’s arm and they went home to Mureth.

  “No need to worry,” repeated Jock.

  “Not about them,” agreed Mamie. “I mean not about their happiness together. The only thing is they’re terribly isolated. James isn’t very happy about that. You know yourself that when the snow melts and the river rises they may be cut off for weeks. Jock, isn’t there anything we could do? You talked of building a bridge across the river.”

  “I’ve thought of it often,” replied Jock. “It would cost a lot of money, but maybe we’ll need to do it. If there was a decent bridge from Mureth to Boscath we could leave the daft road alone. We’ll see,” added Jock. “We’ll think about it, Mamie. I’ll get a surveyor to come and have a look at it one of these days.”

  32

  BY THIS time all the main roads about Drumburly had been opened with the snow-plough. In some places where there were drifts the passage was only wide enough for single line traffic, in other places the whole road had been cleared. In Drumburly itself the streets had been cleared by the burgh workmen aided by volunteers. Huge piles of snow which had become a trifle dirty were lying at the street corners waiting for the dust cart to take them away. Blackthorn House was soon liberated, for its gates opened onto a main road, and Henry, who was taking a few days’ holiday, cleared the drive himself. Blaikie had been detailed to help him, but Blaikie disliked work and was imbued with the idea that shovelling snow was beneath his dignity so he took care not to emerge from his cottage until the work was done.

  “You’ve finished, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed Blaikie in well-feigned surprise.

  “Yes, Blaikie, you’re too late,” said Henry. “It’s a pity, isn’t it? But I tell you what, you can clear the back drive. That will be a fine job for you and it’ll give you an appetite for your dinner.”

  Henry smiled when he had said it, not only because Blaikie’s face of consternation was enough to make anybody smile but also because he had used “Flockie’s phrase” as Rhoda called it. Rhoda had caught it from Flockie and Henry from Rhoda; it was as infectious as measles.

  The portrait had arrived and was a tremendous success. The “parents” were entranced with it. They had spent several days trying to decide where it should be hung, whether in the dining room where they could see it when they were having their meals, or in the drawing room where it would be visible to them at other times. Each wanted to hang it exactly where the other wanted it hung, which made the choice of position exceedingly difficult. Henry had taken no part in the arguments; it was his part to get the steps and hang the picture and then to take it down and hang it somewhere else. Eventually an exceedingly fine Constable was removed from the wall and Rhoda’s masterpiece hung in its place. Henry intended to tell Rhoda about the removal of the Constable; it would amuse her, he knew.

  “Dear Rhoda!” said Mrs. Ogylvie Smith when at last the matter was settled. “She has done it so beautifully and so understandingly. It is you, Henry, your very self. When you are not here in person I shall still have you here to look at. Yes, that is where it shall hang, where we can both see it from our chairs. You may put away the ladder, Henry.”

  Mr. Ogylvie Smith said less but was equally pleased with the portrait; it was an exceedingly good likeness and also a very fine piece of work — quite remarkable for a young unknown painter. Mr. Ogylvie Smith knew a good deal about art; he had inherited a taste for good painting from his father and his grandfather, both of whom had been connoisseurs. It was his grandfather who had bought the displaced Constable when few of Constable’s cont
emporaries appreciated his beautiful interpretations of the English countryside.

  “I hope Mrs. Dering Johnstone has allowed you to pay her a good price for the portrait,” said Mr. Ogylvie Smith to his son.

  “We’re still wrangling about it,” replied Henry smiling. “Her idea of the value of her work is absurdly modest. I must go over to Boscath one of these days and fix it up.”

  All that had happened several days ago and today, when Henry went into the drawing room glowing all over after his work in the cold air, he found his mother standing before the portrait gazing at it.

  “I like it more and more,” she said with a sigh. Then she turned and smiled at the original.

  Henry threw himself into a chair. “I’ve cleared the drive,” he said. “It was grand exercise and it has given me an appetite like a horse. Of course Blaikie appeared when I had finished.”

  “But I told him to help you!”

  “I told him to clear the back drive, and if looks could kill I’d be as dead as mutton,” said Henry cheerfully.

  “Listen, Henry. We will talk of the idle Blaikie later (though what use it will be to talk of him I do not know). There has been a telephone message for you from the sister of your nice Doctor Forrester.”

  “Oh,” said Henry casually.

  There are all sorts of different ways of saying “Oh,” and Mrs. Ogylvie Smith was a discerning woman. She had a feeling that Henry’s exclamation was rather too casual to be true. Mrs. Ogylvie Smith had tried very hard to find a young woman to suit Henry’s requirements; it was time — nay, more than time — that Henry arranged himself and produced some grandchildren for her to spoil.