by CL Skelton
‘That’s different.’
‘I know,’ she said gently, ‘that’s the regiment.’
‘I suppose that it is.’ He was not liking the turn that the conversation had taken. It was morbid. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘Later, perhaps, when we meet again,’ she replied. ‘I would like you to take me to my cabin now.’
They went out on deck and he escorted her the short distance to her cabin. When they reached the door, she paused and turned to him. ‘Goodbye, Andrew,’ she said, and then suddenly, ‘dear Andrew.’ And she kissed him on the lips, went inside, and closed the door behind her.
Andrew stood for a moment looking at the closed door. He put his fingers to his mouth where her lips had touched his, and then, not understanding, turned and went back into his own cabin a few yards away.
He undressed and got into his blue Indian silk pyjamas, sat down on his bunk, and smoked a small cigar. It was no good. There was no point in going to bed when he knew that he would not sleep. He put on his heavy quilted dressing gown and slippers and went to the chair by his desk. He sat there for a while doing nothing, leafing through a book but not reading it, looking up at the hurricane lamp swaying gently with the motion of the ship. Finally, he got up and went out on to the deck.
He walked towards the stern near to the helm, but not so near that he could be drawn into conversation with the man at the wheel. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
He had been standing there for some little time when he noticed a movement up forward near the lee rail. Someone else could not sleep, he thought, and then he realized that it was a woman. He started towards her, and as he got closer, recognized Maud. She was standing against the rail near where the foremast shrouds joined the hull. He was only feet away from her when he realized who she was, and he paused, not wishing to intrude.
She was standing very still, looking straight out across the sea. She remained motionless for some time, her long hair blowing back in the wind, when suddenly he realized that he had seen it all before, on the little boat in the Ganges. He started towards her, and as he did, she began to clamber over the rail. He sprang to her. She was nearly over when he grabbed her and dragged her back inboard.
She fought and struggled with that same mad strength which had amazed him on the Ganges. Fingers tore at his face, ripping the top off one of the moles on his cheek. A crazed screaming of words poured from her as she tried desperately to free herself. At last he got her arms pinioned to her sides and held her fast.
‘So that’s what you were talking about tonight.’
‘Let me go! Let me go!’ she cried, and suddenly her shoulders went limp, the tension went out of her body, and she gave up the struggle.
‘Maud, Maud,’ he said, ‘how could you do this to yourself? How, why do you want to do this to me? Oh, my darling …’
‘Mister Maclaren,’ she hissed his name. ‘You shouldn’t be touching me. You shouldn’t be wanting to touch me.’ Her voice became calmer. ‘I’m not a very nice person, you know ‒ don’t you know that there’s something inside of me? An animal, growing and growing, and that one day it will be born ‒ and it has no right to be born!’
At last he understood. The compulsive gaiety of the past few weeks suddenly made sense. The surgeon’s fear, related to him by Havelock, had been all too well founded. Not knowing what else to do, he released her, and then as he did so and she started to move away from him, he reached out to stop her.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, her voice now completely calm. ‘And don’t worry, I shall not try to do it again. Mr Maclaren, I hope you are aware that you have ruined everything, including my life.’
She turned away from him and he watched her dejected figure all the way back to her cabin.
He stood for a long time looking towards that closed door, and suddenly, angrily, he said aloud, ‘What the hell is she to me, anyway?’ And he went to bed.
It was three days before he saw her again. In spite of his outburst, he spent every waking hour watching her door. Not once throughout his vigil did she come out. He saw Turner come and go, carrying trays. On two occasions he wrote a little note begging to be allowed to see her, but both were ignored. However, he maintained his watch. He was not sure whether it was because he wanted desperately to see her or just that he was afraid that she might try again.
They were into the English Channel now. The ship was to unload the tea at London and then sail to Liverpool with her cotton. They passed Torbay at dusk, the flashing light on Berry Head warning of the treacherous rocks which snaked out from the cliff on which it stood. Inshore of them, a group of Brixham trawlers were busy on their fishing ground, drifting slowly along as their trawls gobbled up their catch. They would be out all night and then race home the following morning to land and sell.
The next morning he breakfasted and took up his position on deck outside her cabin. Turner passed him with her finished breakfast tray.
‘How is she this morning, Turner?’
‘Seems a bit better, guv’. She’s got dressed.’ And he went on his way.
Andrew stayed there till one o’clock, but there was no sight of her, and finally he went in to lunch. The sea was choppy and he had to struggle with his cup of soup. He had just finished when she walked in. She was wearing a brown woollen travelling outfit. She had done her hair with care in two buns, one over each ear. As she entered the saloon, the men rose to greet her.
‘Miss Westburn, I trust you are feeling well now,’ said the Reverend Wilberforce.
‘I was not aware that I had been ill, Mr Wilberforce,’ she replied coolly.
Her face was pale and her eyes looked tired, and the tone of her voice seemed to preclude conversation. She took her place beside Andrew, who half-turned to speak to her and then thought better of it. They passed the rest of the meal in silence.
They were in the Straits of Dover when he found her alone on deck. She was standing gazing expressionless towards the white-grey cliffs which rose through the thin rain. He stood watching her for a while as they ploughed on past the green-capped cliffs and the grey misty dampness of the town and fort. He realized that she was crying quietly, and he went over to her.
‘Miss Westburn,’ he said very gently. ‘Are you absolutely sure that there is nothing I can do which might be of some help?’
‘You have tried, Mr Maclaren,’ she replied, not looking at him. ‘And for that I thank you. But there is nothing that you or anyone can do. I fear very much what the future holds for me, and we dock the day after tomorrow.’
‘But you have your aunt. Surely she will provide you with a home?’
‘Mr Maclaren, my aunt is sixty. She is a spinster and a pillar of the society in which she lives. It is a small village, and though I myself have never been to England since I was a child, I have learned sufficient to know something about the narrowness of village society over there.’ She nodded in the direction of the English coastline. ‘I have no doubt that she would take me in. But you know what would happen. I would become an object of pity and of village gossip. I am certain that when she knows the circumstances I will be regarded as an embarrassment and my welcome will be very cool.’
‘But you have done no wrong. You are a victim in exactly the same way your poor parents were. Surely no one will blame you for your condition.’
‘That is not how gentlefolk will see it. You are not a woman, Mr Maclaren, so you cannot understand. My parents have the dignity of death. I am soiled and would be better dead. An accident at sea would have been forgiveable. Mr Maclaren, I do not doubt your motives, but it was most unkind of you to have prevented me from going over the side.’
‘That is foolish talk,’ said Andrew.
‘Perhaps, but when you stopped me, I knew that I lacked the courage to try again. So your vigil outside my cabin, though kindly meant, was quite unnecessary.’
On the spur of the moment, he took her by the shoulders and turned her towards him. ‘I
want to say something to you, and I want you to do the kindness of hearing me out.’
She looked up at him.
‘Will you promise?’ She nodded her consent. ‘If you have any fears regarding your reception in England, and I know that you have, I suggest that you travel to Scotland with me and not go anywhere near your aunt.’
She was about to protest, but he carried on. ‘Remember, you promised. Your aunt doesn’t even know that you are here. Now let me finish. As I have already told you, we have two homes. A town house in Perth and the estate in Strathglass. I am certain that, knowing your circumstances, my mother would make you most welcome in our homes. These things are viewed somewhat more tolerantly in the Highlands.
‘You have no need to think of it as a permanent arrangement, but at least you could stay with her until your present difficulties have been resolved. Remember that my mother is a soldier’s wife and is not easily shocked. I beg you to consider this course most carefully. What is your answer?’
Andrew knew what he was offering. He was pretty confident about his mother’s attitude. She would do all that she could for the girl, of that he was sure. As for his father? That was something else, but he had no doubt that his mother would deal with any objections which came from that quarter. But most of all, he did not want Maud Westburn to pass out of his life.
‘But I couldn’t ‒’ she started.
And the hope in her voice told him that she would.
Chapter Three
Andrew paused for a moment as he strode up the road which snaked its way up the hill towards Fort Bruce. There in front of him stood the grey granite arch, the entrance to the headquarters of the 148th Regiment of Foot. It was flanked by high walls of the same stone. He looked up at them. In an earlier age, sentries would have been pacing the top, fully armed, and on the lookout for any intruder. Today he was coming home. It was as a baby that he had first been carried across the barrack square which lay beyond the arch to be presented to the officers of the regiment.
As he entered the arch, he squared his shoulders and smartly returned the salute of the guard on duty. He emerged from the gloom and back into daylight between three-storey barrack blocks to his right and to his left. Down both sides of the square which confronted him, an ancient cannon standing in each corner, were more identical barrack blocks, each of which housed eighty men. Facing him were two buildings, both severe and grey, one the H.Q. block, and the other, with its pillared portico, the officers’ mess. It all looked so solid and everlasting; there was an air of permanence about the whole complex.
He glanced at the clock tower standing under its little slate pyramid over H.Q. It was six-fifty-two, and the Law, in the person of his father, whom he had not yet seen, decreed that all officers would be present at table when the commanding officer arrived in the dining room at seven o’clock precisely. The men, he knew, would be at their evening meal of soup and bread and jam or cheese, and a mug of beer. The officers and the sergeants would be gathering in their respective messes, and that was why the square was deserted. Well, practically deserted.
There was one splash of colour in that grey arena. He was small. Had he been only an inch shorter than his five foot six, he would have been rejected by the army, and the 148th would have been the worse off for it. He was smart, straight-backed, and he never walked anywhere; he marched. At the moment when Andrew spotted him, he was striding across the square, darting glances this way and that, like a robin in search of a worm, as he headed towards the sergeants’ mess. His feet were encased in boots which gleamed and twinkled like mirrors under the evening sun beneath the snow-white of his spats, topped with the turn-down of his red-and-black-diced hose. His kilt, the pale-green and blue tartan over-checked with lines of yellow and red, the tartan of the Maclarens, had been pressed so that you could cut your finger on every crease. His immaculate braided red tunic, with its scalloped Inverness skirt and the turned-up cuffs of blue and gold, seemed redder than red. His brass buttons gleamed like little lamps, and his feather bonnet with the white and yellow hackle of the regiment was set squarely upon his head.
‘Sergeant Major!’ Andrew called.
‘Sorrrrr!’ came the thundering reply.
Sergeant Major Mackintosh stamped to a halt, and then in military double time, trotted towards Andrew. Andrew watched him approach, wondering, as he had so often before, how so small a frame could contain so enormous a voice.
The sergeant major reverberated to attention and saluted.
‘Welcome back, Mr Maclaren, sorr!’ he roared, convincing Andrew that all of Perth must now know of his arrival.
‘Is the colonel in his office?’ he asked.
‘He is, sorr, but I wouldna fash him. His lady is wi’ him.’
‘And?’
‘And there would seem to be a wee disputation, sorr.’
‘I see. Thank you, Sergeant Major.’
‘Sorr!’ bellowed Sergeant Major Mackintosh, then saluted, about-turned, stamping the ground as if determined to do it an injury, and marched off.
Andrew welcomed the warning. He had a pretty shrewd idea of what was causing the ‘wee disputation’. His mother must be telling the colonel about the arrival of Miss Westburn.
He had taken her to their house that morning, where she had been warmly and sympathetically received by his mother. When he had mentioned that he was a little worried about what his father might say, his mother had simply replied, ‘Don’t you bother about him. This is not a military matter and you can trust me to deal with it.’
And that was that, and that was undoubtedly also the cause of the ‘wee disputation’.
Andrew went in through the line of smooth columns and into the open oak door of the mess. It was nice to see that just inside the entrance, the stuffed wildcat was still standing there in its case, as he handed his sword and feather bonnet to the mess steward and carried on into the anteroom on his right.
There were nearly a couple of dozen officers already present. Andrew realized that he must be about the last to arrive. It was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays were dining-in nights in the mess, when all officers who could not show good reason were required to be present.
Amidst the chorus of greetings brought about by his arrival, one burly figure unfolded himself from one of the massive leather armchairs which flanked the fire, above which in the place of honour hung a portrait of the Queen, signed in her own hand.
‘Andrew, my boy,’ he said, ‘it’s good to see you back.’
Andrew smiled with the genuine affection in which he held this man ‒ Quartermaster Lieutenant Angus Cameron, risen from the ranks.
‘Hello, Angus,’ he said, warmly taking the proffered hand.
Cameron found the going in the officers’ mess a little hard financially, though the mess president, Major Campbell, always made sure that his mess bills were not too outrageous. But he loved the life and he loved the regiment and he loved Andrew.
He had grown up with Andrew’s father on the estate. Now approaching retirement, and knowing that he would never rise above the rank he now held, he was none the less a contented man.
‘Hello, Andrew, old boy,’ called another voice. It was Ian Chisholm, tall, dapper, baby-faced, looking about eighteen though he was at least five years Andrew’s senior. Captain Chisholm came over to Andrew and greeted him. He was another odd man out, another friend of Andrew’s. He hailed from a large estate in Kinross-shire, the most southerly member of their company and probably the most wealthy.
Andrew looked around, smiling and happy to be back. The smell of the old leather of the furniture. The walls panelled half way up, pale lemon above that up to the decorated plaster ceiling. The wall were hung with polished targes and claymores, relics of days and battles long since gone. Nobody knew where they had come from. They were certainly not regimental trophies, though everyone knew that the Cossack hat worn by the bust of Andrew’s great-grandfather had been brought back from the Crimea by their present commanding officer. The glass c
abinet at the far end of the room held the regimental trophies, cups and shields awarded for various regimental activities. But lovely as it all was, Andrew appreciated most of all the feeling of belonging.
‘Come on, chaps,’ called Chisholm. ‘Down drinks.’ He turned to Andrew. ‘You haven’t time for one, father will be in soon. Andrew, we’ll find out all about your adventures after dinner.’
So they trooped out, across the hall and into the dining room.
It was grand to see the old dining room again. It was a magnificent, timeless, unaging sight. Longer and narrower than the anteroom, it had the same half-panelled walls and large oblong windows, heavily curtained in brown velvet, looking out across the barrack square. Through these, the troops could be seen returning to their barracks for their ‘bull’ session of blacking and blanco and brasso, preparing their equipment for inspection the following morning.
A little squad of about seven men was doubling around the square in full marching order: defaulters, miscreants who had committed some minor offence and been duly sentenced by their company commanders.
Heavy gold-fringed pelmets crowned each window, and between the windows and around the other walls were sconces of beaten iron, candles flickering in their holders. Trophies hung around the walls, too; a Russian officer’s sword that Andrew’s father had brought back from the Crimea, a pair of assagais, a tattered French cavalry pennant from Waterloo, and so on.
The room was dominated by a long, polished mahogany table gleaming under the cut-glass chandeliers, outshone only by the lustre of the regimental silver, donated by Andrew’s great-grandfather, which graced its surface. The place settings, eleven on one side, eleven on the other against the wall, and one at either end for the mess president and the adjutant, lay in precise order. The cutlery and blue-and-gold-rimmed crested plates lay exactly equidistant from each other, and aimed directly at the place setting opposite. Three massive silver candelabra were set at equal intervals down the centre of the table, gifts of Captain Chisholm, and the light from their candles twinkled merrily, reflected in the polished silver claret goblet which stood at each place at the tip of the entrée knife.