Cousin Margaret laughed when I told her about the cygnets, but she laughed in a nice way and said, “Well, how could you know? You can’t know things unless you ask — and as a matter of fact there are quite a lot of people in Edinburgh who have heard about Writers to the Signet all their lives and only have a hazy idea as to what it means.”
It was during that visit that we arranged for me to go up to Edinburgh for the day and have lunch with Cousin Margaret at her club.
*
Timble Cottage was perched on the side of a hill at the end of a steep and stony road so it was surprising that we had a stream of visitors. Some of them came in cars but most of them walked and brought their dogs. You could see them approaching from a long way off if you happened to be looking out of the window and as there was no other house on the road you knew they were coming to call.
Mother would exclaim, “Jane, put on the kettle. Here’s somebody!” and she would seize the field-glasses and clamp them to her eyes. “It’s Elspeth!” she would cry. “No, it isn’t! Who is it? Could it be Sheila Raeworth? Jane, take the glasses and see who it is.” But of course it was no use for me to take the glasses; even if I could see the approaching visitor clearly I could not tell Mother which of her friends was coming up the hill.
Most of Mother’s friends were her own age, or older, but some of them had daughters or sons who appeared occasionally for week-ends and could be seen in church or at the tennis club. Rosalie and I joined the tennis club but Helen did not care for games.
I had expected life to be dull at Ryddelton but there always seemed to be something going on; there was the Flower Show and Country Dancing and a big Sale of Work in the Town Hall to raise money for the Old Folks’ Treat. Helen turned up her nose at such small-town entertainments but Rosalie and I found them extremely amusing. There was a gaiety about them, everybody seemed cheerful. People went to the entertainments expecting to enjoy them, and this created the right atmosphere for enjoyment. At first it puzzled me a good deal and then I found the answer to the problem: in London, if you wanted a little spree, you went to the theatre — or perhaps to a movie — and sat in a seat to be entertained, but the inhabitants of Ryddelton were obliged to provide their own entertainments, and everybody helped to make them successful.
It was not all fun and games for we had to economise severely and none of us had been used to economise so we did not know how to do it properly. Mother worried a lot about whether we should be able to make ends meet; she kept accounts of all that was spent and pored over them in the evenings.
“I can’t remember,” she would say. “Rosalie, you were with me. How much did I pay for those apples? Mrs. McBain was telling me about Jean’s baby and I forgot to write it down.”
Sometimes her difficulties were much more serious and one evening she was almost in tears. “Look, Jane,” she said. “I simply can’t make this out. I paid Tom Gow ten shillings for trimming the hedge — but I seem to have paid him twice. I can’t have, of course, because he wouldn’t have taken it. And I’ve got one pound four and sixpence too much in my purse.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’ve got too much,” said Helen smiling scornfully. She thought Mother’s accounts were nonsense (her idea was that, if you had spent the money, no amount of adding it up would bring it back); but Mother struggled on, putting down every penny. If she had been too careless about money in London she had now gone to the other extreme and worried far too much.
“Yes, it does matter,” declared Mother. “I must get my accounts right. I know I’m stupid at accounts but I suppose I shall learn in time.”
I leant over her shoulder. It was the first time I had seen the account book and it was not as confused as I had expected.
“Tom — 10/-,” said Mother, pointing out the entry. “That was on Wednesday, and I remember it distinctly. But on Thursday I’ve written ‘Tom — £1.60’, and I’ve got no recollection of it at all.”
It certainly was a poser, and for a few minutes it beat me completely, and then I noticed that the second ‘Tom’ came amongst a list of ‘Pots’ and ‘Cabs’ and ‘Bans’. “It couldn’t be tomatoes, could it?” I suggested — and then I added hastily “No, of course it couldn’t be.”
“Tomatoes!!” cried Mother, joyfully. “That’s exactly what it is!”
“It couldn’t be,” I repeated. “You wouldn’t pay one pound six for tomatoes”
“One and six,” said Mother. “I remember now. I’ve written down the figures in the wrong columns, that’s all. Add it up, Jane, and count the money carefully. Perhaps it will come right.”
“Yes, darling, it will.”
“But you haven’t added it up — and counted the money,” objected Mother.
It seemed strange that Mother, who was so clear-headed about other things, should be so muddle-headed about accounts.
Chapter Five
The day came for my visit to Edinburgh and although it was not to be all joy — I was going to the dentist — I had been looking forward to it a lot. I had decided to go by bus, for I was anxious to see something of the country. Old Tom Gow was going too; he had some ploy in Edinburgh.
If I had known before that he was going I would have gone by train, for Tom was not my idea of an escort, but it was not until I was sitting in the bus that he climbed in and sat down beside me.
“I’ll see after Miss Jane,” he said to Mother, who was looking unnecessarily anxious.
Old Tom, in his best clothes, was extremely neat and tidy. He was scarcely recognisable as the curiously-attired individual who had dug the vegetable plot and trimmed the hedge, but all the same I would rather have avoided him — which just shows how foolish I was.
We set off at a good pace through the town and up the hill and for a time he remained silent. Then he said, “Are ye interested in hist’ry, Miss Jane?”
I replied that I was — and at once his brown eyes brightened and he began to tell me about the various places we passed. Sometimes it was difficult to understand what he said, for when he was excited he relapsed into his own broad Doric, and then he would pull himself up and repeat his remarks in language comprehensible to my ignorance.
There were wide moors and rolling hills covered with purple heather — for by this time it was early September and the heather was at its best — and although the road was lonely and wound its way hither and thither Mr. Gow found plenty of history to relate. He pointed out a cart-track and asked if I could see the Roman soldiers with their helmets glittering in the sun. Then, seeing my astonishment, he chuckled and added:
“Aye, that’s a Roman Road, Miss Jane. If ye was tae dig doon a couple o’ feet ye’d find the stanes, a pavement o’ stanes for the sodjers tae walk on. It’s interesting, ye ken.”
“Yon’s Tweed,” he said, pointing to a little stream which prattled over grey pebbles beside the road. “There’s a wheen o’ hist’ry in yon wee river.”
Presently we passed a notice at the side of the road which read, “Site of Linkum Doddie.”
“Tell me about that,” I said.
“Noo ye’re askin’,” declared Mr. Gow. “I’ll no can tell ye the true tale o’ Linkum Doddie, but I ha’e my ain explanation. It was a wee village, or so folks say, but I’ve been on the brae masel, and sairched till ma eyes were sair an’ there’s no a stick nor stane tae be seen. It’s my belief that the De’il ran away wi’ it in the nicht,” added Mr. Gow solemnly.
I glanced at him in surprise and discovered that his eyes were twinkling.
After a while my companion yawned and said he would take a wee snooze and in a moment he was asleep, sitting bolt upright in his seat, swaying from side to side but never losing his equilibrium. We swept on past fields with sheep and cows grazing in them, past woods and little farms, up hill and down dale. We passed through a little town with quaint old-fashioned buildings which lay in the shelter of a range of rolling hills.
“It’s a good thing I woke up,” said Mr. Gow suddenly. “Yon’s the Pe
ntlands, Miss Jane. You’ll have haird o’ the Pentland Hills? And there’s Swanston where wee Louis Stevenson played when he was a laddie. Mebbe you’ll have read Kidnapped? It’s a grand story.”
We talked about Kidnapped for several minutes and then we topped a rise.
“Edinburgh!” I exclaimed rapturously.
“Aye, yon’s Edinburgh,”
“It’s beautiful!”
“It’s no bad,” agreed Mr. Gow. “I’ve a sort o’ liking for the place. I was born there, ye ken.”
The city lay before our eyes spread out like a map with its steeples and towers rising above the clustered buildings. There was a faint haze over it — a sunlit haze — and the castle on its rock seemed to be floating in air. Beyond the town there was a stretch of blue water and, beyond the water, green hills.
“Auld Reekie,”said Mr. Gow. “There’s few days that ye see it clear — and it’s no sae pretty wanting it’s mist in my opeenion.”
“It’s lovely!” I cried.
“Aye, it’s no bad,” he agreed proudly … and already I had lived in Ryddelton long enough to know that this was the height of praise.
We parted at the bus stop and Mr. Gow impressed upon me that I must meet him there at ten-to-three — and not a moment later. “You’ll not get lost, Miss Jane,” he said anxiously. “I telt your mither I’d see after ye. If ye get lost ye’ll ask a bobby. See and not get run over,” he added. “The traffic’s fair awfu’.”
I assured him that I would not get lost, nor run over. “I’m used to London traffic,” I said.
That comforted him a little, but when I turned to look back he was gazing after me down the street.
*
Cousin Margaret’s club was situated in a wide square with gardens in the middle — it was not unlike Wintringham Square but the buildings here were larger and more dignified. Unfortunately the square was used as a car-park which in my opinion (as Mr. Gow would have said) detracted from its appearance. Cousin Margaret had not arrived so I was shown into the lounge to wait for her.
It was interesting to look round and watch the people; they seemed quite different from the people who frequented Mother’s club in London. Their faces were different and so were their clothes. These people were perfectly natural and were not afraid to look like themselves. There were exceptions of course but most of them wore their own faces and the clothes which they found comfortable. (In London it was necessary to be fashionable whether the current fashion suited you or not. The current fashion was practically a uniform.)
I looked round the room at the expressions on the people’s faces. Some were relaxed and contented, reading the papers until they were summoned to lunch, others obviously were waiting for friends and looked round every time the door opened. There was one woman who interested me particularly; she was sitting next to me, so near that I could have touched her if I had put out my hand. She was middle-aged and untidy and much too fat, but she was so eagerly expectant that she sat on the edge of the chair with her eyes on the door. Whom was she expecting, I wondered: a husband? A friend? A daughter?
Suddenly the door opened and a young man appeared. He was unusually tall and broad-shouldered; he looked very strong. His hair was thick and brown, his mouth large and generous. He was not really handsome for his features were too decisive but there was a glow about him which caught the eye. It was the glow of perfect health and abounding vitality.
The young man’s gaze swept the room and fastened upon the fat woman. He made a gesture of recognition and threaded his way towards her between the chairs. She had seen him and rose as he approached but they did not greet each other except with their eyes.
“Well?” she asked in a low voice. “Did you have the interview?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, and it’s all right. I’ve got the post.”
“Definitely?”
“Quite definitely.”
“My dear, I’m so glad.”
“ It’s what I wanted — more than anything,” he said eagerly.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity to work with a man like that. I’m to go next year sometime. He’s to let me know when he’s ready.”
“Of course I knew you’d get it.”
“How could you? There were half a dozen —”
“But none with your qualifications and enthusiasm. He’d have been a fool to take anybody else.”
The young man laughed. “I’m keen, anyway,” he admitted. “Keen as mustard. I only hope I can fill the bill.”
“Have you phoned Ken?”
He nodded. “First thing I did. Dear old Ken!”
“What did he say?”
“Much the same as you. Oh look, Aunt Edith, we’re being signalled!” he added.
They were ‘being signalled’ to go in to lunch. Hastily ‘Aunt Edith’ rose and in so doing she dropped her hand-bag upside down upon the floor; keys and letters, a powder compact, a notecase and a purse — and all the other odds and ends which middle-aged ladies are wont to carry about with them in hand-bags — were scattered far and wide.
“Oh goodness!” exclaimed ‘Aunt Edith’ in dismay.
“It’s all right, I’ll do it,” said the young man quickly and with that he went down on his knees and began to gather up the debris. Some of the things had rolled under my chair so I rose and pushed it back and helped him. The incident had created quite a stir in the room; everybody was looking at us, several other people had moved their chairs and were groping for bits and pieces.
“Thanks awfully,” murmured the young man. “Don’t worry — I can do it all right — hold on a moment — there’s something under the table.”
He crawled under the table and retrieved the object. “Good lord, it’s a trouser-button!” he exclaimed — and his voice sounded so surprised that I could not help giggling.
I had collected a nail-file, a bottle of smelling-salts, two large safety-pins and a small brass knob. The young man held the bag open and I dropped them in. By this time he, also, had begun to giggle. His face was red with the effort to control himself and his shoulders were shaking. Looking down at him as he knelt at my feet, I could see how thick his hair was — thick and brown and springy. There was a suggestion of a wave in his hair: it only needed to be damped and pinched to wave beautifully … but of course he was not the sort of young man to encourage a wave in his hair!
“Have you got everything?” asked ‘Aunt Edith’ anxiously. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry! I’ve given everybody so much trouble — so terribly sorry —”
The next moment it was all over. The young man had risen and restored the bag to its owner and they had gone. The room settled down and everything was exactly as it had been before.
Soon after that Cousin Margaret arrived and as she came towards me several people greeted her in a friendly manner. It was obvious that she knew most of the people in the room and was a popular member of the club. Perhaps she knew THEM and could tell me who they were!
“Oh Jane!” exclaimed Cousin Margaret. “Have you been waiting ages? I meant to be early”
“ It doesn’t matter a bit,” I told her.
“You weren’t bored?”
“No,” I said. “No, I wasn’t bored.”
*
The dining-room was large; it was a long room with windows at each end but in spite of its size it was crowded with people and at first I could not see the young man with the brown hair … and then I saw him right at the other end of the room sitting at a table with his aunt. He was talking eagerly and she was listening enthralled. I had intended to ask Cousin Margaret who they were — but I couldn’t. He was the only young man in the room. How could I ask who he was?
“Are you hungry, Jane?” asked my hostess. “There’s haggis and lamb cutlets and steak and kidney pie. I shall have steak and kidney pie. What about you?”
“Yes, please,” I said vaguely.
“You’re gazing round as if you had never seen a mob of women before,” declared Cousin Margaret. “
What do you think of them, Jane? Andrew says they’re ‘a monstrous regiment of club-women.’”
“John Knox said that, didn’t he?”
“Nearly,” she agreed smiling. “He probably would have said it if I had brought him here to lunch … but you haven’t told me what you think of us.”
“I think you’re comfortable,” I said.
“Comfortable?” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, I see what you mean. We wear what we like — and people can take us or leave us. As a matter of fact I hate to be all dressed up even for a wedding. I feel all wrong. I’m more myself in tweeds.”
“What about the evening?”
“Oh, that’s different! I like dressing up in the evening, but even then I like my own special sort of dress. Nothing new or frilly or startling — black velvet and diamonds.”
“You would look like a duchess!” I exclaimed.
It was perfectly true; Cousin Margaret had exactly the looks to carry off black velvet and diamonds, her features were finely chiselled and she had wavy grey hair and a complexion that a Society Beauty might have envied.
“A duchess!” she exclaimed. “Oh Jane, you flatterer!” and she blushed like a girl. “We don’t go out much in the evening,” she added. “Just now and then Andrew and I dress up and go to a ball. Perhaps you would like to come with us. Are you fond of dancing?”
“I’m not very good at dancing — it isn’t my line — but Helen loves dancing. I’m sure she would love to go to a ball.”
Cousin Margaret nodded. “We’ll arrange it,” she declared. “Helen must come and stay with us and go to a ball.”
We went on talking. She was easy to talk to for she was completely natural and sincere and she spoke to me as if I were her own age. I found myself telling her all sorts of things — things that I had never intended to tell anyone. I told her about Oxford, and how disappointed I had been when I found it was impossible for me to read History and Literature as I had intended, and she asked if I were still keen to go to Oxford.
Anna and Her Daughters Page 4